Patrick currently resides deep in the suburbs of Boston, Massachusetts. He sucks at sports, can't play any musical instruments, and suffers from crippling anxiety. In his spare time, he can be found trying to beat his best score at Ms. Pacman or passed out on the couch after a tiring day of Law & Order: SVU reruns. His favorite things include television, music, and comedy. He dislikes almost everything else, especially the Tori episodes of Saved by the Bell.

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Thanks to my first two dentists, I developed odontophobia at a fairly young age. My original dentist was a woman named Dr. Rashmi and in a haphazard attempt to administer me a shot of novocaine, the needle slipped and tore open my gums. A bevy of blood squirted out of my mouth and splattered the operating area with a crimson hue that would have left Dexter Morgan feeling extra giddy. 

A year later I begged my mother to not take me back to Dr. Rashmi’s Shop of Horrors, but she callously ignored my demands. During this visit, the suction tube that vacuums up extra saliva latched on to the soft tissue underneath my tongue and started to pull my lingual frenulum into its black hole-like abyss. It took weeks for my tongue web to heal and I could no longer enjoy Cool Ranch Doritos without feeling nauseous from the stabbing pain as boatloads of sodium sailed around my oral cavity. 

I finally told my mother that I was fed up with this bitch and gave her an ultimatum - find me a new dentist or I’m fucking running away to meet up with those orphans who solve petty mysteries in their spare time. She caved in to my tantrums and took me to see Dr. Fury, which should have been a red flag right there. This monster was far more menacing than Dr. Rashmi ever was and even slightly resembled Satan as portrayed in a William Blake painting. 

On my first visit to Dr. Fury, my jaw grew tired while he was scratching plaque from my horrible teeth, as he put it, and I slowly closed my mouth to rest my jaw muscles for a brief moment. Fury let out a banshee-like shriek that sounded as if he were a hawk scooping up its prey and then jammed some insane jaws of life-like contraption down my throat to hold my mouth open for what felt like hours of dentistry work. 

Eighth Grade Art Class [Circa 1995-ish]

"Today we’re going to be making clay sculptures," Miss Herr announced as she began to circulate several small rectangular bins around the room; further instructing us each to remove a slab of clay from the bin as it passed by. "I urge you all channel to your inner creativity. Remember, in art nothing is ever considered as being too kooky."

I was really into Gumby as a child, particularly his dinosaur pal Prickle. As the bins went around the room, I began to daydream of sculpting a Prickle statuette that I would proudly display on my bookcase. However, my arch-nemesis, Everett Johnson, scooped up the last batch of yellow modeling clay and I was stuck with a fleshy-looking orange-ish permatan of a color. 

"Don’t be discouraged with your color," said Miss Her, "dig deep into your soul and don’t be afraid to tug on some idea that is trapped beneath the surface."

I fiddled around with my frumpy clay pile for a few moments and then constructed it into a familiar phallic shaped object. “Well, If I can’t make Prickle, then I’ll just sculpt myself a beautiful, veiny, lifelike prick!”

Miss Herr studied my creation closely and I sat there in anticipation of being rewarded with a one week suspension. Instead, she smiled and complimented me on a wonderful job. 

Julie Bowen was on the episode of Weeds I watched last night. She played a character who owned her own cheese shop and later sat on a bed of soft Bougon while on the receiving end of oral sex performed by a teenaged pot grower with bronzed butt cheeks. 

While this abomination to the byproduct of coagulated milk was unfolding before me, all I could think was, fuck, I wish my hometown had its own specialty cheese shop; and maybe I should open my own? 

At times like these, I still wish I had lived near that goat farm.