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Losing It In Paris
by George Sparling

Celebrating the 175th anniversary of Bastille Day, my friend and I ran through the streets with Parisians, stopping off at many bistros for warm, red Bordeaux wine with beer chasers, and more Vive la Revolution.

Re-joining the celebrants, my legs sloppy and wobbly, my stomach churning, the warm and cold inebriants sloshing around my stomach, we ran back to a small family bar near our hotel and had more than one nightcap.

Suddenly I laughed convulsively, the revolution reeling through my brain, and I blew out my front crown on the tiled mosaic floor.

I screamed at the female barkeep, “Where’s my goddamned tooth? Find my fucking tooth!” then crawled on the floor as it undulated beneath me, my nose scraping the floor, my hands running over the intricately patterned floor. The crown disappeared in its drunken design. All the while I yelled, “Where’s my fucking tooth?” until a man with a infant in his arms came down the stairs, saying something incomprehensible to me, the ugly American who knew no French.

I blubbered, exuding tears, shaking my finger at the clinging, horrified family, not knowing what the hell I’d do next. I lost it.