Today, eating lunch at my desk, I bit into a ham sandwich and felt/heard a kind of rasping "crunch" in my mouth. One of my crowns, lower right side, had popped loose. The only reason I didn't swallow it was that it had become lodged in my gum. I couldn't close my mouth entirely, and I talked with a bit of a lisp.

Anyone who works for a living has to "ask to leave for a while," like a first-grader asking to go to the toilet. I explained my problem to the editor and was told I could leave.

Drove to the dentist. Bad news. Tooth shot. Need dental implant at a cost of $3,000. Insurance will pay $1,500. I have $1,000. Will get remaining $500 from tooth fairy.

Drove back to newspaper office.

Heavyset young girl crossing the street with a baby in a stroller.

"Lose a little weight, sister," I mumble to myself. "Then maybe you could cross a city street in less than 20 minutes."

Old guy driving slow in front of me.

"Yo, grandpa," I whisper viciously to myself. "Get a bus pass."

Cop working a paid detail at a construction site.

"Whatareyoumakin?" I grind through clenched teeth. "Thirty-five bucks an hour for talking to your girlfriend on your cellphone? Nice uniform, ya leech!"

Pull up at red light. Car next to me blasting rap music.

"Hey, Trayvon," I wheeze. "How's baby mama doing?"

I went inside the building and started to write. Work's a rhythm, and it'll lead you home.

The fat young girl? Hell, she just had a baby. She loves the baby. My ma loved me.

The old guy? Doesn't have someone to get his groceries for him. Squinting into the sun, once-strong hands tight on the wheel. Hope he made it there and back.

Cop? Overtime shift. I take OT when I can get it. Right now, I need about $500's worth.

Kid in the car? His car. His music. I used to turn it up when I was young, too. I still do, sometimes. I like rap, too.

And I realized, if I could just keep the level of picayune, petty, misjudging rage generated by one rotted tooth, I could write hate with a certainty that would skyrocket me into the upper atmosphere of cheap-ass commentary, into the cold, clear place of talk radio and big dollars.

Or if I could learn to fake that rotten-toothed rage, I could still make it to the top. I could be one of those never-been-a-reporter right-wing anger wholesalers who overstuff Americans with puked-up predigested hate.

I'm thinking of asking my wife to poke me in the eye every morning, just to get me mad.

If she agrees, you'll be hearing me on conservative talk radio sometime next week.

To find out more about Marc Munroe Dion and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit www.creators.com.