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Last Night of Wisdom (Includes Funeral Instructions)

September 18, 2014

In an ideal world, the human mouth wouldn’t even exist, but here we are, friends and lovers, on the eve of Zahnarztpraxisfest 2014. “Hey,” said the oral surgeon, “how about I hook you up to an IV and drug you unconscious and rip out all four of your extremely well-rooted wisdom teeth and then you pay me $2000 and stagger home and eat nothing but soup for several days?” It was an offer I couldn’t refuse.

Actual True Story: I’ve set my alarm for 2:30 (“tooth hurty”) a.m. so I can get up and chug a litre of coffee before 3:30, when the six-hour food and drink cutoff period begins. Because goddamn it, if I wake up with a caffeine deprivation migraine on top of all the other shit I will finally have no choice but to explode with rage at the bullshit of embodiment. Literal guts and brains splattered across the walls of the recovery room. Six flavours of soup in my fridge and pantry cupboard–carrot ginger, cup of noodles, chicken noodle, bean and bacon, Thai coconut, southwestern spicy chipotle cowboy corn chowder–never to be painfully consumed. To say nothing of the miles upon miles of pudding cups, and the econo-sized bottle of pulpy green soylent liquid that I don’t even know what the fuck it is. (“Healthy,” says the label. Ugh.)

Dental surgery might be my #1 nightmare. Definitely right up there. I do thank Zeus every day that I was born in the time period that I was born in and not at any time in the past, and the invention of anesthesia is near the top of my list of reasons (big ups, Crawford W. Long), yet this experience is pretty much guaranteed to blow an Aeschylean chorus of goats irregardless.

Oh hey, this isn’t related to the topic, so feel free to deduct points, but one of the CBC Canada Writes poems is being read on the radio. Note to self: don’t enter that contest again. You writes, but you isn’t Canada, and that’s okay, little friend. Just be yourself and keep up the whatever you’re doing, because your work is going to be soooo well received some day. (It’ll be sometime after you die, most likely an ironically short time after. Like possibly just days or weeks after. The kind of timing that would have made you kick yourself if you were alive. But still, right?)

Now back to the oral surgery post. If I survive I’m going to make a necklace from the teeth. That’s the main thing in my life that I’m looking forward to right now, walking back into my classroom with that necklace on. At the same time I know it’s not really possible because as if the dude is going to get the teeth out in one piece, what with the (I’m told) impressive length of the roots and the hardness of the bone (heh, I would say, if I had a sense of humour right now) and the perilous proximity of certain roots to certain nerves. They’ll have to be chipped and chopped into submission. Fragments of wisdom. I’ll sprinkle them under my pillow tomorrow night in the hope of finding a $2000 cheque from the Tooth Fairy the following morning.

If I don’t survive, please avenge my death. Also, I want all of the following at my funeral:

  • no church music
  • a hand-painted sarcophagus depicting the major events of my life
  • a hilarious eulogy (roast style)
  • an open bar (all drinks are free except wine, which costs $8)
  • everyone line dancing to the best of their ability to “Cadillac Ranch”
  • a bouncy castle
  • nobody wearing uncomfortable shoes–it’s not a fucking job interview for crying out loud
  • a group photo with everyone pretending something is their cock
  • kittens
  • southwestern spicy chipotle cowboy corn chowder (“She *sniff* loved that soup so much”)

The rest is up to the party planning committee. Whoever ends up being elected to it, I trust they’ll do a great job. Oh, and just F their I, I don’t want to be mummified, despite the sarcophagus; I want to be cremated and then have my ashes shot into space.

Five hours until coffee time. Cinnamon cocks.

One Comment leave one →
  1. HUnter4086 permalink
    December 18, 2014 3:00 pm

    Don’t mean to be glib, but did you survive? Planchette (and blog fans) await your response.

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