Shut your whiny jaw-hole!

I had to do a follow-up to my wisdom tooth extraction, because I was in a lot of pain.  This shit
was going down into the bone.  The doc told me I had dry socket, which to me, sounds like
something pirates get.

Basically, it's when a clot forms in your empty gum-hole, preventing it from healing.
The treatment consists of filling the socket with packing peanuts, and, in my case, stronger
meds.

I was prescribed something called "combajinx," or "combowank," or something ridiculous like
that (medications all have stupid names).
Now, other than the prospect of dulling the pain, I wasn't all too excited until I heard some key
words.

"Okay, yadda yadda...narcotic...mumble...stronger than percocet...

My face lit up, with the same kind of vibrant joy as a young boy when he finds out his mom is
fucking Lance Armstrong.

An hour and a half later, and I'm not really impressed.  It's handling the pain all right, but I
thought this shit was gonna stone me.  Come on; this is supposed to be pharmaceutical-grade
stuff, here.  I should at least get a head-change.  The guy back home who never changes his
clothes and drives that shitty Camaro with the one Pearl Jam CD stuck in it sold me better pills
than this.

I wish I could get a hold of that stuff they used during the surgery--now that was some shit!  
That one put me out so hard, I couldn't even run through my favorite daydream, the one where
I battle my way through a battalion of zombie-soldiers, manhandle the Minotaur, reach the top
of Mount Olympus, and crack Dr. Phil across the neck with a mop handle.  And that's a hard
one to shake; it's an old standby.

Oh, well.  If the pain keeps up till next week, maybe I can get a hold of something better.
Hopefully I won't come down with scurvy or get shot with a flintlock.

I could stand to be hornswaggled by a wench or two, though.