Where Venereal Disease Doth Dwell...

For a few hours early last evening I gave up hope. I threw in the towel. I planted myself in my $20 recliner and did my damndest to quit breathing, which is not an easy feat.

Why, you may ask? The answer is quite simple. I unknowingly walked in on my wife watching one of the most insipid, grotesque, and down right hurtful reality shows ever to grace the air waves. I am of course talking about Tila Tequila's breakout television performance. Apparently the premise of the show is her search for love among a throng of meatheads entirely devoid of intelligence, along with a smattering of lesbians/bisexuals equally lacking in the self-esteem department.

Between the gauntlet of other such reality shows and an innumerable slew of game shows, it is a wonder the suicide rate in this country hasn't ballooned to Hindenburg proportions. Incidentally, whats the deal with washed up comedians getting gigs as gameshow hosts? Is there some sort of crazy drought in the fast-food department? (Sorry Drew Carey)

Anyway, luckily I recievecd my collection of Scrubs DVD's back from a family member. I was at least able to regain some vestige of normalcy. However, my wife will ultimately be punished. Maybe I will take away her America's Next Top Model priveleges. No....how about burning all of her precious TV gameshow turned board games.

Fun With a Camera

The Human Mouth and You: Ways to Combat dental Gross Incompetence.

As was inevitable, my wife has decided to subject to copious amounts of pain. Its true, my yearly round of dentists appointments has begun. My day started with a brusk, hick-esque "doctor" wailing on my already damaged chompers. Apparently he was trying for some sort of speed record because any sense of gentleness and nuance were tossed aside long before he entered my room. My teeth recieved less punishment in a drug induced fit of teeth grinding.
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But the cherry on top was the socially and professionally inept 'assistant' who couldn't seem to master the use of the suckee-thingy. It wasn't enough for her to leave bottomless pools of blood collecting in the bottom of my mouth, she found it necessary try and vacuum out the hangy-down thing occupying the back of my throat. It was all I could do to refrain from projectile vomiting all over the front of her Grey's Anatomy hand-me-down scrubs. But what the hell, its not every day I get the pleasure of being able to pay someone to inflict pain, right?

Equally frustrating is the fact that all dentists feel it necessary to verbally berate you for taking crappy care of your teeth. Surely they must realize that lazy, sardonic bastards, such as mysellf, are solely responsible for allowing them to earn a living. And a fairly nice one at that. When asked between spending $1700 dollars on a root canal and something called a crown, ((be assured this word conjured uo memories of countlees memories spent in the shadow of the burger King himself.), and spending $150 dollars on the reomoval of said tooth, even though it totally negates the tooth directly above it, seemed like a no brainer to me.

While the the fact that the dentist spends nine-tenths of the time humming bubble gum, glitter-glam Eighties hair rock at least prevented him from asking the insatiably banal questions most dental doctors feel necessary to ask, this pro was soon outweighed by the psychological trauma I endured, my face being smashed quite forcefully against what I can only assume was the genital region; a punisment no man should be subjected to. Okay, maybe Rosie O'Donnell.

I guess its not really the pain. I like to think I could handle the pain. The really bad parts are the tastes and smells that take over during an appointment. The grotesuquely dry latex taste of those glove. The rancid menthol taste of the pre-numbing jelly applied liberally to my gums. And worst of all the burnt, smoky taste and smell that permeates my mouth; the taste and smell of my teeth being obliterated into a fine white powder. A powder that I am not altogether unsure that I could sell to my older brother and some of his fellow compatriots.

Though the only person to blame is myself. Years of drinking soda and coffee, not to mention substtituting the practice of teeth brushing for chewing gum of the winterfresh variety, has left my teeth in a state not unlike that of Chernobyl. Hopefully they won't take on an iradescent gloww.

My only consolation is that everday my wife has to wake up and suffer a penalty much worse than a hockey game; preparing young pre-pubescent minds for their future. I guess I feel vindicated. At least a little.

Rumble to Ready

I recently read a blog post by my friend Jonathan who eloquently, though with a self-proclaimed long-windedness that would be hard to match in the blogosphere, professed that electronic means of communication enable a person to be virtually anyone he/she wants to be. Profound I know. Some of you readers probably didn't know that I was involved with smart people. Ultimately this got me thinking...I have been pulling my punches. Guarding peoples uber-sensitive electronic feelings and it is just not fair. So here goes, Jonathan, any hate mail will most definitely be forwarded to you.

The first post of the newly restructured Room for Rant is in memoriam of my professor's late testicles. Enjoying a bowl of the finest Omaha pipe tobacco before class this week, I happened across a most disheartening occurrence. Chef Q (names have been changed to protect his un-emasculated children) pulled up driving a silver PT Cruiser. In male circles around the globe, the consensus seems to be that only aging, blue-haired women (with or without facial hair, on the lip or otherwise) should be allowed to drive a PT Cruiser.

So imagine my surprise when Chef Q, a man I have gotten to know and respect, came pulling up in a Cruiser, bobbing and shaking his head to what I can now only assume was a pirated recording of the recent Hannah Montana concert in Omaha. Quickly recovering from shock, I sprang into action. Most of you probably don't know that I recently earned my M.D. in homoerotic and female induced emasculation diseases. (In the interest of full disclosure, I have contracted a number of these diseases myself.) After groping about my coat pocket for a Rx pad, I hastily scribbled out a prescription for backboneacillin, to be taken orally three times a day WITH the strongest beer available; and a spare set of testes, for those days when his wife insists on carrying his God-given pair along in her purse while picking out new sheets. (Egyptian cotton of course, somewhere between 600 and 600000000000000000 thread count.)

He thanked me, of course, and I promised to abide by all doctor/patient confidentiality. ( notice the cliche' insertion of Q in his name please) Hopefully we can move past this phase in his life and focus on his incessant need to sing those annoying bubble-gum pop songs the Beatles felt necessary to produce in order to indulge American women.

Note: should any of my close friends own a PT Cruiser, I sincerely apologize for this blog, though not really. Contact me for your Rx dosage.

P.S. Did I use the word blogosphere above? "Honey, can you pass me that bottle of GAYBEGONE, no no, not that one, the orangecranappletini flavored one!