I Have a Dream

This morning, like millions of American citizens, I am going to vote. This evening, after a full day of work, I will sit with my children and watch the numbers come in, all the while explaining to them the electoral process that determines our president every four years.

And long after my kids have gone to bed, I will stay up to see just who in fact will be the next leader of the free world. And the only thing I hope for, my sole wish for the outcome of this election cycle, is after one of the candidates is determined the winner, I would like to see both Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump walk on a single stage together, look one another in the eye, and embrace.

And I’d like them to hold that embrace so that we may all believe for a brief, fleeting moment that humanity has been restored to politics. I’d like for them to pull back from that embrace, smile sincerely, and then satisfy each other, physically, in a manner that neither has been satisfied before.

On live TV, on an empty stage, save for the backdrop of American flags, I’d like to see Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton satisfy each other in ways that few others in history have experienced, and even fewer will appreciate in the future. I want their vigorous, odd enjoyment of each other to ring out across our television sets, bringing hope and confusion to all, and nausea to many.

And as they pleasure one another over and over on television feeds that refuse to cut away to anything else, I also hope that the internet simultaneously ceases to exist. That anyone wishing to share in the moment online or comment on it in any way is unable to do so. And I wish that, despite the cameras rolling until the end of their marathon love-making session, none of the networks retain any copies of the hairy, sweaty, flabby ordeal.

With no way to re-watch what happened post-election, I want people to stumble into the streets the next morning and ask each other if what they saw was real. Millions of people around the world will assure each other that they did see the two candidates do things they didn’t think were possible, but their memories will be the only thing that allows them to conjure the event again.

And even though the dissolution of the internet means we will have to return to stores to purchase material goods, and call pizza delivery chains to order our future pizzas, it also means we will no longer inadvertently read comments about how shitty someone else’s online ordering experience was. And even though it means blogs like this one will be no more, it also means I will stop having reasons to think all my friends are douchebags.

And on January 20, 2017, I would like to see my neighbor Frank sworn in as our next president. Because he seems like a decent guy.

That is my wish. My hope. My dream.

An Open Letter to the Ministry of 2016 Presidential Debate Schedulers

It is a Ministry, right? I don’t know the official title that your group holds, but I assume you’re made up of some folks on the left, some folks on the right, and some cable and network TV execs. Therefore it has to be a title that doesn’t just represent a portion of its members, and one that everybody agrees paints the committee in a favorable light, without settling on “committee” of course, since that’s not very flashy. Conglomerate, maybe?

Whatever your title, my point for writing is to ask a simple question. Can we please not do this? You know, have the debates?

I realize that not having the presidential debates would be without precedent, but let’s face it – this election itself is unprecedented. You have one candidate whom the people didn’t want in 2012 and the party doesn’t want now, and the other candidate whom the people didn’t want in 2008 and may not want now either, but we’ll never know for sure because their party attempted to sabotage the chances of the guy with the catchy, STDish sounding slogan. We saw a sizeable number of people protesting their own party’s nominee during BOTH conventions. The conventions! No one protests at the conventions!! That’s like buying tickets to boo the Globetrotters.

So even though they’re bound to be exceedingly entertaining, it’s safe to say no one wants to see these upcoming debates. Actually, that’s probably not true. For the sheer entertainment value, a lot of people probably do want to see them, but they shouldn’t. For the sake of their mental and emotional well-being.

And besides being poor for our health, the debates will be utterly pointless. For starters, and this has never been more true in any election year, there is nothing that anyone will learn about either candidate between now and the election that will make them change their vote. Nothing. But dubbing this year’s debates “a massive waste of time” isn’t telling the whole story. Like a monkey throwing poop is to comedy, these debates will be the lowest form of their art (in this case democracy, supposedly). And anyone unfortunate enough to witness a debate and a shit-slinging monkey in person will walk away feeling remarkably the same both times.

If you’re more optimistic of how the debates will turn out, what do you think is the best case scenario? Because I can tell you what their ceiling is: professional wrestling. The candidates already devolved into making comments about each other that are no more intelligible than the interviews preceding Wrestlemania. And need I remind you that one of the candidates actually participated in said event a few years ago? Even if you do need reminding, you can certainly guess which candidate it was, right? It was Trump. For fuck’s sake, of course it was Trump. That’s the kind of environment he’s most comfortable in – a spectacle.

We don’t need more spectacle. We need for the two nominees to go into hiding until November. By continuing to talk for the next 7 weeks, they will accomplish nothing more than to fuel our hatred for them even more. People all across the country have made it clear that what is motivating them to vote for their chosen candidate is an all-consuming, unparalleled hatred for the other candidate. A hatred that has seeped into every crevice of their soul and painted it black using pitch forks covered in sand paper.

Is that what you want? More hatred? Not sure why I asked that question, really. Of course that’s what you want.

Well, I guess your wish will soon be granted. And our ears will burn like the caverns of Hell.

Yours truly,

The Nation

Human Beings are Really, Really Bad at Being Human Beings

That might sound like I’m talking about the poor way we treat each other, which is certainly a problem, as mankind’s history of civility towards its own is astoundingly appalling. But I’m actually referring to our ineptitude on a more basic, rudimentary level. I’m talking about our struggle to live within ourselves. Our battle with simply… being. Humans make living look awfully hard.

First of all, we have to be nurtured for decades before we can live on our own, and some of us can only do so for, like, 6 months before moving back home. Some people never even try to live on their own. More and more people it seems. Animals, on the other hand, get shown the door weeks after they’re born. Mama birds bring their babies a mouthful of worms on that first day and then proclaim, “This is what we eat, ok? You’ll find them on the ground. Now get your shit and get out.”

And animals are fine after that! They know how to be animals. They quickly adapt to their surroundings and the environment. They don’t need years of tutelage before understanding how to take care of themselves or other animals. People receive massive amounts of guidance and then turn around and consult books, friends, neighbors, and doctors to learn how to pass on that same guidance to their own offspring.

Trees seem to do pretty well on their own too. If a tree is left alone, its roots will spread and it will grow to be really tall and every year at the same time its leaves will turn colors and then fall off and then regenerate over and over throughout its life. No one has to show it how to do that or tell it to be considerate of the other trees. It never looks at the tree next to it and says, “You’re not really fulfilling all of my emotional needs.”

Not only do we need a lot of advice on how to get through the day or live with each other, we need all kinds of pick-me-ups too. Which is weird because none of the squirrels outside my office ever hold coffee mugs that say “Don’t bother me, I’m only on my 3rd cup.” Nor have I ever heard a beaver tell another beaver, “I can’t work on the dam unless my favorite podcast is playing in the background.”

If that’s not pathetic enough, we also need all kinds of bring-me-downs. Why? Because we can’t sleep right, either. None of us. It’s pretty ridiculous when you think about it. How do millions of us struggle with one of the few things that living creatures are biologically programmed to do? From birth to death, humans don’t know how to do it. Babies and old people are up all night pissing themselves, and the rest of us can’t fall asleep or stay asleep or we get up and walk around while we sleep or we temporarily stop breathing while we sleep.

I injure myself while I sleep, that’s my thing. I don’t grab sharp objects and stab myself with them, but I roll over so vigorously I put myself in traction. I fall asleep feeling fine and wake up with a herniated disk. Never seen that happen to a cow. Cows can sleep standing up for God’s sake. Or can they? That might just be a myth. But that’s what humans do. We don’t just gossip about other people, we gossip about animals.

We can’t even control the kinds of food we eat or how much. Will that cause high cholesterol? Diabetes? Multiple heart attacks? Cancer? Well, put some bacon on it and fill up my plate.

"You know that will kill you, right?"

“But it’s so good!!”

We don’t just screw up eating, sleeping and parenting. If those were the only things we got wrong, we wouldn’t need a million and one self-help books. Or therapists. Or motivational speakers. Human beings are so illogical that many of us devote our lives to studying the behavior of others. Whales are a mystery, sure. Mosquitos? We still haven’t figured out their purpose. But how do millions of people do things that make millions of other members of the same species go, “Whoa. That’s fucked up.”

Then there’s the fact that, as I mentioned earlier, we’re not exactly civil. We kill each other without any plans to eat the person we kill or wear their body for warmth. It took all of mankind thousands of years and countless wars before we collectively agreed that owning other people isn’t really appropriate. And somewhere along the way we decided only men who put their pee-pees in hoo-has and only women whose hoo-has accept pee-pees can receive tax benefits by cohabitating or visit their loved ones in the hospital.

Is life really this hard?

Judging by the 2016 presidential race, the answer is: Yes, life really is this hard. Based on who we’ve picked to lead us, none of us has any idea what we’re doing, and we apparently have no hope for the future.

But we’ve never been good at this. Oh sure, we’ve managed to extend our life spans, which would make it appear as if the medical community at least knows what it’s doing, but that just means we get to bathe in our misery longer. After all, who are the angriest people you know? That’s right, old people.

Collectively, we have always searched for, and tried to define, happiness.

Who’s happy? You happy? I’m not happy? Why aren’t you happy? Why should I be happy? What makes us happy? Money? Power? Love? Friends? Family? Beer? Maybe a new job would make me happy. Or a relationship. Or a change of scenery. Or just a vacation. Or maybe I have everything and I’m still not happy. Well, I don’t have everything. I don’t have what that guy’s got.

How much of our lives are wasted trying to achieve the things we think will make us happy? Maybe we’d be happier if we didn’t try so hard to find happiness. But it’s rooted in our souls to believe we are entitled to happiness. At least it is for Americans. Our freaking Declaration of Independence says one of only three unalienable rights as human beings is the “Pursuit of Happiness.”

Even the Founding Fathers knew we'd never find happiness, but damnit, no one was going to stop us from looking for it.

Happiness would come a lot easier if mankind was better at accepting its limitations. You would think that if something as necessary to survival as oxygen were in short supply at an altitude as high as, let’s say, Mt. Everest, then people wouldn’t do something as counterproductive as climb to said height. Or that if a body of water was filled with something as detrimental to our survival as, let’s say, sharks, then people wouldn’t fling themselves into said water. You would of course be wrong on both counts.

And yet somehow, despite such limited brain capacity, animals know their strengths and weaknesses. For instance, dogs can instinctively swim, but they never try to swim across Lake Michigan just because “it’s there.” And dogs are the happiest damn creatures on Earth.

Humans even spent millions of dollars to get to the moon so America could feel good about itself, and ever since we’ve talked about visiting and even colonizing other planets. Because that will make us all happy? Has anyone seen The Martian? He grew potatoes from his poop, people!

But noooooo… we always have to kick life in the balls in order to make it worthwhile. Which is kind of cruel towards life when you think about it.

Then again, life sure isn’t making things easy for us, apparently.

A Firefighter Talks to Mrs. Schulz’s Middle School Class About Firework Safety

Thanks for having me here today. This looks like a great class! I want to thank Mrs. Schulz for asking me to come and speak with you.

There are all sorts of things you should know about fire safety, but with July 4th just around the corner, I want to talk to you today about how to be safe around fireworks. I know a lot of you will be near friends and family who will handle them, or you’ll be handling them yourselves, so let’s go over some important tips.

First and foremost, never light any kind of firework indoors. Second, always be on a flat surface like asphalt or concrete with nothing else around you when you’re lighting fireworks. And never try to light anything on a grassy surface. That’s how fires break out.

It looks like we have a question. Go ahead.

That’s right, a fire will spread faster if the ground is very dry, but even with the rainy season we’ve had this year, you still don’t want to set off fireworks on grass or near trees and other brush.

Yes, you have a question?

Can you shoot fireworks out of your genitals? Wow. I’ve never been asked that question. No, obviously you should never do that. In fact, you shouldn’t shoot fireworks off any part of your body or even hold them in your hands. Sparklers are about the only thing you can hold in your hand, and even those are dangerous. So be very careful when doing so.

Any other questions? Yes, you in the back?

No, you should never shoot fireworks out of your friends’ genitals either. Don’t ever shoot them off of your body or anyone else’s body. That’s very dangerous.

I’m sorry? Can you shoot them out of a dead guy’s genitals? Ok, what grade level is this again? Seventh. Ahh. Well, I get the sense that you’re trying to embarrass me, but that’s alright. I can actually answer that silly question with a serious answer. It’s illegal to desecrate a corpse in most counties, including this one, so that would be a bad idea.

Now, let’s get back to some tips when lighting fireworks. Always make sure to read the directions in full before lighting anything, even if it’s something you have set off in previous years. Safety warnings are updated regularly and… oh, it looks like we have another question. Go ahead.

A dead animal’s genitals. You know what, you guys are acting like you just learned that word, which I find hard to believe. Don’t laugh because I said “hard.” Do not laugh because I said “hard!”

Where did Mrs. Schultz go? She just left? Every day, she does that? Why did you put air quotes around “mental health break?” It doesn’t matter. Listen, I’ve got some other advice for you guys. Only you think this is funny. No one else laughs like this when they hear that word. In fact, if anyone else saw how you are behaving, they would think you’re acting ridiculous. At this age, you should really have more evolved senses of humor. So, let’s elevate this discussion to a level that’s more appropriate for the young ladies and gentlemen that you are.

Now, have any of you ever been hurt in a fireworks accident or know anyone who has? Really, you know someone? Can you tell us about it? Your brother died? Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry to hear that. Is it something you’re able to talk about? Ok, well if you wouldn’t mind sharing what happened, it could be a valuable lesson for the class.

Seriously? Are you serious right now? I never want to dismiss the loss of a loved one, but when you tell me he died by shooting them out of his genitals, I find it really hard to believe given everything that’s been said. You may not know this, but when something like that happens, parents can get in a lot of trouble and sometimes other children in the household can even be taken away from them.

Come again? You live with your grandmother now because of the accident? Oh. Ok. Wow, I’m so sorry. I thought you were joking.

You see this, guys? His family suffered a real tragedy and you all have turned it into a joke. In my profession, one of the most important tasks you have is to pick up your fellow firefighters, not just physically, but emotionally. It’s vital to have a strong support system. There’s nothing funny about losing a loved one, no matter how it happens.

You’re scared of your grandmother? Uh… well, if you want I can walk you down to the office and see if the school counselor can schedule some time to talk to you. Or if you’re not comfortable doing that, there’s a grief counselor assigned to our unit that is great with this type of thing. I’m not sure how much experience she has with kids, but… what’s that?

You’re scared of your grandmother because she shoots fireworks out of her genitals. Alright, I know I have 20 minutes left, but I’m going to wrap this up. Tell Mrs. Schulz whatever you want. And try to be safe this Fourth of July.

Blame It on the Dog? Those Days are Over… for the Rich

If I asked you to name the company with the largest 2016 first quarter revenue increase compared to its 2015 first quarter figures, which businesses pop into your head?

Berkshire Hathaway? JP Morgan? Apple?

Nope.

What if I told you it’s a relatively new company, formed within the last five years?

Uber? AirBNB? Snapchat?

Good guesses, but no.

The company is Col-Essence, and it’s all due to their one and only product, Flatulends, the odorless gas pill. But it doesn’t work on just any noxious gases, it only works on your noxious gases. Not that I have to tell you that.

Odds are, if you haven’t bought the latest over-the-counter medical breakthrough, you’ve seen it on your drug store shelves, or advertised on TV, the internet, billboards or in magazines. It’s everywhere. The pill that you thought was an SNL spoof gone too far, has proven to be anything “butt.”

And to mark the company’s 18-month anniversary, it has announced the release of not just one, but four flavored scents – orange, vanilla, peppermint and evergreen. Looming over all of us, however, is a larger social question than the typical, “Why didn’t they come out with the flavored aromas from the beginning?” And that is this: Is Flatulends the next big thing in class warfare?

Because while the odds are high that you’ve heard of it, the odds are quite low that you have actually purchased it. Col-Essence confirmed near the end of 2015 that nearly 90% of Flatulends’ sales in the U.S. come from roughly 5% of the population – the 5% that can afford its outrageous price tag.

A 12 pack of the odor-ending pill retails for a wallet-denting $225. And industry insiders are confident the price of the flavored offerings will start out at least 10% higher than the originals, despite the fact that flavored smells negate Flatulends’ original purpose of letting the user leave a trail o’ toots without anyone being the wiser.

But with revenues what they are, it seems Col-Essence could cut the price by $200 and let the increased volume make up for the lower profit margin per pack. The demand is certainly there, and the cost of large-scale development is a virtual non-factor.

Furthermore, during an interview in December’s issue of Business Breakthroughs magazine, Col-essence president Joel Crowning confirmed the company has the manufacturing and distribution capabilities to keep up with much higher demand, but he doesn’t want to disrupt Flatulends’ brand in the marketplace. 

“Ferrari could sell a million cars a year if each one was the price of a KIA, but they don’t need to do that,” Crowning said. “Our product has proven its worth in the market, and de-valuing it at this point could potentially damage the company’s future.”

However Crowning views his role – businessman, innovator, mad scientist – his product begs the question, just like healthcare and education before it, “What should be up for grabs to those who can pay for it, and what should be available to everyone?” It’s a question that a few of the 2016 presidential candidates have started asking.

In an election cycle in which both sides have pointed the “class warfare” finger at the other, viewers of the last two Republican and Democratic debates have heard Flatulends mentioned more times than healthcare, minimum wage, and the cost of higher education combined. Some have gone as far to say the pills should be placed in bowls and set atop the check-in desks of every doctor’s office in the country.

But it’s not an issue that will decide the election, nor should it. After all, Col-Essence is a privately held corporation, so unless the federal government buys the formula or reproduces its magic recipe, Crowning is free to make and market his product how he sees fit. And since he clings to the Flatulends formula more tightly than the makers of Coca-Cola®, replicating its stink-ceasing effects is not likely anytime soon.

However, one can hope that Mr. Crowning is a sensible man that can be reasoned with. After all, not only can everyone benefit from his product, but society as a whole could benefit by everyone having it. Every shared space in the country would have the potential to smell better – locker rooms, movie theaters, the subway, and, most importantly, the bedroom. Let’s not forget the amount of embarrassment we would all forgo in those shared spaces as well.

Of the two identifiers that clearly indicate wind has been broken (sound and smell), only one of them can never be controlled. Only one gives it away every time. And now that piece of evidence can be eliminated entirely. With the right amount of effort and control, sound isn’t even a factor, which means Flatulends can free the gaseous portion of the population from the anxiety that comes with going out in public. For some, it could practically double as an anti-depressant.

Instead, given its current accessibility, the pill merely supports an idealistic view that rich people already hold about themselves: that there’s don’t stink.

But humanitarian appeals aside, money is the only thing that’s going to make a difference in this debate. That much was clear in the same Business Breakthroughs interview, when Crowning crowed, “I’m not in this business to hand out good-smelling farts to everyone. I’m in this business to hand out good-smelling farts to everyone who wants to pay for them.”

Well Joel, everyone does want to pay for them. They just can’t. Particularly given that each pill only works for roughly 24 hours. And as much money as your company has raked in already, the truth is it would make a… well… shitload of it by following the KIA model. It’s true that people buy Ferraris despite the price, but they buy a whole lot more KIAs because of it.

Don’t be blind to the fact that Flatulends can make billions of people happy and line your pockets with even billions more in profit. You may no longer have to waft in a fog of your own producing, but here’s hoping that fog hasn’t seeped into your head and enveloped your brain.

A New Hire Sits In on a Content Meeting at CNN

Executive Producer: Ok, people. Whatta we got?

Finance Correspondent: The DOW had its worst day in 35 years yesterday. On top of that, analysts are predicting a very slow rebound.

(The Executive Producer squints his eyes, sticks out his chin, and appears to consider this for a second)

Executive Producer: Let’s come back to that. What else?

News Producer: There was a massive dairy recall announced this morning.

Executive Producer: Eh. Come on, people. “Wow” me.

Foreign Affairs Correspondent: Putin ordered the Russian military to invade England.

Executive Producer: What is this, 1936? Let’s ask the new guy.

New Guy: Uh… honestly, I would lead with the invasion.

Executive Producer: Typical new guy response. So predictable. What happened to my team here? Listen, how many YouTube cat videos do we have ready to go?

Assignment Editor: Three.

Executive Producer: Is that enough?

New Guy: Sounds like three-too-many to me.

(The whole room stares at the new guy, fearful of what he might say next)

Assignment Editor: I agree. Ferret videos are all the rage now.

Segment Producer: I don’t know. That feels like a fad.

Executive Producer: Alright, let’s do two cat videos and one ferret video tucked in between them, so it’s not as jarring to viewers.

Foreign Affairs Correspondent: How about we lead with a montage of Hollywood A-listers who haven’t aged well in the last 20 years?

Assignment Editor: Nice!

Executive Producer: I like it, I like it. Now, how many times did we break into last night’s 6 pm news segment with a Kardashian tweet?

Segment Producer: 12

Executive Producer: And how many times did we break in with a Trump tweet?

Segment Producer: 8

Executive Producer: Oooh, that number needs to triple, at a minimum.

News Producer: The one currently getting the most buzz is his one from last night in which he bragged about his bowel movement measuring a foot and a half long. But there’s no picture.

Executive Producer: Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter. We can still leverage the hell out of Trump’s 18-inch turd. Did he make a joke about his name being on it?

News Producer: No.


Executive Producer: Hmmm. Call him up, ask him to do a follow up tweet that says the turd came out with the Trump name on it. Blitzer can talk about that for 45 minutes, easy.

Finance Correspondent: Do you still want to circle back to the plummeting DOW?

Executive Producer: (Groans) I don’t know. How are we going to get people to care about that?


Assignment Editor: We could do a simultaneous live feed of four other people claiming the DOW is a myth.

Executive Producer: Keep tinkering with that idea. I could be talked into the myth thing.

Segment Producer: Just got off the phone with The Donald. He said when our segment ends about his giant poop, he’d be happy to tweet out that Ted Cruz’s poop always has “Imported from Canada” stamped on it. You know, in case we need to fill another hour.

Foreign Affairs Correspondent: That man is a genius.

New Guy: Shouldn’t we be informing people about the events going on around them that impact their lives?

(Long pause)

Executive Producer: Well… that’s not really our job, now is it?

Rest of the Room: (In unison, adamantly): No, no, absolutely not.

New Guy: Yeah, I guess you're right.

This Will Only Hurt (Your Psyche) a Little

“Huh.”

“What? What is it?”

“Yooouuu… have a cavity.”

I suspected as much before I arrived because my tooth had been hurting for more than a week, but of course I took no pleasure in being right. The only thing I felt was shame.

I hadn’t hurt anyone or committed some selfish act or set a goal for myself that went unaccomplished, but shame washed over me nonetheless. Why? It’s not like I had to break it to my parents. And my dentist didn’t care. If anything, he was probably delighted. Now he would get to charge me more.

So what’s the big deal, I kept asking myself.

The big deal is I’m almost 40 years old, for God’s sake. Children get cavities. They eat too much sugar and don’t brush properly, then they get a cavity, and hopefully learn their lesson. I got a couple of them as a kid, like almost every kid does. But that was three decades ago.

What the hell is a grown man who spends every morning and every night reminding his two kids to brush their own teeth doing with a cavity? That’s like imploring your teenager not to text and drive, and then getting into an accident yourself because you were texting while driving.

My credibility was gone. I was one of them now. And my dentist felt the same way.

“Soooo… you wet the bed too?” he laughed as he reached for the numbing agent.

“What?!”

“Now, I’m going to give you a shot in your gum before filling the tooth. It might hurt a little. Do you want to call your mom to see if she can come in and hold your hand?”

Jesus, the guy was roasting me like I was on a Comedy Central special.

“Just plug it, you son of a bitch.”

He giggled, and gave me the shot. He could have given me 50, I wouldn’t have noticed. No amount of physical pain would have registered. There was only humiliation.

The typical barrage of questions followed as the doctor patched the hole. “How’s work?” “Kids enjoying school?” “Got any fun plans for the summer?”

I cared not how nonsensical and drooly my answers sounded. What was left to be embarrassed about?

He softened on taking jabs at my manhood, or maybe he didn’t; I wasn’t paying much attention. My thoughts turned to whether this was the start of a trend. If my teeth were weakening in my old age. Perhaps they’d all turn to dust and spill out of my mouth, forcing me to replace them with tree bark and acorns. Future meals would consist only of milkshakes and mashed potatoes.

Maybe I wasn’t a child at all. Maybe my body was in rapid decline, and soon I would wield a cane and require an electric chair lift to get up and down stairs.

When it was over, I steadied myself trying to make it to the front desk, still reeling from the effects of the shot. Fog filled my head as clear thought seemed to leave it.

The doctor picked up the basket full of suckers and peered at me over the top of his bifocals. “None for you today,” he giggled some more.

Was I hearing the voice of the guy who worked in my mouth or the guy who lives in my head?

“We’ll mail you the bill,” his assistant said.

“Oh, ok. Well… thanks, I guess.”

The doctor tapped a picture on the wall. In it, a young boy was smiling and giving a “thumbs up.” He had a Spiderman blanket draped over his shoulder.

“If you want, next time you can bring in your binky,” the doctor said, doubling over in laughter.

Curse the dentist and his jokes. Or whoever was making them.

Curse them all!