I’ve recently released my book Rumored to Exist as an eBook on the Kindle and other e-readers, for only $2.99. I’ll be running some excerpts here to let you take a look. For more info, see this post or go to http://rumored.com/rumored.
“The Wind Beneath my Wings” blared into my ears as they pulled out my teeth, one by one. I felt like screaming, but the dentist wedged two blocks of rubber in my mouth to keep it jammed open. Besides, he shot me full of Novocaine, slipped me a Demerol, and gave me more than a few tugs of nitrous before he started. And this was on top of the six buttons of peyote I dropped in the car, chased with a fifth of Absolut and a few hits of ether. I still broke the assistant’s arm in three places while they were trying to fit me with a dental dam. Those things taste horrible—I don’t know how lesbians can stand to practice safe sex. It would be like trying to copulate an inflatable raft, except hopefully smaller.
I went home, took all of the codeine he prescribed me, loaded the first six Black Sabbath albums in the player, and had my first major religious epiphany when the painkillers kicked in, somewhere during “Behind the Wall of Sleep”. I went into this whole dental thing thinking that some cosmetic work would make life complete, make chicks swarm around me and make me the kind of person you see in a toothpaste commercial. Instead, I realized that not only was I nothing in a great universe, but I’d have trouble eating about 20% of the food out there, and the bills would be rolling in for years. Pissed, desperate, and alone, I drank a couple of beers, threw a dead body out of my 19th floor apartment window, and sent down my neighbor to look for any secondary casualties.
Killing was on everyone’s mind—Kevorkian was doing his first web simulcast of an assisted suicide, sponsored by Domino’s pizza. In addition to their pies, breadsticks, garlic bread, chicken wings, buffalo wings, ostrich wings, calzones, french fries, salads, electrical supplies, and DNA replication equipment, they now added assisted suicide to their menus. You called Domino’s, placed your order, and a delivery person would arrive at your house with your food and a suicide machine, which would asphyxiate you with carbon dioxide within 30 minutes—guaranteed!
My dentist kept calling me to make sure the new prosthetic teeth were doing fine. They weren’t just cosmetic—I implanted a new smartcard technology, so I could make purchases and withdraw cash from my checking account at any ATM or cash register with the Novus symbol. I also opted for the hollow tooth with the cyanide capsule, although I typically kept it filled with a cinnamon tic-tac, for those weird moments you order an Italian salad and it turns out to be 65% spices and heavy oil by weight. Anyway, I shouldn’t have called the dentist a cocksucker the ninth time he rang, but I guess drugs make you do funny things. At least that’s what I told the cop who pulled me over for going 95 miles an hour on two flat tires down the express lanes in the wrong direction.