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serialkarmaLook ma! I done wrote somethin'!
A little random SGA snippet that popped into my head on the way home tonight.
“Oh my god, are you doing what I think you’re doing?”
John looked up from his plate of scrambled eggs. “What does it look like I’m doing, Rodney?”
“It looks like you’re about to defile perfectly good scrambled powdered eggs with ketchup,” Rodney replied, in the tone of someone watching a statue of their god being peed on.
John went back to methodically squirting ketchup over his eggs. “Well, then, you’re right. That’s what I’m doing. But it’s not disgusting, it’s good.”
“On what planet?”
John sighed and put down the ketchup bottle. “On the planet where it’s also considered rude to tell someone the food that they’re about to eat is disgusting, okay? The one where everybody’s not twelve.”
“Is that a veiled comment about M7G-677? Very funny.” Rodney glared and took a big bite of his own unadulterated eggs. “It’s just,” he went on, slightly muffled, “not natural, all right? Eggs and ketchup do not belong together.”
“This from the man who thinks power bars and hospital food are high points of a dining experience?”
“Look, if you’d grown up with my mother’s cooking, you’d have thought an overnight stay in hospital was worth it for the food, too.”
John blinked at this. “Wow. And I thought food on military bases was bad.”
Rodney shook his head vehemently. “Trust me, meals at the SGC were a five-star extravaganza compared to what my sister and I ate when we were kids.”
John took another bite of his eggs, chewed carefully, and swallowed, before pointing his fork and saying, “It’s still rude to comment on other people’s food, McKay.”
Rodney huffed and rolled and his eyes. “All right, I apologize, okay? I will try to contain my baffled disgust at your palate from now on.”
“Thank you.”
Ronon, who had been watching their conversation as though it were a tennis match--or whatever passed for tennis on Sateda--leaned over and stuck his fork into John’s eggs and took a bite.
“Hey!” John swiped at Ronon with his fork. “What is with everyone today? Since when does being a Lieutenant Colonel mean nothing?”
“Hmm,” Ronon said, chewing thoughtfully. “Not bad. I kind of like it.”
“Oh, you would,” said Rodney.
**end**
A little random SGA snippet that popped into my head on the way home tonight.
“Oh my god, are you doing what I think you’re doing?”
John looked up from his plate of scrambled eggs. “What does it look like I’m doing, Rodney?”
“It looks like you’re about to defile perfectly good scrambled powdered eggs with ketchup,” Rodney replied, in the tone of someone watching a statue of their god being peed on.
John went back to methodically squirting ketchup over his eggs. “Well, then, you’re right. That’s what I’m doing. But it’s not disgusting, it’s good.”
“On what planet?”
John sighed and put down the ketchup bottle. “On the planet where it’s also considered rude to tell someone the food that they’re about to eat is disgusting, okay? The one where everybody’s not twelve.”
“Is that a veiled comment about M7G-677? Very funny.” Rodney glared and took a big bite of his own unadulterated eggs. “It’s just,” he went on, slightly muffled, “not natural, all right? Eggs and ketchup do not belong together.”
“This from the man who thinks power bars and hospital food are high points of a dining experience?”
“Look, if you’d grown up with my mother’s cooking, you’d have thought an overnight stay in hospital was worth it for the food, too.”
John blinked at this. “Wow. And I thought food on military bases was bad.”
Rodney shook his head vehemently. “Trust me, meals at the SGC were a five-star extravaganza compared to what my sister and I ate when we were kids.”
John took another bite of his eggs, chewed carefully, and swallowed, before pointing his fork and saying, “It’s still rude to comment on other people’s food, McKay.”
Rodney huffed and rolled and his eyes. “All right, I apologize, okay? I will try to contain my baffled disgust at your palate from now on.”
“Thank you.”
Ronon, who had been watching their conversation as though it were a tennis match--or whatever passed for tennis on Sateda--leaned over and stuck his fork into John’s eggs and took a bite.
“Hey!” John swiped at Ronon with his fork. “What is with everyone today? Since when does being a Lieutenant Colonel mean nothing?”
“Hmm,” Ronon said, chewing thoughtfully. “Not bad. I kind of like it.”
“Oh, you would,” said Rodney.
**end**
