THE BOOGER CHAIR
No, you cannot sue me for loss of consortium damages resulting from what you are about to read. All I’m gonna say is, tough titty, you have been warned, you’re on your own sucker .
I will apologize in advance, and let me say that if you are squeamish, you should not read this. If you read this anyway, do yourself a favor and have a plastic vomit bucket at hand. That’s how disgusting this story is going to be.
I usually like to write about more serious things, but my wife wanted me to write this story because she thinks it’s funny…. I think we ought to shift some of the blame to her because she made me do it.
This story starts way back in the olden days. My parents were very thrifty. Mom can hold onto a nickel and squeeze it so hard she could make the buffalo poop. That’s why I literally have in my possession, two nickels to rub together. I have no idea why you are supposed to rub them together. I rub them together all the time and nothing ever happens.
A while ago, Dad thought we should live in California. He didn’t hire a moving van probably because it would be too expensive. He bought a little two wheel trailer which was actually way too light for the job that he had in mind. He built a framework on, to give the trailer more heighth, so more possessions could be shoved inside. We made it all the way to Oklahoma before the trailer tipped over and spilled everything we owned into the middle of the highway smashing everything to bits.
I wish I had a movie of Mom yelling at Dad on and on endlessly for the mishap. I’m pretty sure Mom believed that if she yelled long enough, what was done, could be undone. If only I had a movie of Mom yelling at Dad, it would satisfy my German craving for laughing at other people’s misery. I wonder if my friend Claire Franky thinks this is funny. She is so funny. Do yourself a favor and read her.
We were on route 66 from Illinois to California. However, unlike in the song, Mom and Dad were not getting their kicks on Route 66.. Hey, I just figured out why it is so darn annoying when my wife yells at me. I think I just discovered that she’s behaving exactly like my mother used to behave all the time. I’m sure she’s going to appreciate me pointing out to her that she should not always behave just exactly like my mother behaves with all the yelling and fish wifery. That should show her the error of her ways, and life should get so much better for me after she realizes that. (Stop laughing)
When we got to California, we settled in a house that had no furniture. Mom and Dad went to Bruner’s and bought a bunch of furniture and among those purchases was Dad’s brand-new chair. Dad was a hard-working chap. If he wasn’t doing hard physical labor, he was using his brain as a professor. He needed a good recliner chair like the one shown in the picture above. Except his was sort of an orangeish yellow and had that rough textured upholstery cloth.
The chair sat in the living room behind another chair that was smaller. That’s the chair where I usually sat.
Let me explain something to you so you don’t get the wrong idea. Dad and I really love playing rough. We would call each other names such as “fart face” and such. This was usually followed by a few minutes of roughhousing. If you have never roughhoused in your life, you are missing a wonderful thing. It was always just pure fun and I remember exiting these scenes laughing and with my ears red and my scalp red as well as my neck . Typically, it would start by Dad coming out of the kitchen after having something to eat. He would be heading for his chair to watch TV. Timing is everything and I had incredible timing. When I planted my foot across his backside, there was a rippling effect. I was pretty strong as I was a swimmer. LOL.
Then Dad would say, “Oh ya? Well, we’ll see about that” ……….Quite often he would lock my head underneath his arm and with his other arm he would give me the best Dutch rub in the history of all Dutch rubs. I think it’s interesting that I am currently suffering from hair loss in the exact same spot where these vicious Dutch rubs would occur. Coincidence,…….. I think not.
Sometimes, he would decide on a different torture for his precious sweet innocent favorite baby son. I’m sorry to tell you like this Bob, but just like in the Smothers Brothers, Dad, as well as Mom, always did like me best so, ha ha.
Dad would rip me out of my comfortable chair by my ears and place my head between his knees. He would squeeze harder and harder crushing my skull and breaking my neck while repeatedly forcing me to say uncle. It’s common knowledge that when you force someone to say uncle, you have won. It’s a universal law known worldwide. I didn’t just make it up.
Think of all the world problems that could be solved by simply forcing people to say uncle. Maybe we could put Vladimir Putin’s head between Arnold Schwarzenegger’s legs. Arnold could squeeze harder and harder until Vladimir was forced into saying uncle. All of the problems in the world would be solved. Case closed. Just think about that for a while.
Getting back to my story, eventually the combination of laughter and pain got to be too much for me and I would submit by saying uncle. Saying uncle got you an instant pardon.
When these things occurred, I knew that it was because Dad loved me and that feeling was returned. I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed roughhouse playing. I was especially thankful that our playful antics didn’t take us anywhere near his chair, the booger chair.
What I’m about to tell you, usually makes women screen and children run away and hide. It all stems from the fact that, MY DAD PICKED HIS NOSE.!.!.
It is one of the most horrible but unavoidable things in life — witnessing the actions of a nose picker.. It’s fine if you’re picking your own nose, because you don’t have to watch unless you go to a mirror. But if someone else is picking their nose like a wolverine going after a dead squirrel, you have to watch. It’s like driving past a car wreck. You don’t want to look but you must . You have no choice. You can’t turn away, it’s impossible.
To this day, I wake up screaming over what I’m about to tell you. Perhaps I would be going to the kitchen to visit with Mom or grab a snack. When I came back into the room where the TV was, there would be Dad picking his nose. (Sorry dad, I’m going to tell this story and you can’t stop me. Everyone on the planet is going to read this, and than they will all know.
The first 20 years of his life , Dad grew up working on a farm. He had big beefy hands because he was a guy that used his hands hard, so he had muscular fingers. His fingers resembled a package of jumbo size Oscar Meyer wieners. When Dad was attempting to pick his nose, it looked exactly like the birth of baby Huey only it was in reverse.. The index finger would attempt to be forced into this tiny nostril opening. I don’t think his finger even made it in to his nose. I think the booger just marched out on its own and said “uncle”. I do hope you finished your breakfast a long time ago. You know how when you watch a horror movie, the most gruesome part comes at the end. Well, here you go, and if reading this scars you for life causing you to lose consortium, it’s your own damn fault because I warned you in advance, so don’t sue me. Besides all you’re going to get is my two nickels.
It wasn’t much of a problem for Dad to know what to do with his booger. I can still hear my high squeaky 11-year-old voice crying out to mom that Dad was wiping boogers on the side of his chair AGAIN. The thought of that has given me psychological trauma . I have had to seek professional help over the years, that Dad’s boogers caused me, because it was gross.
He was the best Dad ever except for this one thing. We didn’t realize what a great dad we had at the time, and this ruined everything good about him .
My brother Bob has a son named Steve. Steve really wanted Dad’s chair and footstool, so he got it . I never had the heart to tell him that dad’s nostril DNA has been generously applied to the right side of said chair. The chair was made out of cloth anyway, you couldn’t exactly scrape the boogers off. To this day he doesn’t know. I crack up thinking of Steve sitting in Dad’s booger chair. I really want to tell him so badly. Maybe Bob will tell him.
If you are horrified by this story for the rest of your life, like I am, — sorry, but not sorry..
