Putin's Eggs

Vladimir Valdimirovich Putin sat at the breakfast table, reading the morning paper. He was particularly perplexed by that morning's Blondie, which he found incomprehensible. Were he Mr. Dithers, he would have had Bumstead executed long ago. Observing his butler, Grigory, enter the room, Vladimir folded up his newspaper.
"Good morning Vladimir Valdimirovich, I trust you slept well?" Grigory asked.
"Very well Grigory Ivanivich." he replied
"Is there anything of note in the paper?"
"Bumstead continues to be insufferable."
"It is his way, sir. What would you like for breakfast this morning?"
"I think I would like eggs this morning."
"Very well, how would you like them prepared?"
"Over easy."
Putin looked out the window and contemplated failure. Moments later, Grigory returned bearing a plate on which two eggs had been placed on a bed of green lettuce, for this was Putin's preferred way of eating them. He placed the plate in front of Putin, the translucent yolks reflecting the pale sunlight. But the yolks did not move. Tentatively, Putin bumped the table with his leg, hoping to elicit some movement from the yolk, some assurance that the delicate balance of the universe had not been destroyed. The eggs did not move. Putin gazed at them, a deep melancholy welling in the pit of his soul. He felt as though the eggs were a great cosmic eye reflecting back at him some greater truth that he could not comprehend.
"I know sir, it disturbed me as well." Said Grigory.
Vladimir shot him a perplexed look.
"The eggs, sir. Their stillness."
Both men continued looking at the eggs, lost in their own ponderings. They would have remained that way for hours had Putin not grabbed them and eaten them, the yolks dripping down his chin and through his fingers.