Chris, unfortunately you can't die from a tonsillectomy.

of a terrible, terrible disease.

More full of pity than usual.

I guess tomorrow I've got to start practicing talking out of other parts of my body.

It's my precious necklace of cow teeth.

He's just coming out of the anesthesia.

Of course you can't talk, you idiot.

Isolated from the rest of the world like a free-floating blob of cellulite cast adrift in a sea of cotton candy soaked in dog saliva.

It kind of feels like there's a litter of kittens in there trying to claw their way out.

Oh, good, because this is one of the few times I'm actually prepared for one of your little visits, Chris.

I'd say you have a 99.999% chance of survival.

But I'm already going through the seven stages of death.

Unless, of course, I die with a face like this.

It's like experiencing all the wonderful sensations of life anew.

Unless, of course, you don't want me to come back.

Mr. Peterson, that means there's only a .001% chance of complication.

I think he's looking for another glass of water in the puss.

Because I'm the smartest human being on the face of the Earth.

The warm sun on my face, the soft hum of the fluorescent tubes as they give us additional holy light, the constant familiar itching and burning in my left ear, and of course the cool sensation of my skin crawling with microscopic insects.

My only regret is that much of its original delicate scent is now faded.