Adventures in Dentistry

I had a relatively large adventure (by my standards) last weekend. It all started Sunday after breakfast. I was  generally expressing my satisfaction concerning the existence of bacon and running my tongue over the inside of my mouth, and then I stopped both activities. My tongue had found a large bump on the inside of my lower mouth underneath my teeth. It wasn't a bump I recognized, so I went to a mirror and examined it. My tongue had told the truth - there in my mouth was a large bump that I was previously unaware of.  I won't gross you out with the details (if I haven't already), but it looked unnatural and out of place.

I immediately took the best course of action. Namely, self diagnosing. Two things went through my head.

1) Oh my God, it's gum cancer. A large, painless lump. It has to be. I knew I shouldn't have smoked all* those cigars** during my lifetime! What if I lose all my teeth and have to eat applesauce for the rest of my life? How will I chew on ice cubes ever again?
*like, five.
**well, cigarillos, actually

and...

2) It's an alien. Or a bug. Or an alien bug. Where could it have come from? It must've been all that swimming in lakes out west. It has a bony feel, just like how I always imagined the exoskeleton of an advanced, sentient, parasitic alien bug would feel. I wonder how long I have to think independent thoughts? What if it's already been controlling me this whole time?

So first thing Monday morning, I went to a Doctor to ask some questions. After looking into my mouth, he told me it everything looked fine, but that if I really wanted to get it checked out, I should go to a dentist. This didn't make me feel any more at ease. By this point, I had narrowed my two initial diagnoses down to just one. I eliminated gum cancer, because the Doctor would have recognized that. Also, the fact that everything looked fine seemed to be more evidence that it was an alien bug, because naturally it was in the invader's interest to keep me (the host) healthy as long as possible so it could do whatever it wanted with me.

Despite my reluctance*, I made an appointment with my dentist (whom I normally avoid despite his office's harassing phone calls asking me to confirm appointments I never made) for that morning, and went down to see him.
*which I attributed partially to the alien bug wanting me to avoid the dentist, and partially to my fear of being stabbed in the mouth repeatedly

Sitting nervously in the torture chair, I informed him that there was a terrifying bump (I wasn't calling it an alien bug yet - I wanted him to reach that conclusion for himself) in my mouth, so they took an x-ray. The dentist came back into the room and asked me where the bump was exactly. "This is it," I thought to myself, "he's going to tell me that its fibrous tentacles have worked their way up my jaw and are almost in my brain." I opened my mouth and pointed.

"That?" he asked? "That's normal bone growth, it happens in about 40% of people. You probably had that the last time you came in, it's nothing to worry about. But as long as you're here, why don't we give your teeth a cleaning." And so he sent in his apprentice torturer* who stabbed me in the mouth with sharp objects for the next half hour.
*I'm pretty sure this was her official title

All in all, I have to say, I didn't leave the dentist feeling much better, despite my squeaky clean teeth and the free toothbrush he gave me to make me feel better about having been stabbed in the mouth. I think the reason is I'm not sure I trust him. I still think it's an alien. And I think my dentist has one, too. If it's already taken over his mind, of course he would try to comfort me and tell me it's nothing...

So please, if anyone has had a similar experience and had the alien bug removed, or knows someone who has been completely taken over already, let me know. I want to know what to expect.

The Wit of the Hunt

One of the differences I noticed between the West and New York is that in the west, people really like taking pictures of themselves with dead animals. In particular, with an animal that is dead because the person in the picture killed it. I saw a lot of those photographs in restaurants or rest stops (Restaurants in New York prefer to take pictures of their food, or perhaps of the owner with celebrities they are about to kill with their food, but rarely dead animals). Unless there's only one deer that has modular antlers that everyone passes around and makes slight modifications to for their trophy picture, there's a lot of hunting that goes on out west. I won't judge the hunting; I'm not for it, but I understand some people enjoy it, some people need to do it, and some people can turn live animals into jerky, which is a good thing for everybody but the animal. So, don't worry, people who take pictures of themselves with recently dead animals, I'm not judging you.

What does bother me is when people refer to hunting as matching wits with an animal. I'll judge those people. There's a lot that's wrong with saying that. To begin with, animals don't have a great sense of humor and won't appreciate witty jokes, but most people who attempt to match wits with animals are trying to accomplish their goal by shooting the animal, which no animal finds amusing regardless of whether or not it has a sense of humor.

More importantly, if you really want to match wits with an animal, you need to do something that gives the animal a level playing field. I could suggest a few games. For instance, you could stand by a river next to a bear and try swatting fish out of mid-air. Whoever gets more fish wins (I would also suggest losing, because bears are notorious sore losers). Alternatively, you could hang out with an elk until one of you gets eaten by a wolf (the winner being the one who does not get torn to pieces). Or, you could play Uno with a mountain lion. Whatever you want.

However, hiding behind camouflage structures and shooting at an animal from a half a mile away does not constitute a level playing field. If I hid behind a friend's furniture (being sure to stay downwind of the fan so as not to alert him of my presence by my scent) while he was out and then shot him as he walked into the room, I doubt he would refer to that as "matching wits" with him. "Haha! You jokester you, you out-witted me!" would probably be the last thing I would expect him to say.

So please, in the future, be honest with yourself. You're not matching wits with an animal just because you're hunting it. If you're looking for ways to describe your relationship with the animal, how about stalking? Sure. Spraying bullets at? Ok. Ambushing! All acceptable way to phrase your activity.

And whatever you do, don't get me started on people who feel the need to match wits with fish.

Conversations with the TSA

While my absence in the blogosphere has become a less than startling event, my most recent disappearance has to do with a trip I took for the past three weeks through the Northwest/west. Perhaps some details will follow, perhaps not. Still,  I would like to share the last conversation I had out west.

I ended up in a security line at the airport manned by an underemployed TSA agent with a mission to amuse himself. As every person in the line went up to him, he examined their name, and wondered out loud which of their names they went by. Some were fairly straightforwards, but I could see he was confused when he looked at the boarding pass of a man with three first names, and disappointed when one of the girls on line lacked a middle name (where's the mystery in that?)This whole time, I expected I would breeze through without question or conversation, but that was not the case.

He looked at my pass, and without skipping a beat, said, "Oh man, if I had your name, I would change that H to a C."

"Huh?" I asked, surprised that he had something to discuss about my name.

"Yeah, you could be Brendan Cannon."

Tempting. I thanked him for his input then walked on. I don't think I will change my own name, but upon further reflection, I realized that should I, by some slip up in the galactic paperwork, become a parent, I would like to name my child (regardless of gender) Cannon, so he or she could be "Cannon Hannon." Should I also have a spouse through a similar clerical error, I hope she approves.

Instruction Manual for Bad Decision Making

Unless you're OK not having all of your fingers if you wake up. 

Proper Wishing Protocol

A lot of people say that if they could have one wish from a genie, they'd wish for a bunch of money. That's stupid though. 

If I had one wish from a genie, I'd wish for a lot of money (maybe two million dollars) and an accompanying W-2, because what good is money if you're in prison for tax fraud? No one would believe that you got all that money from a genie! 

Nope, can't fool this guy...

Dangerous Car Fresheners

This morning on a bus, I saw an car freshener in a scent I hadn't seen before. It was called "Black Ice," which seems like an odd name for something to keep dangling in a car.

Ah yes, "Black Ice," and the other scents in that line, "Spin Out," "Steel Railing," and "Smoldering Wreck."

Executive Summary: Fundraiser Contributions

As many of you were aware, my friend's band will be releasing an album soon, and I offered my help publicizing his fundraising project. I'm sure you're wondering how much my efforts contributed to helping them reach their goal, who won the prized collection of my finest, illustrated haikus, and who killed Mr. Body in the bedroom with the candlestick*.
*Ms. Scarlet, but that was only because of what Mr. Body tried to do to her with the candlestick. He had it coming.


Well, dear friend, hold your breath no longer. Thanks to an elaborate algorithm I have devised that divides the total amount donated under dirty names since I advertised this effort by a denominator composed of a complex function involving website hits, frequency of google searches for my blog, fake phone numbers given to me by pretty girls I attempted to convince to contribute to the campaign or go on dates with me, and the second derivative of how many cookies I eat at work as a function of my productivity, I have concluded that my efforts netted a total of $0.00 for A Thousand Year's At Sea's new album (to date).

This means that the donor with the most obscene name remains front-runner "Haywood Jablomi," who, it turns out, is none other than yours truly (I would have a photo of my stunt-double bowing here if I could find him. Someone please come drink with me while we rummage through my room, and if we find him, I will gladly add a photo later). To reward myself, I will start compiling my haikus in a booklet of post-its I will keep by my microscope, Jim (for now), my most recent inanimate friend.

Jim (for now) the Microscope

If you have a better name for Jim (for now) the Microscope, please feel free to suggest it and I will consider dedicating a haiku to you.

Lastly, while A Thousand Years at Sea has officially ended their fundraiser, they still welcome contributions to their beer-money fund, and would be happy to arrange a swap in which you would give them money and they will give your their music or gear. Feel free to bother Colin Cotter if this interests you.

And now, I would like to formally announce that Diary of a Brendan will return to its Not-for-Profit Origins. Check back for updates soon, and please leave comments if you have a suggestion for a new name for Jim (for now), the Microscope!