Nose Candy

My bus route is a piece of shit if ever there was one. I take it only to work, not from. It is too much of a process on the return route. But on the way in ol’ #11 (now #37, but those who love to hate it know the Lincoln bus only as #11) scoops you up at your front door and takes you slowly but surely into the Loop. Most days she rides at the same time as me. Young, raven-haired, and rather handsome most would say. A cute young girl in the prime of her life. She dresses nicely and is always clean and kempt. I would imagine she garners adequate attention from the opposite sex. But she has a secret. Well, it isn’t a secret so much, given she displays it in full view of her fellow bus patrons on a daily basis: She picks her nose. Not cheaply either, mind you. This isn’t a ducked-head, opposite hand-shield, hiding and shamed nose pick. This is a brazen, in-your-fucking-face, unapologetic, “let society deal with it” gold-digging. She doesn’t even acknowledge the crowd as she goes 1 minimum, often two finger knuckles deep. Her usual protocol is to continue manipulating her smart phone with the non-picking hand. She is as relentless as she is brash. I have yet to witness her give up on a booger. If she demonstrates the same sitck-to-itiveness when she gets to the office, she’ll be CEO before she’s 35. But the best is yet to come……

Once the booger is harvested is when the real fun begins. She typically does one of two things with just-picked boogers. First things first, she always executes the typical, run-of-the-mill booger roll between the index finger and thumb. This is the internationally standardized method of consolidating a wet or awkwardly shaped booger into a tight ball that is easier to work with. I hear there is a movement of kids in India doing some really groundbreaking work which offers an alternative to this method–but for now most of the world goes with the index/thumb roll, and our heroine is no different. With the booger rolled into a ball she either 1) flicks it into dead bus space, towards the floor or 2) eats the booger. #1 is pretty awful in its own right as it shows a brazen disregard for any fellow CTA bus riders. Here is my booger, on the floor, and possibly soon to be on the bottom of your shoe. Deal with it, fuckers. #2 is a another animal altogether. I can see, to a certain degree, this being expected behavior past age 12 and in public if the perp is a weird Indonesian guy with unwashed bed hair and ill-fitting clothes who clearly works deep within the bowels of a company’s IT department and is only let out once yearly during the office holiday luncheon where he drinks quarts of punch, belches loudly and often, whilst stuffing free cookies into his trouser pockets. But if you reference the first paragraph you’ll recall that our protagonist falls on the better dressed and good-looking end of the spectrum. It simply doesn’t add up. Is she completely oblivious to the fact that she is openly eating her own dried mucous balls in full view of dozens of her fellow commuters? Or is it more insidious than this? Is she some avant-garde socialite who knowingly picks her nose, eats the fruit of this labor, and doesn’t give a flying fuck what you or anyone else thinks about it? If the latter, color me intrigued.

It often leads me to wonder, as I stare at this booger ballet, if she has a boyfriend and if yes, does he know he is dating a serial mucous miner? Can you imagine coming to that realization after months of sex? It would leave you curled up in the fetal position on the shower floor crying and shaving your tongue. Or maybe that is his thing–banging booger reapers? Either way we’re going to need a psychologist on the scene.

About Zach

Male homo sapien. Warrior poet. I live in Chicago with one wife, one offspring, and Scout the dog. I enjoy various stuff. Besides skinny skiing and going to bullfights on acid, I also enjoy running, reading, drinking, eating and procrastinating on many things, such as starting this blog. I have a mom, a dad, and a younger brother who recently produced a sister-in-law. I'm the only person in my family, sister-in-law included, who doesn't have a post-graduate degree. I guess that makes me special. I grew up in a small to medium sized town in the middle of Ohio. In fact the even smaller town next door has a sign which reads "The Geographic Center of Ohio". Given this is what they choose to boast you can only imagine how exciting that town is. My town is infinitely cooler. For example on weekend nights people from my town and the surrounding villages and hamlets converge on the public square to "cruise" in their souped-up mini trucks, some bearing Confederate flags, despite growing up and living rather safely north of the Mason-Dixon line. This is high-minded stuff we're talking about here. I graduated sometime during the Clinton presidency from the local high school where I played football and participated in absolutely nothing else. This strategy paid huge dividends when I applied to numerous colleges on the eastern seaboard which were highly selective. When you show up to the admissions table with "HIgh School Football and Nothing Else" on your application, you get respect. After graduating from Ohio University with a degree in Economics that I've used for absolutely nothing, I moved to Boston. Boston is a lovely city. I was doing things I'm not proud of for beer money and I left after 16 months. My next move was to Chicago and 10+ years later there I still reside. I write this blog for therapeutic reasons. Much like some people paint to relax or smoke crack to unwind after a stressful day, I record my thoughts on Al Gore's World Wide Web for 9 friends, 4 family members, 1 person who accidentally clicked through after an unsuccessful Google search for something else, and a guy named Patriot1 who lives in a silver Air Stream in the Nevada desert and broadcasts his own radio show. Is there a point to all of this? I doubt it. Years ago and in a galaxy far, far away (College Park, Maryland, then Athens, Ohio) I was toying with the idea of being a journalism major. I enjoyed writing so it seemed the obvious fit. Then I attended career day and learned that journalism majors could look forward to a salary of $EA,TSH.IT per year with the promise of a fatal heart attack at 47 years of age. I'm not falling for that trick, I told them (them being no one, and told being saying it in my own mind in the shower). Approximately 15 years later here I sit declared the big winner in that battle: I never made any money doing anything else and now I'm writing entirely for free. So suck balls, journalism career day. The views expressed in this website are mine and mine entirely. I don't wish to be an even bigger black eye to my family than I probably already am. As a result of this I will never be able to run for public office and I accept that reality. But this website is a very dignified, well-dressed skeleton full of witty retorts and honorable deeds compared to the disheveled, stenching, staggering and loud skeletons who would come marching out of the closet to White Zombie's "Thunderkiss '65" if they ever unearthed the college years. So enjoy your train ride, your hangover day at work, your AA meeting or your dump. I'm here to serve.
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