The Booger Picker

MY last night in New York, my roomates at co-presenters and I decided to leave the city with a bang: we commenced on a bar hop in lower Manhattan. I"ll leave those details to your imagination (much of it is still very sketchy to me anyways) but I do remember one very pronounced incident that happened when we were at our last bar.

We were seated near the window, quaintly sipping on (or guzzling down, however you want to paint the scene is fine with me) margaritas. The windows were tinted so we could see clearly outisde, but the people on the street could not see us. A very nice Mercedes-Benz station wagon pulled on alongside the bar and we could see a very smartly dressed man sitting in the driver's seat. He appeared to be about 40 years old. He looked right; he looked left. Then he began shoving his pointer finger as far up in his nose as he could go without finding brain matter.

At this point, my comrades and I were squealing and lauging in complete disgust.

After digging around for a few minutes, he pulled his now slimy finger out of his nose and looked inquisitively at what he had managed to produce. He appeared suprised. Then, to bring my utter disgust to total rupugnance, the booger picker (and my sensitive readers should probably stop here) graduated from picking to eating. Yes, dear readers: the Benz driving, suit wearing, 40-year-old man was eating his boogers.

This went on for 25 minutes.

The margarita made it ever funnier. So we started yelling booger eater and pointing at the window while quaintly sipping on our margaritas.

Then he got out of the car, locked the door and entered the bar where we were sitting. That's when one of my comrades decided that we should leave the Benz driving, suit wearing, 40-year-old booger eater a friendly note. It read:

Dear Booger Eater,

We saw you.

Love, the Three Blind Mice.

and left if on his windshield when we left the club.

*M*