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The creatures habits
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Last week I was pickin' at Sen. John Edwards for dissin' that baby and callin' out possible candidates for daddyhood.. I forgot to mention one other person who could possibly be the baby's daddy. Ellen Degeneres.

Before that I was lamenting about how bad the latest “Batman” flick was and that I'd be twiddlin' my thumbs waiting for “Tropic Thunder.”

I'm glad I waited. It was hilarious.

And now that school is back in session (can I get a “Hallelujah?”), I can train that third eye back onto my favorite bone of contention. Hubs. Just when he thought it was safe to go back into the water.

Can't take that man out in public anymore. Took him to dinner last night and he finished his meal off by diggin' at his teeth with his drink straw. I kicked him under the table and reminded him that we were not sittin' in rockin' chairs on our front porch. I don't let him do that there either, though.

Then we were ridin' down the road, on a busy street, and he hucks one out the window.


That's real attractive.

Two seconds later he's diggin' under his seat for an old napkin and honks into that.

Lactose intolerance?

No. Just ... ewww.

The other morning he came in to my little cubbyhole and propped his foot on my desk.

As I was busy checkin' my e-mail, a glint of something momentarily blinded me, and I realized it was the industrial-sized nail clipper he hides under the bed. Big ol’ shiny metal thing you could clip door hinges off with.

He reaches over and “clip!” ... “clip!” ... starts clippin' those toenails right on my desk.

"Dude ... furreal," I commented, glaring at him over my specs.

"What?" he asked, oblivious. Clip ... clip.

"Um … do you have to do that here? I mean ... on my desk?" Get a clue, man.

"Oh!" he stops for a second and pulls a sheet of paper off my desk and puts it under his foot.

"Here," I said, "why don't you just deposit those toenails in my coffee mug. I'm sure one's flicked its way in there already."

He looked at me like I had two heads (cause I do) and said, "That's gross, little mama."

I pointed two fingers at my eyeballs and then back at him.

"Your stanky foot on my desk is what's gross, dude...get it outta here."

"But I just had a shower," i.e., my foot is clean, so what's wrong with me clippin' my toenails?

"Lambster, you are clipping toenails on my desk. Hello? It’s ... gross?"

"Oh." He gets up and goes out into the kitchen.

I hear another click of the clipper and get up from my chair.

OK. Remember how I mentioned that John McCain is not attractive when he laughs? Well, the same can be said for any man who clips their toenails while clad only in their undies. Or no undies, for that matter.

However, there is ol' Hubs, determined to get those sockgrabbers clipped off, with that foot hiked up onto that 4-foot-high counter top.

I stood watching quietly from my office doorway, praying for that nail not to bottlerocket across the hallway and implant itself into that third eye I was glaring at him with.

He finished clipping and was just about to swipe the clippings off onto the floor when I said, "Aynnnh!" and he stopped the arm midair.

"In the garbage, please!"

He scooped them into his hand and dusted them into the garbage can.

I slid my pen behind my ear and went for the cupboard under the sink, taking out the funkicide.

I sprayed the countertop liberally with it, wiping it down.

He grumbled like his feelings were hurt, saying,"I can't believe you're funkicidin' me."

"Dude, you're clippin' your toenails on the spot where I normally prepare food. And you're in your underwear.”

"Y'act like I got critters or somethin'."

"You got somethin', boy."

Here's a man who once found a fingernail in his food at a restaurant and nearly collapsed. He toughed it out though — ate that whole plate of food anyway. Jimmy crack corn and I don't care.

The nail-clippin' is nothing compared to the mini soldering iron he uses to burn off skin bumps.

Stop shudderin' ... wait til you've heard the whole story ... next time ...