But inside, I'm going, 'Oh my God, is my zipper up? Do I have a booger in my nose?' That's my inner monologue.
quote by Leah Remini
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Why Do You Bob Your Nose, Girl ?
(kinky friedman)
Why do you bob your nose, girls, it does not look so nice,
If it' s just to keep in fashion, it's not the lord's advice.
Well, you mangle mother nature and brave the lord's command
You care about your nose, girls, and reach the glory land.
Why do you bob your nose, girls, it's not the thing to do,
Run with that nose and some day the lord may say to you:
You naughty little booger, you honky tonkin' hose
But at least i'm glad for one thing: you'sll never bob your nose.
song performed by by Kinky Friedman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
It's not how you pick your nose, it's where you put that booger that counts.
Belinda Ate a Booger
Belinda ate a booger,
On our field trip to Kentucky,
I can't believe she did that,
It's just so very yucky!
I think it's really nasty,
I'd die if they all knew,
One time in the first grade...
I ate a booger too!
poem by ToddMichael St. Pierre
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
When The Zipper Opens
when the zipper opens
a red bird comes out into the open
but would not leave him
it loves the nest of black weeds
attracting a tongue
a pair of lips, wet with raindrops
and honeydew
last night there was a reunion
of shadows
the moon by the window was
silent as snow
the following morning
his smile is as wide as the zipper
of her bag.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
In the courtroom, it's where a lawyer really becomes an actor. There's a very fine line between delivering a monologue in a play and delivering a monologue to a jury. I've always felt that way - I've been in a lot of courtrooms. The best lawyers are really theatrical.
quote by Woody Harrelson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
A Worn-out Repertoire
Tired of hearing
the monologue of my head;
consuming every thought,
corroding every memory,
repressing every chance
of hearing another melody,
uttering another name.
Your name:
a repeating monologue
I could not replace.
3September2012
poem by Jessel Jane Tevar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Zipper my tongue
notice me not; i am zipper by the fence of
my teeth and close by the lips, protected by two
holes beneath the two big eye balls rap with color
little hair, to feel it shiny tiny cloth of skin to tell
why keep in talking if the heart can't improve
good silent, and why the nose always breathing
when, the same air, feel in the air, would it's not
easy for the ears listen and talk to the wind after
the dawn of silent
sleep my dear heart; let us always open the mouth
and touch the teeth for every silent the tongue will
speak; for each return claps the hands where the pin
is on
what then the little heart tell, when the big blind
mouth says that; the waiting is over for everything is
ready to a harder fight, and win a better glorious
victory, its not the right aim yet, the best shoot it
gain
stop my apology; the same things happen again,
please switch a new beginning for my awesome
heart zipper my tongue forever......
poem by Antonio Liao
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A disrepair soul in the monorail
I never count my precious breathe as I know everything has its own limits,
This breakable dishearten skeleton doesn't stand like a breakwater which face the force of waves.
Is this hidden soul disperse when you stop breathing?
* Aging; First you forget the names, then you forget the faces and you forget to pull your Zipper up, then you forget to pull your Zipper down.
-Leo Rosenburg
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Ol Ben Lucas
(kinky friedman)
Ol ben lucas had a lot of mucus
Comin right out of his nose.
He picked and picked till it made you sick
But back again it grows.
Well, ol ben lucas had a lot of mucus
Comin right out of his nose.
He picked and picked till it made you sick,
But back again it grows.
When its cotton picking time in texas,
Boys, its booger picking time for ben.
Hed raise that finger mean and hostile
Stick it in that waitin nostril,
Here he comes with a green one once again.
All right, pick it, eric!
Ol ben lucas had a lot of mucus
Comin right out of his nose.
He picked and picked till it made you sick,
But back again it grows.
Everybody!
Ol ben lucas had a lot of mucus
Comin right out of his nose,
He picked and picked till it made you sick
But back again it grows.
song performed by by Kinky Friedman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Nose
No one cares for the nose
To go nose straight is the tao
If there were no eyes
You could see better with your nose
If there were no nose
you wouldnot distinguish the sweet from the bitter
And there would be no value judgements in the world
And it is the nose that keeps you hot in the cold
And that keeps you cold in Jakodabad
The nose is the vigilant customs officer
That does not allow any drug to your lungs
And the nose cannot be bribed
Oh Nose! the customs officer of the body
And the pivot of value judgement in the world
If that name thou love
Remain with us and teach the noseless world
That it must have a nose in this wartorn world
He who knows the greatness of nose
Surely goes to the realm of rose
In the life to come
Hurrah Let us compose hymns to nose
poem by Dr. Ramesh Chandra Mukhopadhyaya
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Be Glad Your Nose is on Your Face
Be glad your nose is on your face,
not pasted on some other place,
for if it were where it is not,
you might dislike your nose a lot.
Imagine if your precious nose
were sandwiched in between your toes,
that clearly would not be a treat,
for you'd be forced to smell your feet.
Your nose would be a source of dread
were it attached atop your head,
it soon would drive you to despair,
forever tickled by your hair.
Within your ear, your nose would be
an absolute catastrophe,
for when you were obliged to sneeze,
your brain would rattle from the breeze.
Your nose, instead, through thick and thin,
remains between your eyes and chin,
not pasted on some other place--
be glad your nose is on your face!
poem by Jack Prelutsky
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I've always liked getting away with just a little bit of what you're not supposed to. Like my first book, Billy's Booger, got me in trouble with the principal's office.
quote by William Joyce
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
The first book I ever wrote was in fourth grade and it was called 'Billy's Booger.' It was an autobiographical piece about a kid who was really bad at math.
quote by William Joyce
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Booger
you who loves so blindly
the one who does not love you
in return
has become this booger
manipulated by his fingers
and then thrown
after so much abuse
into the infinite space
of oblivion
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I hope some historian will confirm that I was the first cartoonist to use the word "booger" in a newspaper comic strip.
Bill Watterson in The Calvin and Hobbes
Submitted by Simona Enache
Vote! | Copy!
I Like It Here (part Two)
i like it here
i speak my lines i deliver them and there is no one to listen
how do i know you listening?
but even if i know you are there
it does not really matter
i am here only to speak
and i do not want to hear you talking back
i like it here
this place is simply perfect
for my circumlocution
my monologue
the way i speak to the moon
when the stars are so silent and unminding
the way i talk to the river when it simply passes by its banks
the way i talk to a stone, a tree, a pole, a cloud,
the way i talk to a glass one day whose water i have all drank
the way i talk to a horse, a dog, a cat,
or even to a pillow all wet with my tears.
i like this monologue.
i burst and then i live anew
for another day
tomorrow.
yes, i like it too
talking to your picture that i keep many years ago.
black and white and scented
with moth balls.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Booger McNulty and Me
In 1948 Booger McNulty's coal yard stirred
constant gossip among the citizens who lived
in little bungalows on narrow blocks
in my far corner of Chicago.
That was more than 60 years ago,
a time when families took Sunday walks
and went back home in time to hear
Jack Benny on the radio.
A Sunday walk didn't cost a cent,
a price my parents could afford.
When my parents took a Sunday walk,
my sister and I always had to go along,
and every time we'd pass Booger's place,
I'd hear my mother ask my father
what could possibly be on the other side
of Booger's 10-foot fence.
Hoping to avoid a conversation,
my father always said he didn't know
but he believed it couldn't just be coal.
Back then, every kid in the neighborhood
wanted to climb that fence and look around.
But Booger didn't feature visitors.
According to the boy whose keister caught
a chunk of coal from Booger's slingshot,
there was nothing on the other side
except for pigeons and a lot of coal.
In the bungalows surrounding Booger's place,
immigrants from everywhere slept off beer and garlic
when they weren't working, which was pretty often,
according to my mother. My father always worked,
digging graves with the other men,
most of them, like him, from Ireland.
He dug graves because some Bulgarian
broke his nose, after which my mother ruled
no more boxing. He'd been undefeated until then.
I was ten in 1948 and I'd climb Booger's fence
when I was certain he was gone for the night.
Inside the yard I'd climb the piles of coal
until I got tired and then I'd go home
and take a bath before my father saw me.
My mother never let my father see me
cloaked in the soot of Booger's coal
and she always made me promise
never to go back to Booger's again.
But on Easter Sunday in 1948,
I went over Booger's fence a final time.
My mother had taken pains that morning
to get me dressed for the Children's Mass
and sent me off with a caution to be good.
I always went to Mass, every Sunday,
and I would pray and sing the hymns
and usually I was good but this time
the weather was so nice I decided
to go to Booger's instead.
He wouldn't be there on Easter.
It would be just me and the pigeons.
But I was gone for hours that day,
and since no one knew where I was,
a furor in the family flared up,
as I'll explain later.
At school on Monday, Timmy Duffy,
unlike me a favorite of the nuns who taught us,
told me every other boy in class had made it
to the Children's Mass on Easter.
'And where were you? ' he asked.
I told him I'd been sick and thought
with all the polio going around,
I didn't want to cripple anyone on Easter.
Timmy accepted my excuse because
we were all praying for Mickey Kane,
who'd spent a year in an Iron Lung.
'And so, ' said Timmy, 'even though
you weren't there to help, we sang
as loud as we could on Easter, '
something our class always did to keep
the nuns in the aisle from paying us a visit.
I may have sung no hymns that Easter
but I probably looked pretty spiffy
scrambling over Booger's fence
in my new blue suit, white shirt and tie.
I had a wonderful time in the sun
with pigeons careening in the air.
I was free to climb my favorite pile of coal,
toboggan down on my duff,
and then climb a different pile
and toboggan down again,
far more fun than any sled in winter.
Hours later when I got hungry,
back over the fence I went
and headed home for dinner.
Every Easter Sunday, we'd have
ham and yams, Brussels sprouts
and rutabaga, favorites of my father
from his youth in Ireland.
But when I got home that day,
we didn't eat right away
after my father saw me.
As I recall, his reaction was
more Neanderthal than usual.
'Molly, ' he roared to my mother,
with his hand on the back of my neck,
'the little bastid says he went to Booger's!
He never went to Mass! '
And then, despite my mother's protests,
he grabbed from behind the attic door
a belt that had been hanging there for years,
waiting for a felony like mine to happen.
I knew right away what I had to do
and so I dropped my pants and bent
over at the waist as far as possible.
Without a word, he stropped my arse.
I didn't cry, gosh no, since tears
would have brought additional licks.
We were Irish, don'tcha know,
so we didn't cry and we didn't watch
English movies on TV, either.
The accents of the actors would remind
my father of the Black and Tans,
the English soldiers who imprisoned him
on Spike Island, off the coast of Ireland
when he was just 16.
They grabbed him barefoot in a stream
sneaking guns to the IRA.
In 1920, Irish boys ran guns for the IRA
barefoot through the bogs and streams,
provided they were big enough.
Decades later in Chicago, a stranger,
dressed like a Mormon on an urban mission,
rang our bell and told my father
he was from the IRA and had a medal for him
in honor of his service 40 years earlier.
He said 'It took a while for us to find you.'
My father hung the medal in his closet
next to the tan fedora he wore to Irish wakes.
He always went to wakes, hoping to meet
someone 'from home.'
So there I was that Easter Sunday,
standing in our tiny parlor with my pants
napping at my ankles, the result
of a wonderful morning at Booger's
and a terrible afternoon at home.
Now,60 years later,
when that Easter Sunday comes to mind,
no matter where I am, I whisper,
just in case he still can hear me,
'Pops, I haven't missed a Mass on Sunday
since I got that Easter stropping.
I guess I learned my lesson.'
And then I tell him, as politely as I can,
that if he can get a pass from wherever
the Lord has stored him, he can verify
my Mass attendance with my wife and kids,
the last of whom, a son, moved out on us
Christmas Eve,2010, even though
the boy promised his mother and me
a ride to Midnight Mass in his new Hummer.
Two feet of snow we got that evening.
My father would have loved that snow.
Back in '67, when we got 30 inches of it,
some of it in drifts as high as Booger's coal,
he was just delighted by the winter scene,
so much so that he had the two of us
shovel frantically for hours,
albeit in our usual Trappist silence.
When we got back to the house,
he told my mother,
with more than a dollop of flair,
the hairs in his nose were frozen.
tThank God my mother had his tea ready,
steaming hot, as it should be, in its cozy
next to his favorite chair.
And she gave me lots of cocoa,
swirling hot with marshmallows
floating on the top.
Now every New Year's Eve at midnight
(and this has been going on for years)
I see those same marshmallows
when it's time for me to hoist a glass
and make my toast to Holy Week 1948,
the week that I absorbed without a tear
Booger's slingshot and my father's belt.
'Praise the Lord, ' I shout,
'and pass the ammunition.'
As the years go by,
fewer guests know what I mean.
But most of them
never had a chance to hear
Jack Benny on the radio.
The young ones always ask
where I got my old fedora.
A couple of them have even said
they'd have it blocked and cleaned.
But most of them, I'm certain,
even though they went to college,
never saw a relic.
They think the old fedora's
just a hat.
poem by Donal Mahoney
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Inside Out
Inside out, ooh you got me inside out
Oh inside out, oh inside out
Now everybody keeps on telling me how to be
And everybody tells me do what they say
Oh Ill help myself its up to me and no-one else
But till Im ready just keep out of my way
Inside out, ooh you got me inside out
Oh inside out, oh inside out
Now everybodys got me running round, up and down
And here I am going out of my mind
But I wont lose sight of all the, the things Im looking for
Theyre coming to me and Im taking whats mine
Inside out, ooh you got me inside out
Oh inside out, oh inside out
Ill play the game
Well make the same mistakes
Its all the same
If we can give and take
Hold on, hold on, ooh
Hold on, hold on, ooh
Inside out, ooh you got me inside out
Oh inside out, oh inside out
All of my life Ive been searching and hanging on
Turning a corner, never know what Id find
But now Im back again like I never went away
Ooh let me in Im through with wasting my time
Inside out, ooh you got me inside out
Oh inside out, oh inside out
Oh inside out, ooh you got me inside out
Oh inside out, oh inside out
song performed by by Phil Collins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
There was an Old Man with a nose,
Who said, 'If you choose to suppose,
That my nose is too long,
You are certainly wrong!'
That remarkable Man with a nose.
by Edward Lear from A Book of Nonsense (1846)
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
O! What a nose!
People talk about a running nose
I'm talking about a long facial cargo
She’s got a nose longer than my longest toes
With a mission of being nosy as time goes
Please don’t get close
When she discloses
Her loud snoring doze
Don’t be like the heroes
Goodness gracious
O! What a nose!
Goodness gracious
What a precious nose pose!
Painted as red as a romantic rose
Standing long like my garden pipe hose
And as she sniffs, sneezes and exposes
I cannot help thinking of Pinocchio’s nose
Goodness gracious
O! What a nose!
Goodness gracious
Red and long when it snows
And this nose is nosy
She can smell a rat, cat or a bat
When you are getting cozy
In your one bedroom flat
O! What a nose!
In and out juice flows
And when she smells the air
They all cannot help but stare
Copyright 2008 - Sylvia Chidi
poem by Sylvia Chidi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!