Pick Your Nose.
I sneezed on my hands. I forget sometimes how utterly disgusting that is, splashing the muck from your mouth and nose across your palms, a Jackson Pollock masterpiece of mucus and boogers. Speaking of boogers, I desperately need to vacuum my truck. Under the driver seat lies an elephant graveyard of dead nose dust piled high, irrefutable evidence of my irresistible urge to excavate the dark, dirty goldmines whenever I drive. You do that, too, don’t you? Pick your nose when you drive?
Pick your nose. That’s a funny expression. If I were a rhinoplasty surgeon that would be my slogan: “Pick your nose.”
Unfortunately I am not a rhinoplasty surgeon. Just a guy with boogers on his hands. Edward Boogerhands. I don’t have a tissue but I do have jeans. No one’s looking.
