I go to the dermatologist to get some stubborn warts frozen off.

"It will hurt," he warns. "Maybe you just want to get that stuff from the pharmacy and try to dry them out."

If anyone can stand it, I can, I welcome the challenge. Recall my visit to the dentist. But I should appear humble. "How much will it hurt?" I ask, "Will I be able to walk?"

"Sure, yeah." he reassures me. "You just might have some blistering. You can take a shower. If it hurts, you can get some pain-killer. Showers are no problem."

I don't know the word for pain-killer, but I think this is what he said. "Like Aspirin?" I verify.

"Or Tylenol." He corrects me.

"Whatever." I say. "I won't need it."

The nurse is clearly impressed; I give her a wink. But the doctor just continues as if I didn't say anything, "But you could just try the stuff to dry them out."

"I've tried that." I say, "I think they are beyond that. It's time to send these bastards back to their makers."

"I agree." He says. Odd then, that he was trying to talk me out of it. Psychological warfare, perhaps.

He burns them off.

In parting he reminds me of the the upkeep of the burned warts. He mentions the shower again. "You can take a shower. Today, even." It is the third time he has mentioned taking a shower. Granted, he may rightfully feel that I haven't understood everything that he said, but three mentions is a bit much. He seems fixated on the shower.

When I get home, I my family loves the story. They love to think that the doctor sees me as a fat stinky foreigner. Somehow this isn't racist. It is joyful. "Why is this the only thing that ever makes you people happy? And who said anything about 'fat'?"

"It's like the toothpaste at work." My wife laughs.

"What is the toothpaste?" Lucy asks, apparently not knowing the story.

Oh yeah, the toothpaste.

A couple months ago I found a gift in my mailbox at school. A KNU College of Natural Sciences branded travel toothbrush and toothpaste. Clearly everyone got it, but when I first saw it in my mailbox, I thought, "Who the hell put this here?"

Sure sometimes I drink too much coffee. And occasionally I notice I might have some coffee breath when a student comes in to ask questions. But that is just a hazard of the job. It's a hazard of asking a professor too many questions.

I was ninety-nine percent sure someone had just put a toothbrush in everyone's mailbox, like they do with mini bath towels whenever someone retires. But there was a sliver of doubt.

This was erased when I took my visitor, Victor, into the secretaries office to do some paperwork, and one of the secretaries offered him toothpaste and a toothbrush.

I could see he was a little surprised by it, so I whispered to him, angrily, from the side of my mouth, "They gave me one too! They are never subtle."