The Dentist

Actually my dentist would find it very hard to
identify me

I'm off to the dentist this morning, and as I lay awake last night shivering in terror, I began to think of dental records.  If the police needed to identify my body, say, if my snoring woke up Nancy one more time, my dentist is the man they'd go to.  "Do you have Martin's dental records?" they'd ask, and then they'd learn all about the period between 1980 to 1989 when I didn't floss one time, or that one of my bicuspids had gotten a stern talking to from the hygienist, or how I'd once totally missed the spit sink.

Apart from my teeth, however, if my dentist had to identify me, he'd have a pretty hard time.  For all he knows, all I do all day is lie stretched out, my mouth open wide as a wagon wheel, because that's the only way he ever sees me.  I'm not sure he'd recognize me with my mouth closed.  Also, my dentist believes I am extremely interested in sports.  This is because whenever he talks about sports, I'm making gurgles of agreement, like, "Urghh-urghh... gurghh... ayagh."  He thinks I'm saying. "Yes, I definitely agree.  Bynum would be a fool to pass up a $24 million offer from the Cavs."  Actually, I'm just saying, "Urghh-urghh... gurghh... ayagh."  He also thinks I strongly agree with his political views.  Not that I disagree with them, I just don't have political views.  I tried having political views one time; it didn't work out.

So all in all, it'd be pretty easy throwing the cops off track if I ever had to fake my death: they'll be looking for a guy who lies down all the time with his mouth hanging open who's crazy about sports.  Now if I could only get rid of my teeth.

Not flossing should take care of that.