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Picture this if you can, a freeze frame shot of your typical American life. That’s me in the foreground. Happy to be married, love my dogs, but I’d rather be fishing or at the rifle range instead of blowing yet another beautiful Sunday driving to yet another fuckin’ kid’s birthday party. 1:00 P.M. is when we’re supposed to be there, twenty minutes away, and at 2:30 P.M. we’re pulling into K-Mart to make a panic stop, cheap toy purchase.
Meanwhile, back in the truck and back on to I-95.
So we’re toolin’ along, and it just so happens my left forefinger (I’m a southpaw) absent-mindedly finds its way knuckle deep in my right nostril, digging for gold, scraping deep to work up a little substance. BAM! Out it comes. I roll it between my thumb and fore finger like an Afghani hemp farmer spinning a temple ball. The miles pass. My booger rolls. As we near the birthday boy’s house, my subconscious tells me it’s time to let go of my traveling companion. My hand pulls up to my right ear, and with a carefully orchestrated flick, the booger launches with a graceful spinning arch, my eyes now off the road and following it intently, where it lands and snuggles gently into the textured surface of a pan of still warm home made brownies.
Happy Birthday you little fuckstain.
