There is not a single piece of machinery in a dentist’s office that doesn’t produce a sound you could easily imagine hearing thirty seconds before seeing any of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse coming over the horizon. Any yet the dental hygienist told me that my gentle moaning for whiskey and cigarettes was irritating.
Long story short: it appears that I will be visiting the dentist’s chair enough in the coming months to create my own ass-groove in it. They said that I’ll be given as much Novocain, nitrous and Vicodin as it takes to stop my pitiful screeching, but I plan to lie about that, because I always wanted to meet Oprah.
Oh sure: I could write the heartwrenching tale of a man with a snootful of giggle-gas and morphine-based painkillers watching Cartoon Network and waiting for the triumphant moment when he realizes that the numbness has faded enough that he probably won’t dribble half his beer down the front of his t-shirt. Instead, I’ll write myself like Holden Van Dorn in Marathon Man, and then conveniently ignore my spellchecker when it tells me that “novel” isn’t spelled “memoir.”
Then I can get on Oprah’s Book club and sell 25 million copies to middle American housewives who are yearning for a cautionary tale of drug dependence to tell their children so they’ll remember to be good and take their Ritalin. Then I can get myself a tattoo of the first letter of every word in my favorite phrase. Not the whole phrase, mind you: just the first letter. Because writing that way makes people think that you’re deep, or complex, or a preteen girl in a chat room.
Yeah, fuck that. Writing a book like that would set American literature back fifty years. I’m gonna stick with my original idea: The ‘Jesus Loves To Bone’ Conspiracy.
I would totally read a book calld The ‘Jesus Loves to Bone’ Conspiracy, but only if it came with pictures suitable for ‘the discriminating gentlemen of good moral fiber who likes hardcore porn’