The past week has been so full of gut-busting stories — most of the really good ones told by people other than me. Before I forget, I must relay a short story about my friend Cannonball. (The origin of her name will be revealed in a later post. Which may or may not include video footage.)
So, Cannonball was sitting next to a co-worker at a seminar, when she noticed a piece of lint on Co-worker’s pants. As Co-worker’s attention was focused on the speaker, Cannonball reached over, and nonchalantly plucked the fuzz from her leg. Something we’ve all done.
But this fuzz was springy.
And as she pulled on it, it made a stretchy, gooey bridge between finger and pantleg.
See it in slow-mo.
Think rubber cement.
It was a booger.
Turns out co-worker had sneezed and surreptitiously wiped her hand on her pant leg. And was now horrified. As was Cannonball, who, by sheer will alone, successfully managed to suppress the the surge of vomit welling in her throat. Had that been ME, the story would’ve ended waaaay differently.
And THAT, gentle reader, is why I’ll never groom another human outside my gene pool. AGAIN.