I Picked This Story Just For You (Don’t Eat Boogers)


Just don’t eat it.

Boogers. Everybody picks ‘em and everybody has to figure out what to do with them when you pull one out. Let’s have some honest fucking booger talk here. Whether you drop it behind the couch while you’re watching TV, flick it off your finger and hope for the best or wipe it on the back of that bitch’s coat on the 7 train who wouldn’t move her bag off the seat so I could fucking sit down after a long shift, you gotta find a way to get rid of them. (I know, I know, that’s what Kleenex are for but sometimes you just don’t have one.) Twice this week, I have seen people and their need to pick their nose and/or dispose of boogers.

While shopping in a furniture store a few days ago, I am watching two little boys run around the store like chickens with their heads cut off. Their parents are oblivious to the kids and I watch the sales person shoot daggers with his eyes at the kids. I wonder if there is perhaps a Bitchy Furniture Salesman blog somewhere out there. As I peruse dining tables and chairs, I notice that one of the kids has stopped running and screaming like a little asshole and is now standing in a corner rather quietly. Intrigued, I watch him for minute to see what had caused his sudden lack of enthusiasm. He is staring intently at his finger and I think that maybe he has hurt himself which is apt to happen when your parents let you run around a goddamn store without any freaking supervision. He puts his finger in his mouth and then removes it looking smug and satisfied. I continue watching him as he begins picking his nose. “Picking” isn’t quite the right word. It’s more like he is spelunking the last known cavern in the world and anything he finds is going to be worth a great deal of money. He digs and digs until it looks like his finger is going to poke out of his eye socket. When he retrieves his finger, he has the same look on his face that I get when a waitress brings me a spicy margarita. He puts his finger into his mouth and pulls it back out, clean as a whistle. This child is having an afternoon snack of dried mucus that he has pulled from his own nose. No Goldfish, grapes, rasins or Cheerios for this kid, mom, he’s got boogers. I watch him do it two more times but he quits before I think to get my cell phone and make a video for Vine.

Two days later, I am in a restaurant having breakfast. I really like my server; she is cute, funny, efficient and just a little bit sassy. The service moves along flawlessly and I am a very happy customer. After I am done and the plates have been cleared, I sit and wait for my check to be brought to me. As is my custom, I watch the goings on of the restaurant and try to decipher who has the best section and who is the server that everyone likes to work with. You know, just normal “waiter eating out” kind of stuff. From my seat, I can see into a bit of the side stand which is two steps down and around a corner. I can see my waitress standing there in front of what I assume to be a computer. She is busy doing waitress stuff and hopefully printing out my check when I see her finger move towards her nose.

“Maybe her nose is itchy, “ I think.

Well, if any part of her nose is itchy is it is quite clearly the inside part of it. What begins as a simple scratching of the tip of her nose turns into a full out assault on any boogers that have the misfortune of being in this waitress’s nose. She inserts her finger deep into the nostril, tilts her head back and goes to town on it. She is going at it with such force that I think maybe there is a demon inside that nose that needs to be expelled. I can’t see if there is a mirror in front of her but I can easily picture her looking at her own reflection in the cappuccino machine. When she is done with one nostril, she attacks the other with the same vengeance, diving deep with intent and malice. Finally, she is done. I am not sure what she has discovered on the expedition or where she has placed any of her findings. Perhaps they were dropped into a trash basket or wiped underneath a computer shelf. I do not know, nor do I care. I just want my check. Now.

I watch her as she leaves the side stand and goes to a table to clear some plates. She then disappears into the kitchen and returns two minutes later with my check. Thankfully, the check is as booger free as her nose must be and I can only hope that she washed her hands while she was out of my sight. I pay my check and leave her the customary 20% because, despite the nose picking, the service was quite good.

“Have a nice day,” she tells me. “Thank you!”

“You have a nice day too,” I tell her.

She returns to the side stand to either close out my check or go digging for donuts again. Who really knows?

So that’s two different nose-picking experiences I have had in the last four days. I wonder if there will be a third and if there is, will it merit another blog post? It might or it might not. You never can tell. Obviously, I will write about anything. I’m not picky.

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