Somebody Get Me a Steak Knife, I’m Removing My Wisdom Teeth Myself

Here’s an unexpected byproduct of this fucking flu: My wisdom teeth are throbbing from this nonstop violent coughing.  I want to stick a steak knife in my mouth and cut them out myself.

It seems I was unable to count past 5 in yesterday’s post.  Hope this is temporary, as counting is a really important part of my job.

What if you had The Count’s job?  How crazy would that be?  People would come up to you and be like, “The Count, how many raisins do I have in my hand?”  And you’d be all, “ONE!  One raisin!  Hahaha!  TWO!  Two raisins!  Hahaha!  THREE!  Three raisins!  Hahaha!  FOUR!  Four raisins!  Hahaha!  FIVE!  Five raisins!  Hahaha!  SIX!  Six raisins!  Hahahaha!  SEWEN!  Sewen raisins!  Hahaha!  EIGHT!  Eight raisins!  You have eight raisins!”  And by then they would have walked away because you take so long to count because you laugh after every number.  And then you’d cry because you were hungry because nobody ever paid you for doing what you love, and you refuse to compromise your integrity.

So then one day maybe you’d cave and get a job at a fast food place, and they’d put you at the drive through window, and people would be like, “Yeah, dawg, lemme get a, uh, lemme git a McCheeseburger, a McMilkshake, and two orders uh McFrenchfries,” and you’d be like, “Let me review your order!  Hahaha!  That vill be ONE!  One McCheeseburger!  Hahaha!  ONE!  One McMilkshake!  Hahaha!  ONE!  One McFrenchfries!  Hahaha!  TWO!  Two McFrenchfries!  Hahaha!”  And they’d be all, “Why you laughin?  You think that shit is funny?  You think I’m too fat to eat this shit?  Is that what you tryin to say?  Are you tryin to say that the obesity rate around here is high, and your purple ass is here to mock me for being big-boneded?”  And you’d be all, “ONE!  Hahaha!  TWO!  Hahaha!  THREE!  Hahaha!  FOUR!  Hahaha!  FIVE!  Hahaha!  Ve’re going to be here awhile, folks, while I count ze pounds on this man’s belly!  Hahaha!”  And then you’d get shot.  Because that’s the kind of neighborhood we live in.

Anyway, I just got up to take cold medicine and email my boss.  I don’t even know how we got on this subject, but now I’m all depressed because I’m exactly like The Count.  Someday maybe somebody will pay me to do what I love: sleeping.


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Filed under Somebody Kill Me

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