“What the heck are you mumbling about now you Old Coot?”
Sit in awe and read my majestic comment placed upon a message board you hungry commoners.
I am the King, the master of the mites infesting my body.
My excretions nourish them and allow future generations of mites to be born, thrive and reproduce themselves.
I am mighty in my life-giving awesomeness and an uncountable number of mites can proclaim their admiration for my sheer existence.
You are welcome my little mite minions.
“What is that about ye majestic benevolent mite master?”
Well, this blog is about food and you and me and apparently all humans are food themselves.
I have mentioned the multitudes of bacteria feasting upon us, internally and externally, but there are far bigger critters who live on our bodies, copulate there, sleep and play there and dine with delight upon our excretions.
The linked-to article goes into detail about little mite boys and girls doing what boys and girls tend to do when the opportunity exists.
Maybe the squeamish should avoid the article.
If you do become aware of what is happening on your face you may decide, as I have, to never scratch an itch on that part of my aging but still Adonis-like body.
Never let it be said that the Disgruntled Old Coot has forced coitus interruptus upon two agreeable mites following their natural urges and embracing with passion and pleasure.
I guess I am not such a Crotchety Old Coot as I thought I was.
However, you shall continue to refrain from prancing upon the shanty’s dirt and weeds.