Studies claim women say about 100,000 words a day, and most men say 20,000. My 17-year-old son says about 12—and one-fourth of those words are “What’s for dinner?”
However, there’s nothing like a hit of
Jack Daniels anesthesia to bring out the Joe Biden in people.
Last summer my son had his wisdom teeth pulled. We were advised to give him a “twilight” level of knockout-edness. But, having had bad experiences, I wanted to make sure my son was dead for at least as long as a Southern Baptist funeral plus the altar call and pot luck. Therefore, I ordered him a narcotic cocktail that could make Mitt Romney do the Chicken Dance with Nancy Pelosi at a Bruce Springstein concert and afterward ask her to go “three sheets to the wind” with him and Ann, if ya know what I mean.
So needless to say, he was Robin Williams on speed when he woke up.
Him: “Hi Mooommm. You’re SOOO my best fwiend. Can I have Smoothie King? What’s in my mouf? My wip is huge.”
Me: “It’s gauze honey. Bite down.”
Him: (Oblivious. Mouth wide open) “Why do I bite down?’
Me: Because it stops the bleeding.
Him: Dat makes sense. You can get in da udder lane.”
Me: (Thinking) Like YOU could drive a foot-propelled Flintstone car right now.
Him: Moooomm, what’s in my mouf?” he asks, like Dorrie in the Finding Nemo movie.
Me: “It’s gauze. Bite down to stop the bleeding.
Him: “Why am I bleeding? eeeewwww! Mom.........MOM! Can I have Smoothie King?”
Me: Maybe later.
Him: (laughing hard) How long was I asleep?”
Me: “Maybe 20 minutes.”
Him: “Whad’s fuh dinner?”
Me: “Soft things. Maybe yogurt or jello. Do you want some mashed potatoes from KFC?”
Him: Can I ha’ chicken?
Me: (belly laughing) No, sweetie.
Him: OK...(pause for a minute) Can I have Jimmy John’s sanwitch?” he SHOUTS.
Me: You can have a milk shake.
Him: (shouting) MOM........CAN I HAVE A SMOOTHIE KING? You can get in da udder lane right ‘dere.”
Before surgery, he wisely asked me to take his cell phone away so he couldn’t act a fool and reach out to someone in a drunk-texting delirium. I’m not gonna lie. I’ve never been more proud of him.
I feel certain now that he won’t publish any frat party Everclear escapades on Youtube so that no one will hire him, and he won’t have to live in my basement playing Bioshock with ten ferrets ‘til he’s 40.
As The Parent Handbook states, now that we’ve paid for the removal of his wisdom teeth, our only remaining obligation is to get him in college. Far away.
After shipping three kids off to college sans wisdom teeth, all you’ll see is mine and Bobby Sue’s rear-view when we take off to the Slap-a-Ho Native American Casino in Mississippi. That’s where all the 50-ish, botoxicated, Desperate Housewife-types in lumpy cheetah-print spandex and stilettos go.
I’m going early for the all-you-can-eat fresh snow crab and tater salit buffet. After a few "Sak-a-Tonto" Sunrises and "Kumana-Wanna-Laya" Cocktails, you can find me in the lounge doing the Chicken Dance with Mo and the Navajo Funkmasters.