Years ago, in the past, my brain was very bored and decided to invent a series of bizarre and meaningless events in one of my dreams. Over the years, this particular dream has recurred, adding to itself even more random and meaningless (to me, at least) sequences of the tale, until it has reached the form I just read in my journal today. This particular version is over two years old, but I have no doubt it will come again with even more additions in the future-- at which point I will realize I haven't been doing enough interesting things and will go out for a hike. In the meantime, to persevere with my record-keeping, here is a string of meaningless words. :)
A voice from the dark growls, "Find out what's happening out there and be heroic about it!" I put on my feet and go grocery shopping for yogurt and salad. I decided not to brush my teeth before watching Star Trek in the ice cream isle, in which the reflection of the glass doors creates a portal into the alternate universe where Star Trek actually exists...As a result, my teeth disappear. Not to worry, though-- I know where the Dentist lives. I've been stalking him for quite some time.
His steps are crowded with refuse from all the patients who have come before me, from old hamburger wrappers to broken guitars. Inside the waiting room, magazine pictures come to life, and fill the air with the musical sound of advertisements:
"Fat myelin sheaths encoding your axons? Get Brain Liposuction, with a 20% discount through Thursday!"
"Trouble at work? Buy the Silencer 3000 to keep your employees productively subjugated!"
"The New, The Revolutionary, The Only: Triumph Toilet Paper. Dispose of your waste with pride."
There are advertisements for everything you could ever dream of, but after awhile their voices seem to blend together into one long stream of white noise. I tune them out and focus on the moving pictures on the walls. They are rearranging themselves so as to look most aesthetically pleasing to the patients.
A holographic dental assistant opens the thrice-locked steel door leading to the operating room, and calls my name. I enter, nervously taking a torch from the side of the wall, and proceed down a dungeon passageway to the appropriate white room. I sit on a shining dental chair. Finally, a side door squeaks open, and the Dentist himself peers in at me. His eyes are hidden behind aviator sunglasses and his hair is shaped like toothpaste in a thick comb-over, dyed to match the minty flavor given out in treat bags.
He takes one look at my mouth, digs around in his pocket for a moment, and tosses me a set of wooden teeth. "Take these." He orders. "They were George Washington's."
I put the teeth in, and they set to work digging into my gums and making themselves one with the nerve endings in my jaw. I look in the mirror, and they are white and straight. Perfect.
So I leave the office and go hunting for flying bluebells, a very clever species of inter-ecologically-niched fish.
I find one sitting in a tree and strumming a ukelele. I ask him what he thinks of my teeth.
"Well, they look very sea-worthy. You should go on an adventure with them before your old ones come back."
"Come back?" I ask, confused. "What do you mean?"
"Well, your real teeth were only temporarily transdimensionally teleported. They could return at any minute, at which point you would loose the magical strength and purity of the Washington Set. You'd better hurry."
I thank the fish for his advice and leap into the air, soaring toward the nearest bay, where I commandeer a small sailing boat for no other reason than to see if I can climb the rigging with my teeth.
I can. I climb to the top of the lone mast and survey my kingdom, balancing on my two front teeth in a vertical stream of serenity.
Then the sun goes down, and I am forced to abscond, teeth in hand, for my real ones have returned and claimed their rightful place.
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