It gave the phrase “bite my ass” a whole new meaning.

I had lost my lower jaw two years ago to a particularly taunting form of cancer, and now the big brains at the institute are growing a new one, from my own DNA (!), in my right buttock. At first it was just an idea, an insane what-do-I-have-to-lose procedure that would never-in-a-million-years-work. But then the teeth started to grow in.

It started with a little nibble as I walked, then progressed to a full-on chomp when I sat down. “This is getting weird,” I scribbled to the attendant. She told me not to worry, then implanted a rubber mouth guard in my tuckus. That worked for a bit, but soon I began to limp. They made me drape a lead vest around my privates, then took a bunch of x-rays: “Clench together… now hold it…”

It took a couple of hours to install the braces, and I’m not even going to tell you how they want me to put on the elastics. They now tell me an upper jaw is starting to grow in there. I use to worry about cancer. Now, gingivitis.