Public Habits

NOSE PICKING //Marco Ferreira

As a child I would pick my nose incessantly. The act of scooping my nostrils clean and enjoying a good suck of air through the uninhibited passage delighted me as my mother waited in bank lines, or my dad shopped for boat equipment. It was a worthy, and sometimes tasty, escape from the doldrums of everyday childhood. As I grew older, the adults in my life let me know that picking one’s nose incessantly would keep me from social acceptance. What was once a great friend became a formidable enemy. I grew older. I stopped being home-schooled in order to start elementary school. Shit got real. No more nose picking for me, aside from when I really wasn’t paying attention. To this day, while riding the bus or helping a customer at work, I’ll catch myself knuckle deep in my own nostril, with nowhere to take my finger but out. I even may have done it as I wrote this review. The one you’re reading. Right now.

GLLLUUUUURoop LOOOOGA LOOOGa LOOOoga LOooga Looooorouuuuug … Oh, stomach. You punctuate a conversation with the eloquence of a drowning wombat. GLLUUURP Gaaal-LOMP guuuzzleeee guzzzaloo zeeeoop … You penetrate the quiet of an intimate snuggle like a balloon let loose during a moment of silent prayer in a chapel with vaulted tiers and amplified acoustics. Fear not, for though I try to ignore you, I have not forgotten you. That would be impossible. You never stop talking and demanding attention. Perhaps it is because you feel a tinge of jealousy, a stirring of green gastric juices, a twitch of the small intestine, when my lover slips her hand over my stomach skin; but fret not, for you are always the closest to my heart – about 9.3 inches away from it, in fact. If you have ever doubted this I have three words for you. Vegan double-fudge brownies. GLLLEEEUURoom GLOOOO glooo glooo gooom galloooooooo zum!

FARTS // Beni Spieler I dunno about you, but I love to bottom burp, float an air biscuit, or step on a duck from time to time. It’s so satisfying. Everyone does it, and we each have our own style when it comes to farting in public. We’ve all squirmed and squished a certain way to pass the gas without making an ass of ourselves with our ass, like the silent squeakers or the angel’s whispers. One time, I was standing on a bus, and all of my techniques failed; I let out this giant, wet monstrosity. Not a shart, mind you, but just a wee bit trombone-ish. I was mortified, but before I could properly blush or even react, I heard an even louder and more destructive French Horn of a hoot to my right. I looked over and there was this old man that could’ve been Mr. Magoo. He just winked at me, grinned and looked away, saying, “I am Fartacus.”

NAIL BITE // Kevin Murray I was walking into the Icon club in Ottawa all cool and aloof, alone, and slightly stoned. I was also gnawing on my nails. Jerry, the eunuch-esque yet predatory coat check boy, was eyeing me up and down, trying to decide if I should walk in or pay tonight. He noticed the nibble. “You shouldn’t bite your nails, you know,” he drawled in an effeminate, downtown drawl. He winked. I was taken aback. “I wasn’t!” I doth protested, too much. “Well, you shouldn’t bite your skin, then,” he retorted. “Oh, Jerry,” I said. Go on. ... Later that week we would end up making out at Stereo in Montreal, stoned once again, and I would use my carefully pared pointers to push his stubbly chin away, suddenly completely certain that his scratchy face would get no closer to my carefully groomed appendages. That, in fact, was how public nail-biting led to my realization that I am not gay. I guess I’m just a sucker for a dude who plays daddy.

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