we interrupt this broadcast

If we’re Facebook friends, you saw my oddly specific thoughts about this song. I might make an(other) interposition after this post about this For Harry Carney.

So I was going to continue with my recounting of my excursion to the Tar Heel State, but I had an accident earlier this week.

That accident, of course, was not my amazing shoes. I designed them myself; both the laces and the shoes themselves have golden threads.

I still can’t believe it happened, and I’m still afraid to see the bill.

Some of you may recall that in May 2009, I bought a bicycle and promptly mistook an embankment for a full hill. I knocked out several teeth. I was broke and toothless in part because my insurance company, despite me arriving to the hospital in an ambulance, said there was no proof that I was in an accident. I had to pay entirely too much of my ER visit out of pocket and got the dentures because I knew a sympathetic dentist who let me make payments on them for more than a year.

When you decide to become a journalist, you also take a vow of poverty.

I recently started getting fully out of the hole and decided that I’d give a dentist a call about finally getting permanent work done.

I was going to do that in March.

Anno Domini Two Thousand and Twenty.

So, despite countless times of doing the no-nos, like going to bed with them still in, nothing bad happened until Monday morning. I woke up early because I wanted to give myself more time to walk Missy before work and gradually shift my bedtime back to in-person working o’clock. As I was getting ready to start my day, down it went. My two fake bottom teeth. In my throat. I don’t know how. I don’t know if my brain excised that part in real time or a slip of the finger was a lucky shot.

I tried to cough it up, but it would not budge. I realized I could breathe normally, so I stopped freaking out. (Seriously, it had to have been one of those random-person-from-the-audience-kicks-a-field-goal shots.) I then calmly finished getting ready, announced that I couldn’t walk Missy because I had to go to the University of Virginia and walked out. I later clarified that I meant UVA Medical Center but I was “fine.” I think I only haven’t been yelled at because I’ve been punished enough.

It took a while for the doctor to see me. While I was sitting there, I felt something move. Down it goes. Down into my belly. Fantastic. I got sent over for chest X-rays. Nothing showed up. I was asked for the umpteenth time what they were made of; that time, the response was, “That’s probably why they didn’t show up.”

More time passed. I was able to get my phone a few times, but I missed a partial crisis at work. My boss was off, and I let two of the reporters take off. Because of the pandemic, some people knew I was gone and no one knew no one was in charge. I managed to salvage that situation before they wheeled me over for an endoscopy. Down it went. Down into my belly because, like this Colonial Heights man, I had a story for the ages.

Believe it or not, I’ve had this teaser from the Richmond Times-Dispatch on hand since 2014, and it’s the first time I had a reason to use it.

To make this already long story short, I once again have the illusion of all of my permanent teeth. And a throat that is still sore.

We now return you to “Elliott eventually tells you where his new favorite Eastern Carolina barbecue restaurant is” in its entirety.

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