Stop Picking Your Nose While I'm Talking to You

I was motionlessly sitting in traffic this morning on the Mopac expressway when an attractive blonde driving a new Mustang inched alongside. Startled, I hung my elbow out of the truck window, tucked my shades and adopted my best James Dean scowl. If only I'd had a tooth pick. I glanced over to see if she was looking at me and found she wasn't -- far from it. She was knuckle-deep in a nostril.

At first I recoiled, but the look of sheer determination on her face intrigued me. Whatever she was after was big, very big. And it was buried deep. She was going after this thing with the tenacity of a starving French hog hunting the elusive truffle, twisting her exploratory digit further and further in, eyes bugging, mouth grimacing to increase access.

I watched, fascinated.

She pulled her finger out with an audible 'pop' and examined the tip. Nothing. Damn, no joy! Obviously dismayed, she renewed her search. "Hook it with the nail!" I yelled, "Hook it! Quarter-turn, slight bend, and pull! You can do it!"

She must have heard my shouts of encouragement as she began to rummage with renewed ferocity. I realized I was holding my breath. Finally her peepers bulged, she yawned sideways and out plopped the biggest booger I've ever seen. I gaped in awe as she admired her cache, turning it this way and that in the rising sunlight. She lovingly rolled it between thumb and forefinger to irritate the integrity of the interior dust clot nucleus and absorb the surrounding snot nebula, to decrease its stickiness for a more effective flick.

She was gonna flick it? Oh aye - no discrete legerdemain into a handkerchief or tissue for this gal; no surreptitious wipe on the footwell carpet or the inside of her sock. But she didn't flick it -- oh no -- Miss Gorgeous Blonde Brand New Mustang, absent mindedly staring straight ahead, God bless her, ate the fucker! AAAAAAHHHHHH!!!


On a nose related note, I used to work with a guy that had the most godawful flatulence. He was a still man with a considerate demeanor in all other aspects of his life save this one (I guess his wife didn't let him fart at home). His most generous emissions were often accompanied by a wistful look into the distance and a single comment on the foodstuff he believed may have been responsible while the rest of the crew gagged and flailed in the blurred periphery. His dead-panned "spinach" with a genuine frown, for example, suffixed one particularly noxious zephyr as we fought, Three Stooge-like, for the available exits. Oh aye, it's funny now…Which reminds me of a story:

We were tiling a kitchen backsplash during the heat of a Texan summer in a remodel that had yet to have its air-conditioning reconnected. Hence, we had a big industrial fan blowing breeze into the cul-de-sac room through its only door to keep us cool. Weezie (my boss's nickname) was having a terrible day with his gut. I dunno what he'd been eating, but it wasn't sitting right with his bowels and his gaseous footprint was devastating. Several times the entire crew had to flee the kitchen gasping for relief. The fan was henchman-like in keeping the foulness in the room, so making it out of there without catching a whiff was something of an Olympic feat. Our ears were on swivels to catch the tiniest toot.

Well, gentle reader, it so happened during the mid-afternoon the vacant homeowners paid an inspection visit. This polite, retired, well-to-do couple had, I'm sure, never been the recipients of a Weezie fart. At least, not on this day of intestinal one-upmanship. Unaware of their presence in the house, Weezie let one rip like a hero of legend. We began to mug, choke, splutter and stagger for freedom, as we'd sporadically been doing all day, when Mrs. Homeowner appeared at the kitchen door, the only available exit, all smiles and cuddly grandma bunnies and plates of freshly-baked cookies. Weezie flew into an interception trajectory while we had to return to the backsplash and pretend we couldn't smell anything:

Oh, fuck, it stank.

It stank like dead diapers in dead maggot Hades. Obviously, we couldn't start laughing at our predicament, because that would've given the game away and also opened up the air-born blight to throat and lungs (I'm not sure of the science behind this belief, but it can't be fucking good). So we soldiered on, stone-faced, weathering the assault on our olfactory receptors. Our eyes bled. Grown men, that've faced war and death in foreign climes, sagged at the knees. Birds dropped from the sky. Varnish bubbled. Plastic melted. Indoor plants uprooted and hobbled north.

Weezie's restrained conversation with Mrs. Homeowner from behind the fan managed to drift through the horrific fug occasionally. Phrases like "I really think it works with the color of the cabinets" and "it's more a soft brown grout that's not too busy" almost sent us into palpitations. His interference paid off as she never got past the hell-fan of death. She wandered off to peer at some other room and we sprinted for the balcony, acknowledging Weezie on the way past for a job well done – not for distracting the homeowner, you understand – for a well-placed fart.

Among men, that's about as good as the fart game gets. I doubt this unplanned stunt will ever be topped until they start making the two-man spacesuit.

Outstanding job.

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