dys· phem· is· tic Huh?

I'm writing this as I recover from having my three remaining wisdom teeth cut out. Frankly, it was fantastic. The Oral Surgeon (whose name I would publish far and wide except I don't want him to get in trouble, for reasons you'll see in a minute) was a stocky, jovial guy that reminded me of Al Roker, and I was his second surgery of the day, which is good in my eyes because then he's still fresh. He described what he was going to do. I told him not to spare the anesthetic. The technician told me I could look the other way if I didn't like to see needles. I told her I didn't mind seeing them at all; it's feeling them I don't like. We all chuckled and the Doctor found a vein on the second try; the first time he hit a valve, which I take it is not good. A slight feeling of lightheadedness came over me. I looked at my watch. It was 10:45. The technicians afixed blue plastic bands with attached wires to my wrists. I asked what they were. They told me... but I don't remember what the explanation was because at that point my stream of consciousnesses suddenly went bone dry.

Later, at 11:14, I woke up. Three wads of bloody gauze were in my mouth and my lower lip was numb and flaccid. It wasn't like when you wake up in the morning -- slow and agonizing. This was just suddenly regaining concise -- like turning on the TV. [UPDATE: Actually, I regained consciousness, not "concise." But I wrote this under the influence of drugs, remember. You're lucky you can understand anything at all in this entry.]

My ability to stand up straight was a bit wobbly as the other technician helped me walk into an adjoining room and sit in a strikingly similar dental chair. I think they do that just to see if you'll fall down.

Earlier, when the Doctor asked if I had any questions, I told him I'd like my teeth back when he was through with them. "Well," he said, "Texas law requires that they be disposed of as toxic human waste. But if I carelessly left them beside your chair when you come to, there's no way I could stop you from sticking them in your pocket."

So, as I sat in the recovery chair, the technician came in with a paper cupful of bloody molars. "I'll just leave these right here," he commented, setting them on a stool at my side. In an instant, they were gone -- later to show up in the above grotesque photo on the Internet.

My helpful wife Daisy had thoughtfully run to the nearest Eckerds and filled my new prescriptions for Vicodin (secret generic code name: Hydrocodone/Apap) and Clindamycin (no secret code name) while my body lay in the dental chair. I have now gulped them down before the last vestiges of my anesthesia wears off. The instructions I was given say to do that so as to reduce the chance of agony. Also according to the instructions I need to eat mashed potatoes and milkshakes for dinner.

More exciting dental updates as the news comes in.