Pie Palace

Today starts like any other, you’re tired, in need of a shower. You stumble into the washroom and pause to look at yourself in the mirror. And then you see it. A sign of your slow decline from spry young buck into drooling senility, peeking out from under your nose. A nostril hair.

If you decide to ignore it and have a shower, turn to page 5.

If you deny your increasing age by grabbing it with a pair of tweezers and yanking it out, turn to page 8.

If you make a mental note to buy an ear and hair trimmer, but otherwise ignore the problem, turn to page 19.

Page 5: Ignore it and have a shower.
Your rogue nose hair gets caught in the drain, trapping your head in the swirling drain water and you die. What was it your mother said about drowning in two inches of water?

Page 8: Pull it out.
You give in to your base instincts and yank out the offending nostril hair. Everything seems fine and dandy, until two days later, you discover an ingrown hair in your nose. It eventually becomes infected with c. difficile and you die writhing in agony, wishing that you had chosen a less painful end to a seemingly unimportant problem.

Page 19: Buy a nostril and hair trimmer.
You live, having to bear the knowledge that you are nothing more than a growth medium for wiry little hairs. Your every waking thought is consumed with the fear that another hair may come poking out of another unexpected pore. Sure, you live. If you call this living.

I chose page 5, and I’m paying for it. Next time ’round, I’ll try page 19.