If you see what looks like mucous on my glasses, please ignore it. What you are gazing at in horror and disgust is actually super glue. That’s right – I’m back to building model kits.
This time the finished product (if assembled correctly) will be a roller coaster. How much of myself I put into this kit will depend on my skill and blood count. So far, my spectacles have provided a useful barrier between a blemish on my lenses and a trip to the Doctor to unglue my eyes.
Regarding mucous, my hatred of the scatological goes back years. Case in point: an incident that occurred several years ago while on a vacation trip to Florida.
Let me set the scene. My Bride and I were patiently waiting at Standiford Field in Louisville to board our escape from the White Death after a snowy drive from Maysville. Little did we know we were boarding a flying petri dish.
Standing in line, instead of listening to the pedantic stylings of the airport Muzak system, we were provided a gross diversion via sounds from the Little Sinus That Could, emanating from a person we were fortunate enough to stand in front of while waiting to board the plane.
He was an unassuming man, 6 foot 6 with a body as broad as it was long. This man had a sniffle. Actually, a collection of sniffles. And he was proud of his collection. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. Mind you, these weren’t ordinary sniffles. Each snort was as if he was either carrying his entire cocaine stash up his nose, or the mucous that was held captive in his skull was making a feeble attempt at escape, only to be caught and returned to its phlegmy abode by its congested captor.
This noxious serenade was then punctuated by a bone-rattling wheeze that would have gagged the average maggot. During this symphony, the noise’s snotty progenitor stoically stood there, oblivious to the looks of repugnance spreading through the crowd as quickly as his nasal-projected spew.
Then, like a cookie-cutter Celine Dion ditty, he made the obligatory key change, resuming his cacophonous cadence like an army drill instructor. However, in this instance, don’t ask – don’t tell took on a whole new meaning.
I’m telling you, sneeze guards aren’t just for the salad bar anymore. I mean, if a guy can be so comfortable making that disgusting noise in public, can you imagine, if married, what his poor wife must endure? I’m betting no night is bean night at their dinner table.
I had thought humanity had risen from the primordial ooze millions of years ago. I didn’t need a reminder with the ooze emanating from this man’s nasal cavity.
Needless to say, I wouldn’t recommend taking any personal comportment advice from Emily Post-Nasal Drip. Myself, I would rather pick up sea shells than a virus from Mount Effluvium.
Taking a note from one of my favorite cartoons, “Foxtrot,” instead of saying “God bless you” when someone sneezes, it might be more appropriate to say, “Curse you, you germ-spewing fountain of contagion.”
Perhaps society’s tolerance to such boorish behavior is what propagates it. Maybe it’s time to grab the bull by the proboscis and stand up for our right to not be subjected to germs every time we venture into public.
