Despite my being old enough for Medicare, I am like most grown men in that there lurks inside me a prepubescent male with a prepubescent way of finding humor in Gross Things.
I have done my share of shitblogging. I have written sonnets - yes, sonnets - about bodily functions and fluids. I have gone so far as to write a post about my own earwax when said wax fell out of my ear in the form of a chunk the size of an English pea.
All of this is revolting, sure, but even I have my limits.
Dee - my beloved missus - had had occasion to use a public facility the other day. It was a one-holer, and a small queue had formed. Eventually, the lady in front of her went in, and as Dee waited outside, she could hear a veritable Hiroshima of hawking, hacking, and nose-blowing. Then it was Dee’s turn to use the rest room.
After the obligatory Positioning of the Paper Seat Protector, she sat down, whereupon her horrified attention was drawn to a pile of Rope-Snot on the floor, just out of range of her feet.
I dunno ’bout you, but to me, leaving a giant snot-wad on the floor is almost as revolting as dropping a deuce in the shower. As Mister Debonair would say, “It is the sort of thing that one simply does not do.” And Dee was unsure about the appropriate course of action. Should she pick it up in a paper towel and discard it? Photograph it?
As it turns out, she did neither. And that is fine with me. Going anywhere near it would have been nasty, and to photograph it would’ve been equivalent to photographing a turd on a dinner plate.
I have been guilty of many horrible things, but even I have my limits – and apparently Dee does too.