The Poor Mouthwasher
by Will Bailey
I’m swishing. Oh, you haven’t heard of swishing? It’s the latest craze with ne’er-do-well teeny boppers who spend most of their time making Facebooks and Twitters and listening to Justine Disney Beebs, apparently. All you do is take a big gulp of mouthwash, start swishing, and go about your daily routine. The trend is so hot that there have been reports of swishing sessions that last the course of an entire work day, leaving the swisher’s gum-lines shriveled and their head slightly buzzed from the low alcohol content of over-the-counter mouthwash. Of course, none of that is true, and is in fact the ramblings of a Manboy who has been swishing a little too much mouthwash lately. The irony is that the more I swish, the more addicted I become to the feeling of completely pulverizing your mouth with glorified nail polish remover. After all, that’s really what mouthwash is: a low grade, alcohol-based liquid stripper that should probably be used to polish hub caps, not sterilize our fleshy mouth parts. Then again, what kind of consumer would I be if I didn’t obey those Orwellian mouthwash commercials that demand you purge your mouth of invisible microbes with a tsunami of menthol bathtub gin? Exactly: a terrible one. So I will continue obediently swishing, until all the germs are extinguished and my tongue is a natural shade of neon green. By then I probably won’t be able to eat anything except soup, which is OK in my book. I love soup.