Confessions Of Honor; What’s A Booger Among Friends?

So. As before stated to the pages, herein, I have been doing some study work and practice on my poker game while not spending time attending to said and same pages. That is about to change. As part of my newly-started poker schooling, I have been required to commit to something not poker related, and writing bloggie postings are it. “Is it”, I guess are better said there, and it is going to be a task as I’m required to do this—per said commitment—for thirty minutes every day. Thirty minutes every fucking day.
When I told the Squirt that she and the goat dog will be required to leave me alone for thirty minutes each of our days she said to me, she bitched, “Who do you think you’re kidding, shithead? You’re the one can’t stop bugging us for for even ten straight minutes. How about we strike a deal where you leave us alone for thirty minutes per entire day, and you have to give us extra dinner when you fail?”
Thinking on that, I realized that my now pair of ten-pound puppies would weigh out at half-a-hundie in a month. I likely realize that any new readers hereof will be perplexed in just 300 words.
Additional thoughts on the thirty minutes subject led to an agreement. “OK, I get that I’m the problem. How about I close the blinds in the office when I write? That way you guys won’t be barking at everything that moves and I’ll be able to keep my eyes off the neighbor’s college-age daughter. Deal?”
Done deal. The neighbor’s daughter is quite the looker, I hope she’s of college age, and the words I’m now typing are the first words of the agreement and the first of my commitment. Which begs the questions: “Will having a forced commitment to write effect—or maybe even affect—the mindless drivel contained on these pages? Will I somehow be smarter, more erudite, or clever more? Will I manage to control my ADD, maintain a logical flow of thoughts, and make sense? Can my readers discern between the commitment and the agreement after suffering through this?
Which reminds me. Are there no hero women or men in the national Republican Congress anymore? Is there not one among them who will stand proud and say that this new health care bill is an atrocity? Not one who will say it’s unfair to cut health care to the needy in order to give tax breaks to our wealthy, or not a soul among them to say that knocking 22 million Americans off health care coverage does not make America great again?
Where is the guy who can stand tall and say his party’s plan is terrible for our country? Where’s that one of them who will act like an actual fucking Christian and say taking care of our unfit is what Christ would ask us to do? Is there not one of those pro-life fuckwads who stand so tall for the unborn that is willing to stand for those already born in need of life support?
These proud and patriotic Americans can’t even get fully behind investigations into the entire Russia scandal yet they now want to run up a big expenditure to determine if the former AG hindered the Clinton email scandal. Look boys and girls, you already did it, you killed Hilrie’s political career. Spend the effort doing something useful, like proving Obama wasn’t an actual American citizen, or maybe that the CIA bombed the Twin Towers and the Pentagon on 9/11.
And that reminds me that I also have agreed to start talking about my fuck-ups, out loud. A confession/absolution sort of dealio. I’ve done it a couple times and it felt almost good. Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson tells me that confession is good for the soul, should I were to have one, and that I need to do more of it. So here’s one. There’s this one guy over to the poker room that I really don’t like. He has BO, that tooth decay breathe kind of halitosis that incites your gag reflex, and he’s shitty and nasty to other players. I often address him when he’s out-of-line, but I know it does no real good.
So, I had a snotty nose the other day from some pollen or another, and blew my nose all the way to the casino, but I seemed to dry up in the conditioned air inside after sitting there to my seat. About an hour later, the aforementioned shithead took the seat on my right. When I was trying to get a read on this one young player who gives me problems, I was absent-mindedly trolling at my nose with the pinky finger to the asshole guy’s side of me, and I got a bite. Snagged a big one—one of those rascals I call a “comet” booger. You know, with a dried snot blob the size of a match head and a long sticky tail hanging off. The kind that—if, and when, you can manage to flick it off your finger it manages to land in precisely the wrong place—sticks to anything like rubber cement.
When I play poker I have this backpack with all sorts of shit inside, the contents too numerous to now mention, and I keep spare napkins in an open pouch in the back-bottom compartment. I reached around with the comet booger-laden pinky hand to grab a napkin for depository duty, and right at that moment the shithead reached down between us to grab his water bottle from the floor beside his, and my, chair.
I’m just glad he was wearing a long sleeve shirt.
I was distracted for a couple hours as my eyes tracked my deposit, the sticky comet tail drying to a crust on the arm of his shirt, likewise distracting was my internal dialog as to whether I was required to tell him, and should I apologize for the accident. It was an accident. Really. I haven’t intentionally planted a booger since maybe high school. I was lucky that those distractions didn’t cause me to blow through my chips, as distractions and lack of focus are my big leaks, a leak being otherwise described as a problem or weakness that causes a poker player to lose money dumbly.
While on a bathroom break, I finally concluded that mayhaps I ought to fess up for my actions, in itself an act of congruency with my confessions, and I committed to go straight back out and confess. I did decide to pretend I had just stuck my snot blob to his arm in an attempt to make the apology and my confession seem timelier, a lie, effectively, that I also would be disclosing herein, had it occurred. But, and alas, he was gone when I got back, and as it is the thought that counts, I figure I’m good.
OK, I’ve just spent three hours writing this silly shit and I’m good for the week! So:

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2 Responses to “Confessions Of Honor; What’s A Booger Among Friends?”

  1. bj says:

    “Comets”, huh? I called ’em streamers. I got thumped on the snout a few times during my pugilistic, macho, days. Went to sleep one night with a wad of gauze and cotton up me nose-trill, and. You. Cannot. Imagine. The Atrocity. I pulled out of that muhg the next morning! I shudder now as I recall feeling it tugging loose way down in my ….
    Speaking of Health Care …. when was the last time 13, Old, White, Privileged, RICH, MEN decided ANYTHING in Secret …. that turned out good for Americans – especially POOR Americans? 1776 is the last time I can think of. I hate to promote another blog here, Mooner, but if you haven’t read Jim’s post “Is Healthcare A Right?” over to Stonekettle Station. Take a minute and go. It hits at the heart of “human nature”, and human, fucking, WORTH. Or not.
    Roogr had an ear infection a couple of weeks ago and they weighed him before we went back to the treatment room. He weighed 109.6 lbs.; a 10 lb. gain since I had him neutered for Valentine’s. Took him back the other day after two weeks of Otobiotic in his ears and half-rations meatwise for supper in his belly? He weighed 110.6lbs. He gained a pound. The vet said the infection was dragging him down. He’s beginning to talk shit at supper time, too, about being hungry. Real hungry. and he’s started calling me “Bob” … for some reason …
    Are you PAYING someone for these Poker lessons? Or reading another book? I’ve several books on guitar playing and I’ve paid for lessons, too … I hope your lessons pay off for you. Pokerwise
    Props to y’momma ‘n ’em.

  2. Mooner's Cascading Rivulets says:

    Hey, Beej. I just went over to the Station, Petticoat Station–er, ah. What a strong addressing of the issue of healthcare. I’m so tired of conservative jerks telling us we have “the best healthcare in the world”.


    As for boogers, well I had a burst blood vessel way up in my sinuses this one time back to the early 70’s. Doc deadened the area with a cocaine solution–remember those days? Carterized tha sumbitch and I nearly fainted not from pain, but from the smell. When he finished he put cotton plugs in both nose holes and said, he told me, “Leave the cotton in for two days or you’ll have “issues”.

    Long story short, two days later I’m removing the first plug, and quite carefully if I do say so myself. I’d gently tug at the one rolled cylindrical wedge and I could feel shit tugging back at me from what felt like every sinus corridor in my entire fucking head. I’m tugging and wrinkling my nose every which-a-way and squinting my eyes with both discomfort and the tickling that accompanied each tug.

    Again for brevity’s sake, one long, bloody booger sleeve stuck to the first cotton plug ran up through my nostril, must has mosied around my eyes, ears and dental canals, and then back down the other nostril to attach its nasty self to the other cylindrical cotton wedgie. Too bad I didn’t have a cell phone camera back then. It was a magnificent sonofabitch that looked like a miniature poodle afterbirth.

    As for the Roog, you cut the boy’s nads off. Let him eat, for shitsake. Cut my balls off and I’d be looking for something to replace holding my balls, and fried chicken drumsticks would be first choice. And, I wouldn’t care how much I weighed as the girls would have no damned interest in me, not that they do now, but you catch the sniff of my drift.

    Thanks for stopping by, and please, fuck Walmart!

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