So, there I was this evening, in the car, picking my nose vigorously and flicking it on the floor, per usual.But wait! There’s more!
Oh, shut up, you do it. We all do it. The nostrils are wonderful, refillable caverns of mystery and delight, and we finger them more often than we do our sexual organs.
Why, with as many boogers as I, and doubtless my wife as well, chuck onto the floor, when I open the car door to get in, at some point, a drift of dried snots does not pour out of the car and over my feet like several bushels of dried brine shrimp and, yet, this does not happen?Beautiful. Simply beautiful.
There is, of course, no more popular location on the surface of Gawd’s Green Earth for people to engage in that great pastime of Booger-Hunting than in the confines of their automobiles.
And for some mysterious reason, these people - I do not name names - seem to think that the otherwise transparent windows of their vehicles are magically opaque to Booger-Rays. For they sit there, happily cramming their finger up their nostrils to the third joint, all the while oblivious to the fact that EVERYBODY CAN SEE THEM.
Once upon a time, one of the Mistress’s boyfriends did something that I, deep down, would love to do: he installed a loudspeaker in the grille of his Jeep and hooked it up with a microphone on his dash. He was then able to deliver Random Traffic Diatribes to people for whom a single upraised digit would not suffice.
And, inevitably, he one day happened upon a fellow motorist, deep in the throes of Booger Nirvana. This guy was so into his Nasal-Probing Reverie that he very well may have been tickling his Grey Matter, so deep had he embedded his finger. That’s when the Voice of Gawd began talking to him from the adjacent lane:
“Hey, buddy! Find anything good in there?”
The offender at least had the aplomb to flash a sheepish grin.
So, what’s worse? Getting caught with your hand on your dick, or with your finger up your nose?
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