Spring 2010
Teeth is seen to wipe away a tear.
“Ahhhhhhh,” our boy sighs with satisfaction. “That was really good!”
Teeth puts his arm around the boy’s shoulders again. “You don’t need to tell us that.” He grins ever wider.
“I don’t? I thought this was a taste test?”
“In a way. In a way. But, you see, you’ve already given us your opinion.”
“I did? When?”
“Once you stuck the Straw in, boy.”
Teeth turns to the camera. “Get this man a suit and tie and get him on his way!”
Our boy is led away, a question, unanswered, forming on his lips. Remember him this way.
Another shopper is plucked from the stream. It’s true: You can’t eat just one.
“You sir. Yes, you,” Teeth says, microphone in hand, stepping towards another young man. “You look like a fine American lad. Do the right thing and step right up here, son. Good. That’s good. What’s your name, son?”
A mouth opens, but the answer is cut off.
“Ah, who am I kidding? You don’t need to tell us your name,” Teeth says, lowering the microphone without any noticeable drop-off in volume or sound quality.
The new boy looks confused. “I don’t?” he says.
“No. Just step on over here and take part in our Soul Suck taste test.”
Hunger, impatience, the desire to bring explanation to an end—Teeth’s face is a clear screen to all these emotions. Perhaps he’s been saying these lines for too long, or perhaps he just doesn’t buy into all of it—there are a million million possibilities, and all we can be sure of, you and I, is that what Teeth’s face is showing now is all smiles.
Teeth is fun. TV is fun. It is educational. Just don’t forget it is a mirror. And it is never the same.
Teeth guides the new boy over to the row of waiting heads, none of which have moved, though the sampled one has been replaced, for reasons of hygiene, common decency, and an opening in the job market.
“What is a Soul Suck taste test?” our boy asks.
Teeth tells him.
“Are you guys insane, or what? I mean, that’s just fucking sick, man.”
“Nothing sick about this, son,” Teeth replies calmly. “You might wanna try it before you pass judgment, son.”
“No, I don’t think so. Thanks anyway.”
“You don’t want to take part in the Soul Suck taste test? You might as well.”
“Are ya deaf?” the boy says and turns to leave.
It happens faster than imagination, faster even than the camera can follow: somewhere, somewhen, Teeth plunges the Suck Straw into this boy’s, our boy’s, head. The camera freezes on Teeth as his cheeks depress and expand rhythmic, hypnotic. Only when the new boy’s eyes have rolled back does that rhythm cease and Teeth remove the straw.
He smacks his lips in satisfaction and eyes the camera, you—whatever.
“You can suck or be sucked,” he says. “The choice is up to you.
“Just do it.”
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