THE BOOGER, OUR LITTLE FRIEND

Boogers get a bad rap. They are consistently portrayed in an unflattering manner. Their extraction through nose-picking is not presented as a natural human activity but as something uncouth, even filthy. An entire Seinfeld episode was built around the disgust with which society views a pick.

Yet who among us has not participated? And we should not be ashamed of having done so. Boogers are not vile things. They are actually quite useful.

One use: food. Yes, boogers can be a tasty little snack. They are naturally salty, some more so than others. And if survival is at stake—say you are trapped in a cave and becoming malnourished—boogers are certainly more palatable than other human waste alternatives. So, find yourself hungry but with no food readily available? Pick your nose.

Another use: glue. Some, admittedly not all but some, boogers are excellent adhesives, at least as good as epoxy, J-B Weld, Gorilla Glue, or other alternatives available from such stores as Home Depot and Ace Hardware. Have a repair job requiring an industrial strength adhesive? Pick your nose.

A third use: beauty spot. Accustomed to applying a beauty spot as part of your preparations to face the world each day but don’t have the necessary material one fine morning? Pick your nose.

Not yet persuaded about the value of boogers? Well, their use as a hygiene sensor should remove all doubts. Most of us have worked in offices at some point in our lives. And offices mean communal lavatories. And keeping communal lavatories clean is a challenge of the first order. Some employers commit the resources necessary to maintain a minimally acceptable level of cleanliness. Most don’t. But as an employee, how can you judge?

You can certainly judge the extreme. Unflushable toilets and urinals (do female bathrooms have urinals? Seriously, most guys don’t know) are certainly not acceptable. But how do you evaluate the rest?

Well, one method involves the much maligned booger. Simply place a booger on a wall. If you’re a guy standing at a urinal and no one is around, reach into the old nose, get one of your bad boys, and deposit it at eye level or a little below. And then see how many days it remains in place. Or if you’re in a stall rather than at a urinal, deposit the little rascal on the side wall, maybe a bit to the side of the paper dispenser so you’ll have a reference point to locate it on later visits.

Among Cranky’s former employers was an agency of the federal government. This particular agency was a bit lax in the hygiene department. Hygiene sensors frequently remained unremoved for weeks. The last one Cranky deposited set a record. Seven months after installation, it was still in place. In fact, Cranky left the agency before the sensor did. Some years have passed so surely it’s gone by now. But maybe, just maybe. Second floor men’s room. Urinal furthest from the door. Eye level. Check it out.

THE GLORIOUS REPUBLICAN OATH CRUSADE

Where is Major – de Coverley when we need him?

A little rusty on your Catch-22? Major – de Coverley (yes, there was no first name, only a dash) was a minor character in Joseph Heller’s 1961 classic comedic, some would say subversive, novel set in a U.S. Army Air Corps unit in the Mediterranean during World War II. An imposing figure, with an eye patch, the Major’s reaction to a particular situation might be just the sort of thing needed to extract today’s Republican Party from a sticky mess it has gotten itself into.

What Major – de Coverley did was to bring an abrupt end to the Glorious Loyalty Oath Crusade. The Crusade was the brainchild of Captain Black, a rear echelon intelligence officer who fancied greater things for himself and was constantly plotting to achieve those things. After his failure to become the squadron commander—the job went to Major Major—Captain Black was upset in the extreme. He decided that Major Major was a Communist and announced to his fellow rear echelon officers: “They’re taking over everything. . . .I’m going to do something about it. From now on I’m going to make every son of a bitch who comes to my intelligence tent sign a loyalty oath.”

So the Glorious Loyalty Oath Crusade was born. It became an immediate success. The plane crews had to sign loyalty oaths to get their map cases, more oaths to get their gear, including flak suits, and still more oaths for transportation to the airfield. An unofficial competition sprang up among the rear echelon administrators as each sought to outdo the others in requiring loyalty oaths. Requirements for the pledge of allegiance and the singing of The Star-Spangled Banner soon appeared.

Major – de Coverley had been away from the unit when the Oath Crusade began. Shortly after returning, he attempted to enter the mess hall. A loyalty oath was thrust at him to sign. He looked at it. He looked at a group pledging allegiance before sitting and another group singing The Star-Spangled Banner before using the salt, pepper, and ketchup.

With “fiery disdain” and “mountainous wrath,” Major – de Coverley swept the oath away. Harshly and loudly he thundered, “Gimme eat.” Looking around the room at the various groups at one stage or another in the oath taking process, he added with a roar, “Give everybody eat.” And so the Glorious Loyalty Oath Crusade came to an end.

Captain Black remind you of anyone? Yes, Grover Norquist. Mr. Norquist’s no tax pledge has not only become almost a requirement for success in today’s Grand Old Party but has also spawned pledges and oaths on other matters, abortion for example. As many observers have suggested, should not the oath to support the Constitution that every office holder takes be all the oath-taking that is necessary?

Yes, what today’s Republican Party needs is a Major – de Coverley, someone who, when Mr. Norquist thrusts a no-tax pledge at him or her, sweeps it away and thunders, “Gimme eat. Give everybody eat.”