22 August 2006
I am one of those disgusting motherfuckers who trims his finger and toenails in the living room. Sonja thinks this gross. She trims her finger and toenails where I take my voluminous john plugging beer shits. Sonja says, "You did not cut your nails in the front room when we were first dating." I say, "What was that dear? I could not hear you, I was clipping." My nails make a lot of noise when I clip them. I ought to wear hearing and eye protection.
I do not let my nails fall all over the carpet. I keep them on a kleenex. My big toe nails stink like a dead skunk in the middle of the road by the garbage dump. Makes me want to barf. Sometimes I trim some callous off my work boot tortured feet too. All that trimming feels so good.
Sonja made me dinner tonight. Pasta and salad and beer. The pasta was hot; the salad was green and silver; the beer was cold as the Prime Minister's bed. I said, "What the fuck is the silver in my salad?" and poked at it with my fork. It was the toe nail clippers. They had fallen off a book I had set them on. When I moved it to put my beer on a coaster as I sat down to eat dinner and watch the latest news from Afghanistan on the tv the big stainless clippers fell into my salad. Looks like the Taliban are the Canucks of war. They keep getting killed but keep coming back for more. I think that makes Canuck fans like Pakistanis cheering for the Taliban from a safe distance.
I thought to myself, "I wonder if I am the first person to have a toe nail clipper salad for dinner?" Then I had to decide whether to finish my salad glinting like the hand polished Stanley Cup before me.
I ate it all baby. Best god damn salad I ever had. Maybe I should write me a cook book.