DA: If I lose my wisdom, will my foolhardiness die with it?

Doc: Excuse me?

DA: If I lose my wisdom, will my foolhardiness die with it? You know, ying-yang, can one exist without the other?

Doc: Ha-ha, I get it, the operation.

DA: Seriously, do wisdom teeth harbor wisdom?

Doc: I have no idea.

DA: No idea! Surely you jest. How many wisdom teeth have you pulled?

Doc: Thousands, I guess.

DA: You guess? You don’t keep track?

Doc: Why would I keep track?

DA: Data. All that data! All data is good. Data is GOD. DATA is gold.

Just ask Google.

And don’t answer a question with a question.

Doc: Don’t worry; your surgery will go just fine, chill out.

DA: Don’t patronize me, you’re the guy who is too lazy rich to collect data, you’re the one who should worry.

Doc: And what would you have me do? Paint a molar on the side of my dentist drill for each tooth I extract?

DA: You sound like a wanna-be Spitfire pilot in the Battle of Britain.

Doc: That reminds me of a story my granddad told me about my great-uncle Oly. Want to hear it?

DA: Sure, why not, I already paid you cash for this consultation. My cost today is sunk.

Doc: Back in the day, the local women’s club in Cut Bank, Montana, always had a monthly meeting with a guest speaker. One of the ladies asked my granddad if he knew anyone who could give a history talk. Dad volunteered his brother Oly was a pilot in World War Two. Uncle Oly showed up on Labor Day, overalls, rubber boots, big hands, ruddy cheeks. My dad introduced him. “Ladies, this is Oly Olsen, the dairy farmer and my brudder, who fought The War, as a Swedish volunteer for the Royal Air Force.” The ladies clapped politely. Oly stands. “Okay, so dis is what happened. I was leading dat squadron of Spitfires into the rising sun when we spots deeze Fuckers down below, I peel off to attack one Fucker and radio my wingman to go after anoder Fucker.”

The ladies are aghast at this crude language; a titter goes through the crowd. Dad stands up and says, “Hold on der ladies. The Germans flew a plane called a Fokker, spelled f-o-k-k-e-r. Go on, Oly, finish your story.” Oly looks at Dad and says, “No, deeze here Fuckers were flying Messerschmitts.”

DA: Ha-ha-ha. Great story Doc!

Doc: Thanks, never had a chance to tell it!

DA: But seriously, don’t you know how to collect data?

Doc: What data would I collect?

DA: Wisdom data: before and after tests.

Doc: Is there a wisdom test?

DA: How would I know? Your area, Doc, not mine.

DA Borer writes non-fiction, fiction, and poetry. DA’s prose and poetry appear in The Write Launch, Montana Mouthful, Sonder Midwest, Dragon Poet Review, Rise Up Review, Coffin Bell Journal, the San Antonio Review, and The Perch: a Literary and Arts Journal. He holds a PhD in Political Science from Boston University, an MA in Political Science from the University of Montana, and a BA in Psychology from Ripon College. He is a former Fulbright Scholar and presently teaches at the Naval Postgraduate School in Monterey, CA. Contact him at daborer@yahoo.com.

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Every Day Fiction