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DENTIC
If there were a commercial for Dentics on Earth, the slogan would be
"Evolution's solution to tooth decay!"
These little creatures are about the size & shape of caterpillars and look just about as appetizing. If my good buddy D'Argo hadn't cornered me,
pried open my mouth, and shoved a squirming Dentic in, I never
would've known what I was missing.
As disgusting as it seemed at the time, I have to admit, the Dentic gave
me the best brush I ever had. Sorry Oral-B.
D'Argo told me that they were feeding off the undigested food particles in my mouth. Nice life.
It makes sense though. With so many different species in the universe,
the variety of mouths & teeth (or whatever passes for them) must be
staggering. Trying to devise one tool to clean them all would have been
impossible. But the Dentics adapt to whatever mouth they're placed in.
It's shrink-to-fit tooth care.
There are two other things to note about Dentics. First: don't ever
swallow a Dentic. And second: that fresh minty aftertaste that's left in your mouth after using a Dentic? I don't even want to think about where that comes from.
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TRANSLATOR MICROBES
When I first arrived on Moya, the DRDs injected me with a syringe full of translator microbes.
The explanation I got from his eminence Rygel was that "translator microbes colonize at the base of the brain and allow us to understand each other." Considering Rygel's "winning" personality, sometimes I wish the translator microbes weren't so good at their job.
The tiny tyrant went on to point out that everyone is injected with the microbes at birth. Everyone but primitive life forms like me, that is. You
could think of them as a universal vaccine against language barriers - a sort of "fluency flu."
As good as the little guys are, though, they don't always catch everything. Sometimes words slip through that are untranslatable. Things like proper names, unique customs, and swear words. Especially swear words!
For instance, when D'Argo heats up I'm sure he has a mouth like a drunken sailor. But my microbes never manage to translate his actual words. All I hear are growls, grunts, and a few random syllables.
It has the unintended effectd of turning all my conversations PG-13, as if
I've got my own built-in V-chip. Great, I've landed in Mister Rogers' Galaxy.
When it comes right down to it, though, I guess these little germs are the only thing holding us together. It's hard enough for me to roll my R's in Spanish -- I'm not sure I even have the right number of vocal chords to speak Luxan. If it weren't for that injection, I'd probably still be trying to learn how to say "J.C. phone home" in Sebacean.
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