of a terrible, terrible disease.

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

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.

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

More full of pity than usual.

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

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

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.

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

I think he wants me to throw a glass of water in his face.

What you got is a plain old simple run-of-the-mill sore throat.

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

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

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

And, um, I mean a real doctor, not one of those pimps like Dr. Detroit.

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.