On gross-out

On gross-out

I hadn't felt too good.

In fact, I felt bloody awful.

Hell of a cold, nose feeling like it had a block of concrete stuck up it.

I was the very definition of “mouth-breather”, for that was just about all I could manage.

Grasping a handful of Kleenex, I decided to give it one final blow before I slammed my head in the oven door.

HONK! Honk HONK HO-O-O-O-O-O-O-NK

And out it came.

A pasta tube.

A foul-smelling pasta tube, for I hadn't eaten pasta tubes in several weeks.

What, I ask, have I done in my life for that to happen?