The stomatologist’s wife gave him a tongue scraper.

Blue.

Molded plastic handle branching, curved, with a single scraping blade at the end. All in one piece. The stomatologist wondered how long it would be until the razor blade companies got involved, after which scrapers would be molded with the scraping blade at a more efficient angle, and finally manufactured with multiple scraper blades; first two, then three and more.

The tongue scraper spent several days in the stomatologist’s cabinet before he gave it a try.

Wow!

The stomatologist thought.

He wished he had a microscope, because, wow!

No wonder the dog didn’t want to kiss me anymore, thought the stomatologist, even though he didn’t have a dog.

The stomatologist wonders why everything is blue. His toaster, his coffee maker, his teawaterboiler, his shampoo and toothpaste.

The stomatologist just got the old kitchen table back from the carpenter, who refinished it. He is happy at how it turned out. He tells his daughter a story about one time when his dog shat plastic army men, then spends 15 minutes trying to work out what motivated him to tell the story.

The stomatologist hopes he isn’t turning into one of those guys who travel in clouds of malapropisms, like when you roll down the car window on the freeway and receipts fly all over.