Thursday, April 18, 2013
Nasal Stan Laurel Stunting
There comes a time in every man’s life when the cultivation of nostril hair transforms from a gently ambient state of overall hirsuteness into an out-of-control nasal wig attack threatening to kill forever any hope of kissing (or feasting on soup without the aid of a napkin / 3000 Megawatt liposuction pump).
In my heart of hearts, I’d love to invest in one of those dinky battery-powered nasal hair clippers you sometimes see advertised in “miscellaneous everything” catalogues shoved through the letterbox — but the thought of my old dentist MR NUMMY,* looming over me like a bleached vampire with his drill and his mask and his anaesthetic, then drilling, drilling, drilling into my brain — well, it’s all kind of upsetting. Battery-powered whirring anywhere near my cerebellum is a no-no. It’s spared me a lifetime addiction to visiting sex shops but been fuck all use in most other regards.
* yes, that was his name.
So I’m sitting here with a pair of tweezers, trying not to poke out my eyeballs. I’ve taken out a few of the longer hairs close to the nostril rim, but now, like a mountaineer climbing an inverted Everest, I’m up to just below the level of my orbits, tugging away, tugging away, in the hope of finding the Queen.
All noses have a Queen. Kill the Queen, and all the irritating nostril hairs fall away. Kill the Queen, and all the bogeys and pools of mucus drain away, along with specks of dust and pollutant particles and anything else you may have up there.
But here’s a funny thing. I just tugged on something long and grey, right at the top where my searchlight beam tickles at the void. Remember that ear wiggling thing Stan Laurel used to do? I’ve never been able to crack it — so much so that I’ve always believed he had some animatronic apparatus tucked away beneath his hat. But now I can do it! My testicles jiggle at the same time, but I’m not complaining. Who knows, maybe Stan Laurel’s testicles jiggled too when he waggled his ears — after all, it’s not the kind of thing you’d confess to back in the 1930s, particularly if you were part of a comedy duo with a roly-poly fat man.
There’s a couple more hairs up there to experiment with, so maybe I won’t go for the Queen after all. Perhaps my future lies in cultivating a modest nasal hair array allied to a Vaudeville style selection of minor talents. I’m hoping for a van der Graaf Generator effect on my hair or maybe a pulsating nipple or two I can train to synchronise with a little Madonna.
Hmmm. Sounds good.