A historical event has occured in the ongoing war between myself and my body, specifically in the battleground of the oral cavity, or as it is known to the combatant with the ability for thought, "Toothy Mouth-Hole."
I was told months ago by my old dentist that I had 5 cavities that I need filled or else something bad would happen. I don't know if this was said to demonstrate the severity of the cavities, or a threat from the dentist in an attempt to drum up further business. But since I was out of his reach toothbrush, I braved the harsh Portland elements of mildy chilly temperatures with a slight breeze, and hiked 5 blocks down to my local house of dentistry to find out just what can be done to help my chompers.
It is surprising that I am seeking help for my teeth considering I am their only natural enemy. My attacks tend to consist of drowning them in sugary soda and junk food and not flossing. I refuse to accept that here in the 21st century, the best thing for my gums is a piece of string. At this point, we should have lasers or microscopic robots who would mine our plaque for their fuel in a symbiotic relationship of pure beauty. But despite my devestating onslaughts, my teeth manage to fight back by somehow affecting the nerve endings in my mouth causing signals to be sent to the "pain lobe" of my brain. So in a strategic retreat, I go see the dentist.
I was a little nervous seeing a new dentist. Would he be friendly? Would he have the answers? Would he understand the baggage I have leftover from my previous dental relationship? This fear was diminished by the chipper assistant who took me back to the dental chair and assured me that all of my answers to her questions were either "Excellent" or "Awesome."
In an effort to make the patient more comfortable, the chair had been fitted with a massage feature that would affect any area from the neck to the thigh. This is part of a sound theory that almost any experience is more enjoyable when one's buttocks are lightly jostled (with the exceptions of proctologist visits and the writing of cheap butt jokes). But what made this experience more comfortable was the information I received and the sheer amount of it. This place wanted to make sure you knew the what and why, which was great because now when I hear the dentist ask his assistant "were you probing around 15?" I no longer feel any paranioa that they somehow know about that one time at summer camp...which doesn't mean anything.
It was also very different from my previous dentist in that the office wasn't in the back of a speeding pick-up and that the doctor used actual tools, rather that just feeling around my mouth with his bare hands and muttering things like "This one seems ripe."
One tool in particular was a small camera that took pictures of my teeth while I watched what it saw on a nearby screen. I almost wept as I realized my dream of knowing the last thing a cracker sees. But then I wept with surprise when I discovered that my teeth are relatively healthy (regardless of the aforementioned cavities).
In other news, I wept with grief to hear about the passing of Fred Rogers, tv's oddly named Mr. Rogers. I heard that his funeral was very touching. He was brought into the service in a nice casket and then taken out and placed in a more comfortable casket. I'm pretty sure he's in heaven now, or as it is called by athiests and nihilists alike "The Land of Make Believe."
Since my job search has been raised to level orange, I've been forced to take some pretty drastic measures. Besides covering my resume in duct tape and plastic, I have also begun answering ads in the classifieds for jobs I wouldn't normally shake a stick at. (unless somehow they came to life and I had to fend them of by waving the stick around)
One such job promised an entry into the field of advertising. It promised an entry level position and no telemarketing or graphic design. Ok, I thought, this could be for me. "But John," I said to myself, "isn't advertising inherently deceptive and evil. Aren't you going to preserve your integrity and not sell out?" To which I responded, "Preserve my whatsit? Johnny need money!" and then hit myself over the head with my empty wallet to make the voices stop.
After I regained conciousness, I answered the ad and a few days later I had an interview. I met with a lanky yet affable chap named Keith who asked me a few questions, looked at my resume and eventually decided I could come back for a follow up interview the next day. I was told that during this follow-up interview I would be following an account manager to see how exactly the job worked.
I showed up the next day at the designated time wearing the designated attire ("Business Professional," which I took to mean suit, tie, and dress shoes). I was introduced to Rob, the guy who would be showing me what's what, and left the office with him and Bob, another young hopeful, to begin my day learning the ropes.
The ropes: door-to-door selling. Perhaps not selling exactly, as we were in fact representing D.A.R.E, a charity organization that tries to get kids to say no to drugs and then provides the kids with logo-bearing T-shirts to ironically wear when they grow up and actually do take drugs.
The turf we were sent to cover was a swanky neighboorhood that overlooks the city. Once we arrived there it seemed obvious to me that this was the perfect area to canvas, the giant iron gates and impregnable fences where clearly a sign that these people wanted strangers approaching their door. As we approached Rob outlined what it was we were to do and just how holy of a quest we were on.
"People are gonna ask you questions, and sometimes you are gonna want to lie to get them to make a donation, but don't. Integrity is important. What we do has a certain kind of purity to it."
The first house we went to provided us with a donation, courtesy of its occupant Cynthia. Throughout the rest of the day, no matter where we were, Rob would always use her name when trying to close the deal. "We talked to your neighbor Cynthia and she agreed this was a pretty safe neighborhood and we just want to make sure it stays that way." I couldn't help but feel like I was part of a mafia shakedown. But then I also could not deny that there was a certain purity to the operation, a purity that involved selling a charity to people with half-truths and slightly manipulative sales maneuvers.
As we spent the next 8 hours trudging up and down what I determined to be the hilliest neighborhood on the planet, Rob took some time to ask me a few questions to keep up the facade that this was in fact an interview and not some devious torture scheme devised by Sadsim, Inc. He asked me about previous experiences I had and what motivated me. At the time, the only thing that motivated me was getting out of my shoes because my feet had become phlanges of pure pain. But through gritted teeth I instead told him what he wanted to hear, that challenges and chances for advancement motivate me. Which is not all together untrue, hence my love for video games.
After the short back and forth, Rob then gave me a speech telling me that out of all the forms of advertising, this was probably one of the most effective. During our day we went to 95 houses, out of which only about 30 had people at home, out of which 6 people said yes.
At the the end of the day, I didn't get called back for the 3rd interview. I was left sore, blistered and chafing like a bear. It's for the best though since the job combined two of my least favorite activities, walking and relating to others.
Besides the horribly painful blisters on my feet I hobbled away from this experience with other things as well. I learned that some people are incredibly free with personal information. We had at least 2 people tell us they had just lost their houses and then met a woman who freely told us about her husband's drinking problem and their marital srife.
Even the blisters have given me something. I gained a walk that at first resembled the dances of Bill Cosby but has eased up to now mimic the homey g or "pimp-limp" style of shuffling strut. Any day now I should be able to lurch my way down to the newsstand, get a paper, and start this all over again.
Also, Happy Birthday to Kathleen
Ok, besides me not being able to find work, let's see what else is going on....
We are at code orange and possibly rising
The U.S. is pretty much going to blow Iraq back to the Jazz Age if not further
The U.S. is alienating much of the rest of the world resulting in potential isolation
North Korea's James Bond Villain-esque Kim has a nuke that could reach the West Coast
The transparent mixture of Willy Wonka and the villain from Hannibal, yes Michael Jackson, has children
ABC has a new reality show that features Lorenzo Lamas judging others instead of the opposite, correct way
I bought a pack of Diet Dr. Pepper that contained regular Dr. Pepper
Kangaroo Jack
I thought that these were all just coincidences, that all this bad business just happened to occur at the same time. But I was wrong...Dead Wrong....well maybe not dead wrong but certainly wrong enough to warrant some sort of injury perhaps less serious than having your spleen kicked out but certainly worse than a paper cut.
There is one unifying reason that all this is happening. It's not anything as silly as karma or that the planets are aligned in a certain malignant way. No, it is something vert serious and very real....
The search for God has lasted for countless years, but the manhunt has only been ongoing for 11 months and from day one, southern lawman Sgt. Hubert T. Pokey was leading the charge. It started when Pokey's cat, Mr. Snucklehun was run over, and he began to suspect God had something to do with it.
There wasn't nearly enough evidence to link God to the cat, but Pokey was determined to get the diety for some infraction. To do so, he had to go no further than the Bible. "You couldn't ask for harder evidence," explained Pokey, "I mean, this contains detailed accounts of him smitin' folks or having folks smited, destroying property, burning shrubs, plus any number of smaller violations. And this God, he leaves this book everywhere like hotels and churches. That's quite a thing to leave lying around."
But if that was a major clue, it was the only one. Pokey and his team, the God Squad, had no idea where to find the alleged delinquent deity. "Trackin' him was hard," said Pokey, "How are you supposed to get a guy that's everywhere?" Trying to answer this question led to some embarrasing setbacks. First, Pokey had his men try and randomly handcuff air, in the hopes of catching God. Then he had men trying to get search warrants for the laughter of children, one of God's alleged flophouses. Some called these actions a waste of taxpayer money, others however saw them as part of a heroic revolution in idiocy.
But they did finally arrest him after the desk clerk at the Econo Lodge was looking at the registry of guests and noticed the illuminated script of the name God in the register accompanied by a chorus of angels whenever it was gazed upon.
God's trial should start very soon and not surprisingly, the public is divided. Most are calling for leniency. "He's a merciful and loving creator! He didn't do any of that bad stuff." said local Marie Hemmingsworth "Now Satan, there's your bad apple."
A very vocal few are seeking the death penalty. Among those is Paul Warbings, president of Lubbock's Nietzchian Ubermensch Society. "We need to set an example. What am I supposed to tell the club, that our motto is no longer 'God is Dead' but is now 'God is Serving Consecutive Life Sentences.' I mean, come on, do you know how much it would cost to replace that on all our letterheads?"
The Lord himself has had little to say about the whole affair. As he was being taken into custody, he was heard to exclaim "YOU CANNOT DO THIS TO ME," in a voice which rendered mountains assunder and immediately set fire to the heads of all non-believers, "I AM YOUR CREATOR! DO NOT INTERFERE WITH MY DIVINE PLAN!"
There is no word yet if this "plan" will bring charges of conspiracy.