“You look like a fat mexican drugs baron,” said my wife the other day, as I reclined in agony, my big pink head resting on the plush pink velvet headboard that Mohammed and Ali, the furniture making brothers who used to live behind Don Studios IV, made for us. I was sipping milkshake, trippy on a coctail of coedine based hospital drugs and playing Red Dead Redemption on the wall, which had probably influenced her mean spirited comment as much as my massive face.
She’s a fine one to talk. She is six months pregnant with Don Baby and as big as a barn. We were watching the little squid squirming in her belly like the xenomorph in the first Alien movie just before it erupted and ruined everybody’s dinner last night. Ah, dinner. There’s a thing. I have four great big bloody holes in my face and have been on a liquid diet since Friday. All I want to do is is eat steak and popcorn and smoke weed. A man always wants what he can’t have.
I did manage to keep my wisdom teeth, at least. The people in the hospital told me that due to reasons of “health and safety” I was not allowed. “But they’re MINE!” I protested. Eventually someone told me I could look at them after the surgery, and if they happened to go missing there wouldn’t be much anybody could do about it. So after I awoke from my drug induced slumber, during which time a goddamn tourniquet was strapped to my face, splitting my mouth as barbaric medieval surgery was unjustly visited upon my person, a little jar full of blood and gums and five teeth was sat on my bedside table. I swiftly secreted it in the cheap dressing gown they’d foisted upon me, along with the foam slippers and the underpants made of the same stuff they make McDonalds’ staff hairnets out of.
There they are, as they looked on Friday. You’ll notice that, alongside four wisdom teeth, there is an extra little fang looking tooth. This was discovered on the top right of my gob, above a wisdom tooth. No one has any idea where it came from, or why it was never spotted in any previous scans. I suspect it to be some kind of alien implant. Well they can’t track me or influence my thoughts and actions anymore, those disgusting Archon fucks, since it resides in a little jar on my desk. It’s black now, black like the Venom symbiote, because I put it along with its cousins in a pan of boiling water yestreday to clean, then forgot all about it as the song I was working on was so darned awesome. Eventually a harrowing, deathly stench alerted me to my mistake, and I found the water all boiled leaving a scorched pan of hot, black teeth in a kitchen that smelt of genocide.
“Sometimes it feels like I’m the only wife in the world who’d log into Facebook to discover that her husband had been at home with a post-operative swollen face boiling his wisdom teeth dry in a saucepan,” lamented my wife on Facebook.
“This is amazing,” wrote Joey2tits. “Burnt teeth is an album title.”
Which is true. I just wrote a song about it all. Inspiration is everywhere.