Whenever I’m
having a bad day, I just imagine that I am a gangster dentist, in a eucalypt
green colored dental surgery, towering over someone in incredible pain. Nelly’s
“Grillz” is blastin’-out the surgery boom box. And I circle my patient,
throwing off sterile, gown-cloaked gangster hand gestures, before grabbing the
overhead fluorescent light and viscously shining it in and out of their face,
in a fit of scholarly rebellion.
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