Tongue-In-Cheek … Foot-In-Mouth

My columns are NOT for the faint of heart, as made evidenced by the fact that I have received several brash emails, written by alert readers, in crayon, with everything, including their names spelled wrong, telling me that judging by my columns, I like to hear myself talk.

Admittedly, I do like to hear myself talk, because technically, that is to say percentage wise, the more I talk the better my chances of sooner or later saying something which almost makes sense.  And since I’ve yet to accomplish that feat, here is this week’s column.   So, put down those crayons, take your fingers out of your noses, and pay attention, you alert readers out there, and you know who you are.  Of course, I mean all that in a nice way.

Anyway, allergy season is upon us, and I know this because there are several metric tons of green/yellow pollen currently encasing my car.  And I am also very aware that it is pollen season because the guy sitting in the cubicle behind me has been violently SNORTING every 18 seconds for the past two months straight, and I swear some practical joker moved my office and set it down smack in the middle of pig farm.

SNORT!  OINK!  SNORT!  OINK!  SNORT!

Listen, I’m not some sort of insensitive jerk who does not feel for this person and his allergy agony, but when someone is within my hearing zone (keeping in mind that I can hear water evaporate on the top of Mount Everest) and that person is CONSTANTLY snorting with an intensity normally only associated with that of an industrial strength elephant with a deviated septum, I get slightly grossed out.

And in a concerted effort to NOT provide too vivid a description to the squeamish amongst my readers, and you know who you are, my snorter (wherewith to be affectionately referred to for the rest of this column as “Mr. McSnorty,” or maybe “Mr. McSnotty,” or perhaps “Mr. McMucus,” you choose, actually, let’s just go call him “Mr. M” and cover the general gross gamete) just doesn’t snort and be done with it, which would be more than gross in itself; heavens no, “Mr. M” MUST make an Olympic sporting event out of his snorting so intensely (from the sounds of things) he brings not only mounds of mucus, he also sucks up his sneakers and part of whatever surface he is standing on, to include a cement sidewalk, into his mouth, rolls the congealed concoction around, and then spits it out.

ONLY KIDDING!

He swallows it.  ICK!

“Mr. M” has the additional nasty habit of viciously snorting every time I attempt to take a bite of my breakfast yogurt, which unfortunately, as you probably have already figured out where this is going, and I’m not making this up, but yogurt has the same basic viscous gooey consistency as that of mucus, so when “Mr. M” snorts, gurgles, and swallows, it activates my involuntarily gagging reflex, and I gag, which all goes down something like this:

Mr. M: “SNORT, GURGLE, SWALLOW!”
Mr. D: “GAG!”
Mr. M: “SNORT, GURGLE, SWALLOW!”
Mr. D: “GAG!”
Mr. M: “SNORT, GURGLE, SWALLOW!”
Mr. D: “GAG!”

Get the picture?

However, believe it or not, things get worse, much worse, horribly worse, unbelievably worse, because from time-to-time I have to deal with “Mr. M” in person, that is to say face-to-face.  So there I am, standing in his cube, inches from him, and he is talking, and I am talking back, and then out of absolutely nowhere with NO warning whatsoever—“SNORT! GURGLE! SWALLOW!”

GAG ME WITH A SPOON!

Gee, swell, and so I’m supposed to stand there, looking at my feet, and pretending that “Mr. M” snorting up both of his lungs did not just happen; and that his snorting and resulting phlegm, the gurgling, and the swallowing are all JUST figments of my anal-retentive neat-freak active imagination.  And I should be sentimental and supportive of “Mr. M’s” allergy affliction and not write sarcastic humor columns where I like to hear myself talk by poking fun at someone in the midst of allergy agony.

Admittedly, I might be making a little fun of “Mr. M.” BUT I fully intend to help him overcome his allergy agony.  And  I plan on doing this by leaping over my cube, landing on his throat, and gently cramming an Allegra prescription into “Mr. M’s” nasal passageway, so “Mr. M” will stop providing me with his disgusting mucus-filled reminder that ALLERGY SEASON HAS ARRIVED!

Okay, so, did this week’s column make any sense to you?  No?  Well, no biggie, because as you know I love to hear myself talk, which brings us to the concept of next week’s column; something which I have been spending lots and lots of time thinking about:  “honey, a brownish yellow viscous sticky substance, is primarily made up of bee spit (ick) yet people actually eat it, and pay BIG money for it.”

Go ahead and try and make sense out of that column.  I dare you.