Of all the fungi, the mouth fungus rules the roost and by "rules the roost", I mean that I have no idea what that expression means. It seemed fitting.
I'm guessing that it probably has something to do with a bossy chicken, but it could also refer to Oprah's relationship with Steadman.
When I was 21 I somehow acquired a mouth fungus so nasty, I was asked repeatedly by drug addicts if they could take me to their dentist and harvest the mushrooms growing in my cheek.
I was living in Pennsylvania at the time, enjoying my religion's proverbial two-year hiatus from real life and new episodes of Frasier. Apparently, it's a little known fact that the Amish have a very high rate of mouth fungi, which they pass on through delicious pies and well made furniture.
I certainly did not get the fungus through kissing as that would have involved kissing, which I had not done in nearly two years - the last time being with my current wife that "agreed" to "wait" for me to return.
Those of you that have had a mouth fungus know that it is about as fun as getting a hangnail pulled in the restroom of TGIF restaurant. That is, if you can find a TGIF restaurant that is still in business.
I tried everything to get rid of the Smurf village living under my tongue: I visited two different "doctors", a Mennonite herbologist (no lie) and the Martin Guitar Company - that was of absolutely no help when it came to mouth fungus, but I thoroughly enjoyed learning the history of their amazing musical woodworking.
No one could figure out my oral malady and I was left to wander the streets of charming Nazareth, PA alone, wishing upon star after star for a new mouth. I was known as "Cheeseboy of Nazareth". (Alone meaning I was always with a companion.)
My final straw came while I was driving to a golf course one morning and vomited Mennonite herbs all over the front seat of our 1994 Chevy Taurus.
- In the history of time, I doubt that the above sentence has ever been blogged. I occasionally like to point out sentences like this as it makes me feel like I am breaking some sort of obtuse blog record. -
For the next 30 minutes, I sat unwavering with Scope scorching my mouth innards. I did not gargle, I did not spit, I did not rinse. The Scope rested in my mouth while I cringed and winced and grunted and cried. My roommate sat across the room from me and stared at my pain in disbelief.
30 minutes of hellish agony passed. Had Prince Humperdink known of this tremendous torture technique, he undoubtedly would have filled Westley's mouth with Scope or some sort of olden-days version of it. Fred Savage and his adorable Grandpa would have been flabbergasted.
I finally spit out what was left of the horrid mouth cleanser and returned to my chair in obvious pain. My entire mouth throbbed and my tongue felt like it was on fire. I pressed my tongue against the roof of my mouth and felt an immediate bolt of pain flow through my entire body. The Scope had burned off every shred of skin from the roof and bottom of my mouth.
The good news was that the fungus was completely gone.
For the next two weeks I ate no solid foods and drank nothing acidic. I had a hard time sleeping as my tongue would bounce off the tender, mushy, skinless meat in my mouth. Talking even became a chore but I soldiered on. My bravery during this time was legendary.
But the fungus was gone. Gone forever. I returned home two weeks later and was able to kiss my waiting future wife with minimal to maximum pain.
Problem solved. You see, I'm a tongues-on problem solver.
Next time: How to successfully rid yourself of head lice using only a bottle of rubbing alcohol and hedge clippers.