Not Whistler’s Mother

Since I got dentures, I can’t whistle for shit.

Since I got dentures, when I say shit, it sounds like thyit.

Before I got dentures, I was an optimist. It was, perhaps, a long time before the dentures came along. In the spirit of the new year coming up, I am trying to remain positive.

I am positive I can’t whistle for thyit.

I can spit like a champ. Except, it is more like random acts of drool. And it is pronounced thpit.

My ch’s now sound like a Welsh double l. For some reason, my Welsh double l sounds exactly as it should. As if I have an overabundance of thpit.

My voiceless alveolar lateral fricative is perfect. Thank you very much.

Sadly, this means I won’t be drinking much in Germany. Not that I wouldn’t want to. I just wouldn’t be able to ask for it. Dentally.

Alkohol in maßen, I can say. Alkohol in massen, I cannot. To be more accurate, maßen and massen sound exactly the same now. Thanks to these teeth, even if I wanted lots of beer in Berlin, I would only be able to ask for it in moderation.

My sibilant sounds are arrogant. Show-offy. Bigger than their britches and too old for shorts. Please don’t ask me to say shorts.

Dentures and optimism have led me to believe now is the time in my life to learn Gaelic.

Dentures and pessimism have led me to believe I should just shyut up.

Gaelic wins.


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Hansel's sister.

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