toothpaste

Minty green and white swirls squeezed out from the tube of toothpaste on the bathroom counter. It is sticky, slow-motion absent-mindedness. It oozes out of its holster, now dripping onto the floor while bristles scrub jutted bone used to masticate sustenance three times a day. Colgate and Crest, domineering titans of their market of dental hygiene. Sir Mildly Ridiculous mounts his tooth-whitened steed and rides into the sunset afterlife filled with dentists whom have all passed on from this world, into the next. Charcoal and honey, heaven-sent. Toothpaste makes a poor weapon, a poor defense unless it's for cavities and plaque and bad breath. Floss as super string that gets in-between teeth, wrenching out outsiders and stowaways before bed time. Bunny slippers cower beneath bedside, knowing they too could be next if they don't play their cards right and make themselves scarce. Morning time coffee stain announces itself with expert precision. Domino sugar cubes attack the body. Magic School Bus ride, popular episode, current rerun, viewership numbers astoundingly high. To press on that tube and feel the toothpaste give, what else can you do that with? Crescent rolls? Pastry dough? Icing? I know the Italian word for "toothpaste" is "dentifricio", and "toothbrush" is "spazzolino". 9 out of 10 dentists, but one fell asleep. White coat, X-ray, chloroform, chlorophyll, dancing shoes and picture frames and the smell of frozen bagels. How do you even begin to clean the toothpaste factory? Disinfectant and Dawn dish soap. Scrubbing vats clean that would hold gallons upon gallons of toothpaste. Does it smell nice? Does it smell like a breathmint in there? Or are there secret chemicals that await our nostrils? I should look up if they do tours of these facilities. Brushing in time to the music. Job interview, application. Part of the daily routine, hygiene. The removal of wisdom teeth that I still have in some sealed bag in some nostalgic display.