My nose is betraying me.
For much of my life, my nose and I have been the best of friends. It has served as dividing point for my face, both top and bottom and side to side. It has brought the aromas of grilled steak, freshly cut grass, and the perfume of a beautiful woman into my body. Oh, sure, there have been disagreements, and occasional fights. It still insists on letting its trashy, squatter blackhead friends stay over occasionally, despite my stern lectures to the contrary. And periodically it will wander into the business of others, although it knows nothing good ever comes of that. Overall, though, we've been mates, kindred spirits sharing a dream.
All that has ended. Arbitrarily, and without warning, my nose has decided to emit gigantihugenormously copious amounts of gunk from its nostrils.
My wife calls this phenomenon a "sinus infection." She says I should go to the doctor. Ha! She's just mocking me. There are two very good reasons I'm not going anywhere near the doctor for this so-called "sinus infection":
1) The last time I had some sinus trouble and went to the doctor, he showed no interest whatsoever in the two holes of my body where the trouble was located. Rather, he spent his time worried about another hole at the waaaay other end of my body that wasn't leaking anything at all. He had barely gotten into the examination room before he was slipping on a latex glove and asking me about my prostate. Well, shoot -- I hadn't seen my prostate lately; how was I supposed to know how it was doing? The next thing I knew, he was apparently trying to massage my sinuses via the back door (or, to put it in scientific terms, the "wrong damn way"). I tried gently to point this out to him ("Hey, doc? There's a much shorter route to my sinusEEEEEEES!") with no success.
For much of my life, my nose and I have been the best of friends. It has served as dividing point for my face, both top and bottom and side to side. It has brought the aromas of grilled steak, freshly cut grass, and the perfume of a beautiful woman into my body. Oh, sure, there have been disagreements, and occasional fights. It still insists on letting its trashy, squatter blackhead friends stay over occasionally, despite my stern lectures to the contrary. And periodically it will wander into the business of others, although it knows nothing good ever comes of that. Overall, though, we've been mates, kindred spirits sharing a dream.
All that has ended. Arbitrarily, and without warning, my nose has decided to emit gigantihugenormously copious amounts of gunk from its nostrils.
My wife calls this phenomenon a "sinus infection." She says I should go to the doctor. Ha! She's just mocking me. There are two very good reasons I'm not going anywhere near the doctor for this so-called "sinus infection":
1) The last time I had some sinus trouble and went to the doctor, he showed no interest whatsoever in the two holes of my body where the trouble was located. Rather, he spent his time worried about another hole at the waaaay other end of my body that wasn't leaking anything at all. He had barely gotten into the examination room before he was slipping on a latex glove and asking me about my prostate. Well, shoot -- I hadn't seen my prostate lately; how was I supposed to know how it was doing? The next thing I knew, he was apparently trying to massage my sinuses via the back door (or, to put it in scientific terms, the "wrong damn way"). I tried gently to point this out to him ("Hey, doc? There's a much shorter route to my sinusEEEEEEES!") with no success.
2) I really don't think I need another reason, because the first one is strong enough to be at least three reasons all on its own.
So the doctor is right out. You would think my wife would realize this, since every time she mentions the doctor I immediately jam my butt onto the floor, which is the internationally recognized symbol for "Please don't stick your arm in my heinie up to, and possibly past, the elbow." But no. She keeps harping on this doctor thing. I think he's paying her.
Meanwhile, my nose is cheerfully attempting to become the World's Leading Provider of Multicolored GunkTM. Since the world really doesn't need all that much gunk, when you stop to think about it, it would seem to me that a minimum amount of gunk would suffice to win this coveted title. But my nose is apparently taking nothing for granted. It probably figures that North Korea is using its recently reactivated nuclear reactor at Yongbyon to create radioactive nose gunk (RNG), and we certainly can't let those godless Communists corner the market on such a valuable weapon. I keep pointing out to nose that we have no proof whatsoever that North Korea is doing that. True, there were some suspicious gunk-colored mounds in some of the satellite photos taken recently, but that was probably just rocks or stockpiles of radioactive material or something equally negligible. I seriously doubt it was nose-gunk.
This makes no nevermind to my nose. It always was a hard-charger, determined to be the best. If the possibility exists that a rogue nation like North Korea is producing RNG, then the theory of mutually-assured gunkiness means we have to create a pile of RNG that would dwarf theirs.
I thought nose spray might help, as a punitive measure if nothing else. Usually my nose, if it's acting recalcitrantly, will shape right up with the application of a squirt or two of nose spray. It realizes it's been bad, and stops the improper behavior -- sort of like swatting a puppy with a rolled-up newspaper. But apparently nose spray is a necessary ingredient in the process of RNG production. My nose takes the spray, applies cold fusion somehow, and an hour later produces a truly stunning array of rainbow-colored gunk. And although I know I shouldn't encourage it, secretly I'm proud of the abilities of my nose. Occasionally I have been tempted to call the neighbors over to see the pretty colors. My wife has thus far dissuaded me from doing this, once with a loaded gun. "By God, I may have to live with your weirdness, but you're not subjecting innocent people to it," she said, brandishing the gun. She's always attempted to stifle my creativity.
So I'm forced to contemplate the betrayal of my nose alone. Obviously the gunk production must stop. I don't want to be unnecessarily cruel to my nose, and I hope we can come to some sort of cessation of hostilities before too long. Otherwise, I'll be forced to bring out the "big guns." I have two photos to show my nose, to indicate what COULD happen. Michael Jackson circa 1983:
So the doctor is right out. You would think my wife would realize this, since every time she mentions the doctor I immediately jam my butt onto the floor, which is the internationally recognized symbol for "Please don't stick your arm in my heinie up to, and possibly past, the elbow." But no. She keeps harping on this doctor thing. I think he's paying her.
Meanwhile, my nose is cheerfully attempting to become the World's Leading Provider of Multicolored GunkTM. Since the world really doesn't need all that much gunk, when you stop to think about it, it would seem to me that a minimum amount of gunk would suffice to win this coveted title. But my nose is apparently taking nothing for granted. It probably figures that North Korea is using its recently reactivated nuclear reactor at Yongbyon to create radioactive nose gunk (RNG), and we certainly can't let those godless Communists corner the market on such a valuable weapon. I keep pointing out to nose that we have no proof whatsoever that North Korea is doing that. True, there were some suspicious gunk-colored mounds in some of the satellite photos taken recently, but that was probably just rocks or stockpiles of radioactive material or something equally negligible. I seriously doubt it was nose-gunk.
This makes no nevermind to my nose. It always was a hard-charger, determined to be the best. If the possibility exists that a rogue nation like North Korea is producing RNG, then the theory of mutually-assured gunkiness means we have to create a pile of RNG that would dwarf theirs.
I thought nose spray might help, as a punitive measure if nothing else. Usually my nose, if it's acting recalcitrantly, will shape right up with the application of a squirt or two of nose spray. It realizes it's been bad, and stops the improper behavior -- sort of like swatting a puppy with a rolled-up newspaper. But apparently nose spray is a necessary ingredient in the process of RNG production. My nose takes the spray, applies cold fusion somehow, and an hour later produces a truly stunning array of rainbow-colored gunk. And although I know I shouldn't encourage it, secretly I'm proud of the abilities of my nose. Occasionally I have been tempted to call the neighbors over to see the pretty colors. My wife has thus far dissuaded me from doing this, once with a loaded gun. "By God, I may have to live with your weirdness, but you're not subjecting innocent people to it," she said, brandishing the gun. She's always attempted to stifle my creativity.
So I'm forced to contemplate the betrayal of my nose alone. Obviously the gunk production must stop. I don't want to be unnecessarily cruel to my nose, and I hope we can come to some sort of cessation of hostilities before too long. Otherwise, I'll be forced to bring out the "big guns." I have two photos to show my nose, to indicate what COULD happen. Michael Jackson circa 1983:
and
Michael Jackson circa 2003:
Surely this threat will make it clear to my nose that I'm not playing around.
(c) 2013 John Puckett
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