I must apologize to my dedicated readers for not writing last Sunday – all two of them. I was recovering from a horrible experience.
I was curled up on the couch with the dogs, watching the news to see if I knew anyone in the constant parade of murderers and victims that streamed across the screen on the Sunday morning news when I felt a minor irritation in my nose. It was nothing, really, just a small discomfort that one would normally ignore, which is exactly what I tried to do, refocusing my attention on the news.
Yet, my mind again wandered to my nose, and I soon realized that I wouldn’t be able to think of anything for the rest of the day – not the news, not the hours of HGTV that Gradon and I watch every Sunday, as we wished to God those fuckers would show up at our house and fix our porches, landscape our yard, remodel our bathrooms, replace the carpet in our bedrooms and give us blowjobs while they’re at it (face it – those guys are all SO gay, and SO hot!).
Immediate relief was required.
I glanced around, and confirmed that Gradon was upstairs seeking relief of another kind in the master library (that’s what we call the terlets in this here fancy joint) and saw that all of the dogs were asleep. Wonderful, I thought, no witnesses. Not that it would matter – once you’ve been with someone – ILLEGALLY married, that is to say – for 12 years, you’ll do damned near anything in front of them – who gives a shit at that point?
And without further hesitation, I began to pick.
I started with my forefinger first, shoving and twisting, trying to reach what had, by now, become a major distraction. I could touch the tip of the crust with the end of my finger, but could go no further without tearing my nostril. I sighed in frustration, but refused to give up on my goal.
“Never quit!” I always say, although that usually applies to drinking and smoking, but I digress.
I switched implements.
“Nurse, hand me the pinky.”
“Yes, Dr. Pickins.”
I did both voices.
In went my pinky and this time, success was mine. The offending booger transferred its stickiness from the interior wall of my nose to its new host, and I slowly, carefully, as if playing a game of Operation, began to retract said pinky. The booger followed like a lost puppy dog. A sticky, gooey, nasty puppy dog, but you get the point.
My pinky came out of my nose, and the booger, the dry, crusty part, came out, too. But it was followed by a booger placenta.
And that’s where the emergency began.
It was also followed by a booger umbilical cord.
I continued to pull, ever so slowly, so as not to break the booger-bilical. I was afraid it would spring back and break my nose; however, as I pulled and pulled, my concern grew exponentially. Soon, the booger-bilical was as long as my arm, and my eyes were as big as saucers. My pulse and breathing quickened, and the dogs stirred. They opened their eyes and began to growl at me and back away.
The booger-bilical was soon so long that I had no choice but to wrap it around my forearm over and over again like a garden hose. It flowed from my nose like a magician’s handkerchief, only the colors didn’t change.
After I’d wrapped the booger around my forearm five or six times, I felt a tug in my left big toe. I stopped and narrowed my eyes. The dogs sensed it too, and began to sniff my toe. I forced myself to to slow my breathing and then, exhaling once more, pulled gently but firmly.
I heard a distinct “ping” and felt the booger-bilical come free from the depths of my foot.
I continued to pull and wrap and pull and wrap until the entire booger was free of my body and wrapped around my arm. I stared at it in amazement and disgust, kind of like you would a train wreck, or a woman that married your first and third cousin (same person) then joined a crazy Baptist cult. Not that I’m speaking of anyone in particular or anything.
I then heard the toilet flush upstairs, and knew that Gradon had finished reading “Entertainment Weekly” and that I had only moments to get rid of the evidence. Due to the mass of the booger, it wasn’t going to fit under the couch or easily be flung across the room to be vacuumed up later with all the dog hair (and be blamed on said dogs). Additionally, because the entire process had taken so long, the booger had gelled into a sort of plaster-of-mucus mold from Hell and wouldn’t be flushed without being broken into tiny pieces requiring multiple flushings. I also couldn’t imagine explaining to the plumber that I’d clogged up the toilet with the biggest booger man had ever known. Boogersaurus, as it were.
I had to throw it away, but that meant taking out the trash on a Sunday morning, which would normally never happen. I’d have to cover somehow.
I sprang from the couch and ran to the kitchen to stand before the trashcan where I quickly ripped the booger off my arm, which was a HUGE mistake.
“MotherFUCKER!”
I had just accidentally waxed all the hair off my forearm. As I cried, I threw the booger in the trash, pulled the trash bag out of the can and stumbled to the front door.
Gradon was coming down the stairs as I walked back in. “What’re you doing?”
“Did you throw away some chicken guts or something?” I countered with a question. When on the defensive, it is always best to counter with a question.
“Maybe. I don’t know. Why?”
“Because the trash stank so damned bad, I could smell it in the living room, and I had to stop what I was doing to take it out,” I replied.
“You’re full of shit,” Gradon said, effectively ending the conversation, with him left wondering what the hell he’d thrown away, and me pretending to be in a huff over the stinky trash.
I’m sure he later noticed the hair missing from my right forearm, but he never said anything, probably figuring that I’d accidentally poured Nair on it while manscaping. (Not that I’ve ever done that. Three times.)
I’m sure he also noticed me grinning all day. I could BREATHE! I think I’ve been carrying that particular booger since birth. It was some sort of parasitical booger that had been feeding off me for nearly 38 years.
I lit a cigarette that night to St. Marlboro (the Patron Saint of Hot Cowboy Fags – “I wish I could quit you!”) and prayed that the booger didn’t have a twin on the other side of my body, just lying dormant, awaiting discovery.
I must also say that before all of you – I mean, both of you – judge me, fuck you. Everyone picks their nose. EVERYONE. In fact, according to Urban Dictionary, there are those that incorporate it into their sexual proclivities – look up “dirty nose,” “RoflCopter,” and “Booger Noggin.” And yes, I threw up a little doing that research for you, so I hope you fucking appreciate it.
But it’s also important to remember that everyone’s a-pickin’ and a-grinnin’ (even Johnny Cash – look at that picture up there!). So, the next time someone’s intimidating the shit out of you or pissing you off or getting in your shit about something, imagine them with their finger shoved up their nose to the fourth knuckle, their mouth slightly open, their other hand shoved down the front of their sweat pants to scratch at their venereal warts (you KNOW they’ve got ‘em) and say to them…
“Fuck you, Booger Boxer.”
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