Thursday, April 22, 2010


I have had a bad toothache all day. Toothache pain is so severe (or can be) that it can make a person go mad (explains some Internet psychos, perhaps). I'll have a post on teeth in the near future, but if these teeth of ours are the best an all-powerful, all-wise Creator can do, there is no all-powerful, all-wise Creator (not a good one, anyway).

My girlfriend had an episode of toothache (ended up being an extraction) not that long ago, and I hated knowing she was in such agony. She cried to me about how terrible it was, and there was nothing I could do. Dentists want money, and I was broke at the time. We finally did get it taken care of, but even an extra day of such suffering was more than she should have had to bear. Toothache pain is out of all proportion to the problem it points to, and rules out any notions of "intelligent design", at least in my book.

So if I'm out of it, and continue to take the lazy way out and post more and more YouTube videos until this blog is just one big video, don't blame me, blame the tooth (or can't you handle the tooth?).

1 comment:

  1. Address to the Toothache

    by Robert Burns

    My curse upon your venom'd stang,
    That shoots my tortur'd gums alang,
    An' thro' my lug gies mony a twang,
    Wi' gnawing vengeance,
    Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang,
    Like racking engines!

    When fevers burn, or argues freezes,
    Rheumatics gnaw, or colics squeezes,
    Our neibor's sympathy can ease us,
    Wi' pitying moan;
    But thee-thou hell o' a' diseases-
    Aye mocks our groan.

    Adown my beard the slavers trickle
    I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle,
    While round the fire the giglets keckle,
    To see me loup,
    While, raving mad, I wish a heckle
    Were in their doup!

    In a' the numerous human dools,
    Ill hairsts, daft bargains, cutty stools,
    Or worthy frien's rak'd i' the mools, -
    Sad sight to see!
    The tricks o' knaves, or fash o'fools,
    Thou bear'st the gree!

    Where'er that place be priests ca' hell,
    Where a' the tones o' misery yell,
    An' ranked plagues their numbers tell,
    In dreadfu' raw,
    Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell,
    Amang them a'!

    O thou grim, mischief-making chiel,
    That gars the notes o' discord squeel,
    Till daft mankind aft dance a reel
    In gore, a shoe-thick,
    Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal
    A townmond's toothache!


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