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October 31, 2008


The Molar Meditations
By Ivan O’Uris


An Unclaimed Disclaimer: One poem contains potentially objectionable language. So if you’re a youngster, someone offended by potentially objectionable language, a youngster offended by potentially objectionable language or a language offended by potentially objectionable youngsters, cover your eyes. Of course, that might it difficult to read, mightn’t it? In that case, have someone cover your eyes and read it to you. Just make sure that someone doesn’t object to potentially objectionable language or potentially objectionable youngsters, but is smart enough to bleep out the naughty bits.

A Disclaimer to the Disclaimer: Would someone please claim the above disclaimer? It needs a good home. It’s housebroken, except on certain overcast days in February, when it refuses to go outside for religious reasons. It’s also gentle – when it isn’t ripping limbs from people’s bodies, chewing on them, lapping up their blood and picking its teeth with their bones (roughly about 90 percent of the time).


Molar Meditation No. 1


I like my dental implants.

But I wish they didn’t leave teeth marks

On my nipples.


Molar Meditation No. 2 (After Molar Meditation No. 1 and at the same time as Molar Meditation Nos. 5, 45 and 999,999,999,999,999.9)


I bit the hand that fed me.

I got pimp slapped

And the teeth in the body

With the hand that pimp slapped me

Bit me in the ass.

I shouldn’t have forgotten my fucking dentures.


Background Notes: Ivan O’Uris is a journalist, poet and world toothpaste squirting champion from Luscia (pronounced LUSH-UH, with the accent placed on the “T” – of course, this makes it difficult to pronounce, as Luscia has no “T” or half-and-half, sugar or lemon to go with it). A small North Atlantic island, Luscia was originally believed to have been founded by the Bicuspidorians, teeth-worshipping nomads who wandered Europe, Asia and Africa for centuries because they couldn’t remember where they had left their dental floss. Allegedly, the Bicuspidorians sailed from Europe to Luscia in a boat made of chattering teeth to escape persecution from bloodthirsty vegan trigonometry teachers. According to island legends, the Bicuspidorians originally christened the island O’Molaranskiva, which roughly translates from the Old Luscian That’s Newer Than Old-Old Luscian But Not As New As Brand Spanking New Spit-Polished Luscian as “Where the fuck are we?”

The account, long since disproved, inspired Ivan to write the above poems – that and his experience as a male stripper. During the mid-1980s, shortly after leaving Luscia to attend college at a small Midwestern university, Ivan became a dancer for Delicious Doughboys, a Strip-O-Gram service catering to rich, lonely women. Told he would get bigger tips and more return business with prominent, shiny white teeth, Ivan visited Dr. James Kapp, a dentist specializing in dental implants for male strippers. “When he finished with me, I had a beautiful new mouth,” Ivan wrote in his introspective exhibitionistic journal. “My teeth were so huge, they made my chin and jaws jut out 6 inches. Women flocked to me and donkeys envied me.”

One day, however, Ivan’s big teeth bit him in the ass (figuratively and literally) while dancing for seclusion expert Emily D. Havisham, when he bent his head to lick the nipple of one of his man boobies. Playfully, he bit on it. Unfortunately, as he clamped down, he mysteriously developed lockjaw. Because his man boobies sagged down to his hips, he found his teeth were clamped to his nipple and left buttock. “I might never have been freed from myself if not for the Jaws of Life,” he noted.

The experience ended Ivan’s stripping career, though it led to him losing his man boobies through a rigorously laid back exercise program involving jogging, weightlifting and cockatoo wrestling. It also led to recognition from Ripley’s – Believe It or Not!  for the implant imprint on his nipple because it resembled an Antarctic Desert crater.

In 2003, Ivan wrote the “Molar Meditations” to honor his homeland’s history and put his stripping experience behind him. Erik Pointer found the first meditation and Shawn Roney found the second in Ivan’s cluttered apartment under the old implants. To date, the implants have bitten no hands that have tried to feed them. Pointer, Roney and fellow Ivan O’Uris scholar Mark Moyer have submitted them on Ivan’s behalf (the poems, not the implants).


©2006-2008 Mutt Media LLC. All rights reserved.


One More Note: “The Molar Meditations” were originally published Oct. 20, 2006, by the online magazine Defenestration. They were there for a while, but have disappeared, possibly because members of the Kalamazoo Magicians and Sorcerer’s Guild are angry that people are spending too much time online and not enough attending magic shows and are taking out their frustrations by casting spells that slowly cause the virtual world to vanish. Or it could be that Defenestration is rebuilding its Web site.

A Few More Notes (My Apologies): Even though “The Molar Meditations” is off Defenestration indefinitely, visit the site anyway because the folks who run it are nice. Go to www.defenestrationmag.net.

With that out of the way, it’s O.K. for you to read the copyright stuff. You can scroll up four paragraphs – or if it’s too taxing, look below (on computer screen and/or printed page, not at your feet).

Actually, there’s something else (my apologies again): Some of the stuff you’re reading here between the first and second copyright displays appeared in the notes to “Elegy for Cheese Feet,” which also appeared in Defenestration and is part of this blog (see “The Paperlessly Wallpapered I.O’U. Papers” [No. 9]). This is not laziness. Rather, it’s from heeding the wisdom of Dr. Jake Higginbotham, an American linguistics professor.

Higginbotham also leads the Save Your Breath Institute, a Barstow, Calif.-based think tank dedicated to encouraging people to be economical with their language and is often mistaken for a Brooklyn-based non-profit organization that’s trying to get chain smokers who don’t brush their teeth to not talk (the Save Your Fucking Breath, Dickhead, Institute). Based on a 2007 study conducted by his institute, Higginbotham believes there’s a finite number of ways people can combine words into sentences. At the rate people are speaking and writing, Higginbotham argues, the sentence supply will be gone by 2038. If that occurs, he believes Hallmark will run the world and force everyone to communicate through greeting cards that they will have to buy at Wal-Mart.

So you see, Mutt Media is being repetitive because it’s committed to preserving humanity’s verbiage and is showing that commitment through recycling parts of its limited verbiage. Go, Dr. Higginbotham! Rock on!


©2006-2008 Mutt Media LLC (reprised). All rights reserved (also reprised).