Weigh Yours While There is Still Time

I’m in for a fun morning. Dentist appointment.

I was thinking about it earlier. I would hate to be a dentist. As disgusting as other types of medicine are, I would still choose most of them over dentistry simply because I could not face handling spit all day. And having big, gaping malodorous mouths open a few inches from my face. I have this notion, correct or not, that physicians usually get to straighten their arms more than dentists and keep the revolting stuff farther from their lips.

I hope he doesn’t find anything. Last time, or time before last, he found a filling that dated back to the Reagan years, at least. Maybe Carter. He didn’t believe me, but it’s true. That got replaced. Time before that, I think, he found places on my incisors where I had ground them away at night. He replaced parts of the teeth with composite. I am hoping that as I get older, he will gradually replace my entire head. That should cut way back on dental expenses as well as nasal allergies, and it will make it easier for me to fit in, in our socialist future. When the last particle of brain is removed, I plan to change my registration to Democrat and propose to Janeane Garofalo. You can’t have a limbic brain if your whole head is made of space-age resin.

I need to get started on the garage wiring today. It’s not going to be hard at all, except for the chore of moving my gigantic bulk to the top of a ladder about three thousand times. Someone pointed out that my method of moving my compressor on rollers resembled the technique Hebrew slaves used to build the pyramids, but I have to be honest and admit that I was allowed to use straw. So it’s not really a fair comparison.

As I become more of a tool nerd, I find that I keep more items in my pants at all times. This morning, curiosity overcame me, and I weighed them. Without my cell phone–I never know where it is, thank God–my pants checked in at 3 pounds, 11 ounces. And they’re shorts. I’m just glad I don’t have one of those ridiculous nerd keychains that are so big they have to be attached to your belt. That would put me over five pounds, for sure.

In the future, when psychiatrists try to determine whether a tool fixation is pathological, pants weight will gain recognition as a fine diagnostic tool. Under four pounds, odd but normal. Four pounds to eight pounds, shock therapy indicated. Over eight pounds, treat for hoarding. Or call Mrs. Berger and have a frank chat.

Time to get up and go. Maybe I should chew an onion first.