We buy eggs from a teensy shop (about the size of the average bathroom) called "Christie's Harvest" -- the proprietor gets them from local farmers, and you can hand-pick the ones you want. They're nestled in quaint little baskets complete with natural-style-Easter-basket-straw. All very cute.
So, this morning, I cracked one into the pan, and it was rotten. Runny, FOUL, the most ungodly, honest-to-god FOUL ROTTEN EGG STENCH one could even remotely imagine. I nearly vomited my empty stomach right there into the sizzling -- yes, sizzling ROTTEN EGG -- pan. I couldn't get it to the sink fast enough, the hot water wouldn't get hot fast enough, the fairy liquid wouldn't squirt out fast enough, I couldn't get my hands to manipulate the scrubby fast enough, the mess wouldn't disappear down the drain fast enough. YEEEECCCCCCHHHH. I haven't smelled anything even remotely resembling that since an experiment I performed on Christmas day in 1967 with a chemistry set my brother gave me.
Hours later, I'm still in recovery.
It was a genuinely rotten eggs-perience.