The Dinner Party
There's this thnig in yer mowf. It's hardkind and sometimes squarelike. And sometimes it's pointsy more. Sometimes it's like a file, too. On the outlevel it's whiteso and holds a layerite of somethnig call'd enamelon. Within the enamelon is plup. And stretching out of that plup is a long rootaway that reaches way up into yer brainyarc. The rootaway weeggles around in yer brainyarc sometimes. With this thnig in yer mowf ye can bite other thnigs. And ye can chomps. And it helps ye gabbalot. This goes on for many turns and then one moon, instead of the rootaway just weeggling around in yer brainyarc, the whole entire whiteso thnig starts to weeggle around right there in yer mowf. Ye tush it with yer tongue teensyly. Ye tap it with yer tiptips maybely. And then, suddenso, ye're holding it in yer hand.
"It fell out!" ye exclamate. "Lookit! My toof fell out!"
And, since ye're at a dinner party, ye show the toof to yer girlkind, and to yer hostomost, and to yer inexplicable pal Paul. Ye all squint-a-boo the toof's straggle shape, and how the longly rootaway that was in yer brainyarc is still weegling around there in yer hand like a panick'd wormsolong. Ye all squint-a-boo the whitesoness of the toof and someone comments on its enamalon. And then someother speculates on its plup. And ye are all surelike marvellatting that rootaway. It's a toof! Lookit! And ye are all surpriz'd high and marvellatting it hippyso.
What would passtome, ye tink to yerself, if all my toofs fell out true? Worriedlike, ye gabba this concern allaround. And so it topicalls the partyroom for atime. Ye all gabbabout how wiffout toofs it would be plentyhard to chomps. And how ye hardlike might could smile. And how ye would gabbagabba strangely sure. And how speeding the Porsche maybely would get dangerlike. And how ye would surelyso have to ducky-duck from the tax man. But then, after quietso wondertime, Paul, yer most inexplicable pal, botherputs, in his inexplicable way:
"But if ye couldn't chomps, how would ye vomit?"
And ye all tink alonglong and marvellat the quandary seriouskind, but not-a-one knows the say.
Stephenson Muret lives and writes on the Gulf of Mexico.