My dad had something similar every morning for forty years that I know of.
He died as a giant fried egg with bacon arms and legs and piece of toast for his head, and in his case, a protruding lumpy hashed browned potato stomach. And we all stood around his casket and marveled, "Man, that adage about you are what you eat really is true." And that affected us all deeply, each of us separately took that for a life's lesson. We all held hands together and we resolved on that solemn day to make of ourselves into cereal and pizza and chocolate shakes and cookies and omelets and fancy hors d'oeuvres with attractive garnishes and other things that we think will be better looking in caskets.
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