Is to just listen to me. I mean, I know I'm only a mouth, but I have some serious life experience. We've vomited together, we've whistled many a tune and remember that time we ate all those Tostitos? Be a pal and listen up: the next time some chapped - or even worse: slobber-doused - lips come at us, I'm shutting you up and closing up shop. For good.
Oh, you don't know what I'm talking about? Let me take you back to seventh grade. I was just a young innocent, awaiting a heavenly meeting with another. I'd prepared myself for the big moment (Cinnamon Altoids, "Curiously Strong"), when Bam! Some large, unwieldy tongue shoves itself past my defenses, all the way down to my dear friend the esophagus. When it's finally over, I am left with nothing but the taste of barbecued chicken and the vague feeling that I had been violated.
A fluke incident? Uh huh, sure. Let's move to tenth grade. I'm chomping on some popcorn, wondering if my date is ever going to stop chewing on sour worms. Just when I am about to surrender myself to lockjaw, a glimmer of hope shines. My mate leans over and kisses me softly on the lips. Then, chaos. In an attempt to intensify our passion, my date whirls around in a frenzy as if I'm ingredients for a smoothie and the tongue a high-speed blender. I can't remember the rest. I think I have post-traumatic stress disorder.
It continues, the misery I've been subjected to -- awful breath, licking around me, confused inert pecks. All I'm saying is that the fitness of our species depends on how successfully we can reproduce, which, in turn, depends on how successfully all my fellow mouths out there can kiss. Therefore, you mouths need to take my advice and step up your game; Darwin would have wanted it!
