The Booger & The Angry Bird

Boom!

There ya go.

This is blog number 100 on the year ladies and gentlemen. Just when I thought today’s dispatch was going to go by way of the desperate grasp for material to post, a doozy presented itself to me the other day by way of the youngest of my nephews.

He’ll be five in less than a week.

Easter Sunday and the requisite family get together resulted with said nephew sitting on my lap with my iPhone in hand and playing Angry Birds Space.

I really don’t know what the appeal of using a slingshot to launch varmints which are traditionally capable of flight at green pigs. But hey, what do I know?

He didn’t want to play Unblock Me, Galaga, Texas Hold’em, or Pickup Sticks.

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Nope. He wanted to play Angry Birds Space.

So the boy sat there for awhile and navigated various birds of color around the simulated gravitational pull of the planetoids featured in the game.

As he sat there pulling back the birds and tapping various parts of the screen to hit his mark, the boy developed an itch.

The itch of course, was not really one you should take care of when you have an audience, but a five year old boy isn’t going to know that.

Based on my own observations in recent years, I can assure you that boys wait until they’re well out of their teens before they realize that picking a nose doesn’t really have a whole lot of aesthetic appeal.

So right there on my lap, my soon to be five year old nephew paused Angry Birds Space so that he could take care of a booger. He didn’t really know he was being watched.

In fact when he wrestled that rascal out of there, a new dilemma presented itself on how to dispose of the offensive particle.

Fortunately he spent a minute pondering the issue as he negotiated the nostril flotsam and jetsam off of his finger by ways of attempted shaken booger syndrome and the eventual wipe off onto his plaid shorts.

Thankfully, he didn’t lube the surface of my iPhone (ensconced in an Otter-box case, mind you), before dispensing with the previously domestic and now foreign threat which served to potentially drive him nuts.

At the end of the day, the green pigs were dead, the birds were a little less angry, and a stain stick was applied to the plaid shorts of a certain soon to be five year old boy.

Randy Tharp

TharpSter is a husband to one woman, a father to two kids, a master to two dogs, an occasional cubical occupant, and unable to make up his mind on an adequate theme for this website.

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