Hakuna-Dentata

Due to all the inbreeding, malnutrition, curses put on me by junior varsity football players and whatnot, I have what they call in the orthodonture world a “jacked-up grill”.

Tip for the people of the British Isles, roundabout 250 years ago when my ancestors were still farting around there:  Find people to bang who aren’t your siblings.

Nobody’s saying hands-off the second cousins, but maybe lay off the first cousins for a few generations, at least until the teeth start looking human.  Oh, and a couple hundred years later when someone wants to put fluoride in the drinking water?  LET THEM DO IT.

The top teeth are mostly okay, but the bottom look sort of like those sticks they put up around the wall in Game of Thrones to keep the White Walkers out.  While this setup may be useful for impaling the rotting, re-animated corpses that are coming to destroy your world, it doesn’t do much for the ol’ self-esteem when someone goes to take your picture and says, “Smile!” and then you smile with your mouth closed, and then they say, “No, really smile!” and then you smile with teeth and they scream, drop the camera, run away, and jump into a pool of lava.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ve gotten a lot of free cameras that way. The jacked-up grill is not without its merits.

Besides all the free cameras, the jacked-up grill is useful for any number of things, ranging from receiving genuine sympathy while panhandling outside of ZZ Top concerts all the way to winning the spokesmodel category every year at the plutonium-enrichment factory’s “Employee Star Search”.

Heck, people give me a hell of a lot more credit than I deserve for my jug band, especially considering I’ve never been in one.  Any time I jump a freight train to the hills with my carny friends and pick up a banjo made of a bedpan tied to a broomstick, at least half of the contestants drop out of the Hobo Skills Challenge on the spot.

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Not everyone has that kind of privilege, I know.  I’m sure that both the completely toothless AND Sloth from The Goonies see my teeth as a thing to aspire to.  I’m not ungrateful.

So!  It is with great longwindedness that I tell you I’m finally getting them fixed, or as I refer to it when I’m feeling emo and perimenopausal, “Killing my entire identity.”

I’m getting Invisalign this week.  My orthodontist said that either traditional braces or Invisalign would give me the same results (at the same price and duration) given my particular situation, so my vanity went with the option that won’t make me look like a nerd.  My apologies if you have traditional braces, as I do not mean to offend any of you nerds.

I’ve researched this for a long time and have already signed the contract, so please refrain from nay-saying this decision, unless you fear you may die if you don’t say something.  Let’s keep the horror stories to a minimum for the sake of my insomnia.  It won’t do me any good to hear about that time Invisalign dumped you for your best friend and the two of them ran off and became a successful country music duo leaving you with nothing but an empty trailer and a half-empty bottle of Southern Comfort in which to drown your sorrows.  Unless you’ve already put it to music.

The good news is that I’ll be writing about my experience with Invisalign from time to time to let you know how it’s going – and you know I’ll be giving you the good, the bad, and the ugly.  Obviously this is not a paid endorsement situation, as who the hell would pay me to review anything, so I will absolutely tell you if it’s great, if it sucks, or if the trays migrate up into my brain and wipe out all of my tween memories of reading The Babysitters Club while listening to Roxette.

You can really tell who the weirdos are by whether they see the title of this post as being related to The Lion King due to the first word, or related to that other movie due to the second word.

You weirdo, weirdo, weirdos.

The Call Was Coming From Inside the Cockroach

I wrote a fun little nonfiction piece about growing up in Florida among the dreaded Palmetto Bugs and X-R-A-Y Magazine was kind enough (and not squeamish at all) about publishing it on their site today!

You can check it out here: The Call Was Coming From Inside the Cockroach

If you are disturbed by vivid descriptions of bugs, then I shall direct you to this photograph of Steven Seagal holding a panda cub, which is only marginally less disturbing.  Who are we kidding?  It’s way, way more disturbing.

Click through and check out some of the other pieces on their site – they’re a really fantastic publication and I’m honored to be added to their contributor’s list.  Some of my favorite writers are on there!

Thanks for hanging out with me every week!  And let’s not forget why we’re all really here:

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The Smiting of Wyatt Stupid Face

I wrote a piece about growing up poor and how I exacted revenge on a young man who made fun of me for it.  It’s one of my favorite funny pieces and it’s very near and dear to my cold, steely heart.  I’d been looking for a good home for it for a long time and I didn’t want to trust it with just anyone.

It finally found the perfect home right here on good ol’ page 44: The Smiting of Wyatt Stupid Face

Hand to Mouth is a special edition zine dedicated to writers responding to living in poverty, and is hosted by Kissing Dynamite.  This issue is full of poetry, creative nonfiction (that’s what I do, suckas), and artwork – and you should read it cover to cover and support the heck out of it because they’re good people doing good in the world…

…unlike me, a person who basically works for pizza money and unfettered mirror-time.

This means that you’re a good person if you print it out 10,000 times, wallpaper the entire inside of your house with it, invite me over, I’ll walk in and get freaked out that you’re a stalker, then pepper spray you and kick you in the jimmies with a sensible shoe.

And won’t that be a story to tell at your next court-ordered group therapy session.

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If you’re not already following this blog, go ahead and click the “Follow” button on the home page and you’ll get a nifty email anytime I post new stuff on here, usually about once a week.  I won’t go blowing up your email unlike certain people named Old Navy those denim-clad sons of bitches.  Who needs five emails a day from Old Navy??? We’re breaking up!  I don’t even care how well your Rock Star stretch jeans fit.  WE’RE DONE.

That’s a huge lie.  I will never quit Old Navy.

You can also follow me on Twitter at @romcomdojo.

I ALMOST FORGOT!

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