Some days, when the world is like a sappy Hallmark card, you're led by your heart. Other days present intellectual challenges and your brain leads the way. Of course there are also times when passion rules and the day's events are dictated by the naughty bits.
Sometimes, however, on the most insidious of days, your nose steps up to the plate and demands to be the Alpha Organ. That was my weekend. I spent the last few days battling my nose and it pretty much won. Consequently, my nose, the big obnoxious beak, gets to write today's blog post. So, "I Am Prepared to Give Up at Any Time" cautiously presents its first guest host, my big nose, offering its version of our weekend. Nose, you're up.
Beak? Big obnoxious beak?? That's real fucking nice, Mike. I get one moment in the limelight and that's my introduction. Shithead.
So, first off, I know Mike has that pansy-ass rule that he won't swear in this blog, but I have no such goddamn fucking rule. Did you catch that bit in the beginning where he referred to his dick as "naughty bits"? That's fucking embarrassing. Send the kids off to the market for cigarettes because this is no post for children. No menthols though. Kids always fucking come back with menthols. Christ, I hate kids.
Anyways, this story begins last weekend when Mike (which, by the way, is not even his real name. His real name is Melvin. "Mike" is the coolest pen name he could come up with. Fucking pathetic.) went up to Tahoe. It was ball-chilling cold up there and Mike bundled up in his usual half-assed fashion. He put his dainty little feet in wool socks and booties. The hands got toasty mittens. The ears were snug under their fruity little cap, and Mouth took care of himself by clamping shut. I gotta say that I like Mouth. He is one tough sonofabitch.
So, that's it. Mike fucking stops there. Not even a thought about covering me. Me, the organ who leads the way whereever he goes, gets absolutely no defense against the nut-freezing snowy cold of Lake Tahoe. Not a nose-cozy or even a nostril warmer. Nothing.
I don't know if you've ever been to Lake Tahoe in winter, but the air is cold and dry. I HATE cold dry air. I know I look rugged on the outside, but on the inside I'm fucking moist and tender. Do you know happens when you expose moist and tender nose-flesh to gonad-shriveling arctic temperatures? You end up with dry and crackly nose flesh. Believe me when I tell you that noses don't like being dry and crackly. No, we goddamn do not.
Now, you may think that a nose doesn't have much power, but you'd be dead fucking wrong. We have a near arsenal of weapons at our disposal. Some pussy noses just go with sneezing, but they're fucking hacks. Anyone can sneeze. I prefer to orchestrate a symphony of annoyances, leading to a virtually apocalyptic crescendo of fluids and pain. Oh, goddamn, just talking about that gets me hot. On that note, if there are ladies out there in the blogosphere who have a thing for Semitic proboscii, well, you know where to find me. I have skills.
So, anyway, after we get back from Tahoe, I spring into action. I start off with some low-grade sniffles. Mike, the poor bastard, starts popping the vitamins and whining about feeling "a little under the weather." Awww, the poor baby. Christ, I haven't even started busting his goddamn balls and he's already whining.
Did you catch those blog posts last week where he complains about his Internet connection? Christ, has this man ever suffered anything real? Inky, I'm with you. Booooooooring! He's a fucking whiner.
After a few days of the sniffling and the nose-blowing, I took it to the next level. Operation Nose Bleed commenced on Friday. I waited until Mike blew his nose with his usual ferocity and then I turned on the juice. Mike already looks like a total fucking nerd, but if you add in the wads of bloody kleenex pressed anxiously to his face, he's a goddamn walking stereotype. It's funny stuff.
I let loose with the bloodworks a couple times that day. Not a ton of blood, but enough to make him paranoid about blowing his nose. You should have seen his timid little nose blows, all scared and shit. And his little heart would race with fear everytime he sneezed. He's a fucking wuss.
Meanwhile, I'm crafting these blood and snot masterpieces on each and every kleenex. Some are chunky with blood bits and others are merely tinged with orange. Some artists would feel limited with only two colors at their disposal, the dark red of the blood and the greenish-yellow of the snot, but with kleenex as my canvas, I'm cranking out mini Guernicas every couple of minutes.
Saturday was great. He went to go buy some new running shoes so I let loose with the blood right there in the store as soon as he laces up the new shoes. He's sitting there, in the middle of the shoe department, trying to look nonchalant about all the blood on his face and hands. Smooooooth. You ever seen someone try to clean up a bloody face with only one kleenex and no water? The store employees cut him a wide berth. Fucking classic, that was.
I cut him some slack on Saturday night. I turned up the snot flow, but held back on the blood. I let him play his little poker game (he lost $12.00) without bleeding on the cards or his friends. I mean, hey, I'm not a fucking monster, just a nose trying to make a point.
As soon as his friends left though, I turned the blood back on. There he is, trying to get ready for bed, and I put the fear of Nose right back in him. For the rest of the night, while he's tossing and turning in bed, he's worrying about me. He dabs at me, cautiously, and then scurries into the bathroom to see if the nose bleeds have started again. I love that shit. Noses never sleep, why should Mike?
He treats me with kid gloves all day on Sunday. He exclusively uses only the softest kleenex and presses them to my insides with a tenderness I didn't think he was capable of. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost. Anyways, just to show him who was boss, I went fucking Carrie on his ass that night. Torrential blood flow that would not quit for about 15 minutes. He kept trying to take away the kleenex, and then he'd peer at me all wide-eyed in the mirror. I'd wait for a sec, and then DRIP right down his fucking chin. Good times.
He's taken a new approach with me this morning. On the advice of one of his coworkers, he has swabbed me with Neosporine. I'm not quite sure what to make of this. On one hand, I fucking HATE having Q-tips jammed up me. On the other hand, it's pretty goddamn soothing. Maybe a truce is in order. I'm still meditating on it. Meanwhile, he's back at his desk, still moaning about being under the weather, while listlessly poking at his Instant Messenger, wearily searching for the runny/bloody nose smiley emoticon.
And there you fucking have it. That was Mike's weekend.
Peace fucking out.