QotD: How tall would you be if you had never cut your fingernails?

Look, Bub, you’re talking to a nail BITER. I’d never let a cutting tool near my claws. No scissors, no clippers, no paring knives, no files or emery boards.

Life is tough. Scary. Tense. It’s a nightmare wrapped up in horror and sprinkled with terror. Okay, you gotta have some way to relieve the tension. I’ll be the first to admit that.

Drugs and booze dull the senses, just when you need to be most alert. Eating puts on the pounds, slows your getaway time, limits the size of spaces you can squeeze through. Picking scabs leaves a blood trail and leads to infection. You got a nose, sure, but how much time can you spend there without endangering your sinuses?

Nails, though. You got a lot of them, and they’re handy. Sure, it’s tough on your tooth enamel, but you’ll be an old geezer before anybody notices, and chances are you won’t get to be an old geezer anyhow. You got nice hard little bits to spit at an adversary in the warm-ups, and biting leaves snaggles, so vital in ripping jagged chunks out of your adversary’s neck.

So how tall am I? You think I’m ever gonna stand still long enough for somebody to measure me? Anyhow, nobody needs to know height until they’re slapping the coffin together.