I’ve had three uncomfortable oral experiences recently.

The first took place two Mondays ago. I was eating a salad for lunch. Because I’m no gourmand, I’d used a cheap, grocery store pepper-mill to grind some flavor onto the rabbit food in order to make it slightly more palatable. Halfway through the meal, I felt something get lodged in my throat. Whatever it was had the consistency of a broken windshield and was tiny enough that I could still breathe and swallow water, which I did at a record pace. The deluge didn’t dislodge the detritus, so I tried coughing it up.

Two coughs in, blood sprayed from my mouth all over my computer. It was like something from one of those strategically-lit CSI shows where David Caruso mumbles in Ray-Bans.

Keep in mind, this was the first of the three shitty oral experiences. [1 of 3] Allow me to say that, two days later, I was perfectly fine. For the record, blood wipes off of a Mac nice and easy. I’m sure Mr. Jobs et. al. designed them that way.

The second awful oral issue was less explosive and cinematic. I burned myself on a pot of soup. Cooking and eating should not be a combined event, and as a person devoid of hand-eye coordination along with a sense of focus, I should know better than to try to “taste” anything from a giant ladle that’s just been removed from a bubbling metal pot perched above an open flame. The result was a blistered burn that made me look like I’d been hitting the crackpipe. Or hitting on LeBron James’ mom.

Onto the last episode.

I wasn’t eating. I’ll just start there, since the attempted consumption of semi-solid food seems to have led to the previous crises. I had just finished some tea when my throat seized up and sent the message to my brain that I was choking on something small and sharp, like a vajazzled sequin or a tiny throwing star. This time I was better prepared to deal with the esophageal emergency.

As I struggled to swallow comfortably, I made Success brand 10 Minute Rice. Why? Because the last time this happened I was force-fed a piece of stale bread and lukewarm white rice by a neighbor who swore that this remedies fish bones lodged in your gullet. (Apparently eating is hazardous to more than just my health.) The carb intake was rumored to make the obstruction stick to its high-glycemic deliciousness and then pass on to its intended location: the stomach. But, because I don’t eat bread all that often, I didn’t have any in the house. I had to result to culinary contingency measures: either tear into my couch and swallow bits of foam, or make rice.

On the list of things I don’t want to do while possibly choking to death, cooking is somewhere at the top, second only to fellatio and karkeoke. For me, making any sort of hot meal requires the focus, determination, and forethought of a NASA mission when I’m in perfect health. The situation the other day was made even worse by the fact that the food in question had the amount of time for proper preparation in the title. 10 Minute Rice. Can a human being live without air for ten minutes? Can they go that long without swallowing? Will my friends find me, days later, decomposing on the floor of my kitchen with a bag of white rice in the microwave? Those who know me well know that I don’t eat white rice, so this would be a mastication mystery. Cue Caruso in his Wayfarers.

Because I’d learned that coughing would likely lead to another oral rendering of Evil Dead 2, I decided that, while I waited for my rice to cook, I’d gargle warm salt water. This is what had been suggested on the countless medical websites that also informed me that I had everything from a condition known as tonsollith to tongue cancer with acute halitosis. So I gargled and spat up and noticed that there was blood, again, paying me and my larynx a visit.

If I was a panic-stricken mess before, this ratcheted me up to an almost Scooby-Doo level of bumbling terror. I abandoned the rice, the salt water, and my sanity in the kitchen and hit up Google for my doctor’s number. You’d think that searching the Internet for a Dr. Larry Schwartz in New York City would only lead to me asphyxiating as I scrolled through some 200,000 search results, but no. I remembered a fragment of his address and therefore found the number with little difficulty. May the Schwartz be with me, indeed.

After locating my phone in the rapidly increasing mess of my apartment, I went through a predictably frustrating set of automated commands.

Robot Lady: “You’ve reached Dr. Lawrence Schwartz’s answering service. To leave a message for the doctor on call, you will first need to confirm your phone number. Please enter your phone number, starting with the area code.”

I dialed my number.

Robot Lady: “You have dialed seven-seven-seven-seven-one-four-seven-seven-seven-seven-seven. If this is correct, press one…”

And so on.

Finally, after nearly putting my fist through the face of my phone, I got through to the beep. I left a message explaining my not-so-emergent emergency for Dr. Schwartz and hung up. In the meantime, I continued to gargle and contemplate other objects I could try to swallow in order to remedy the situation.

When Dr. Schwartz returned my call he sounded like he’d had a long day at work and was in a candlelit bubble-bath. I knew I wasn’t having an actual medical Rubicon with death – I could breathe and speak and probably could have done other stuff like post to Twitter or use a vibrator – but it was an uncomfortable feeling and I wasn’t sure if I should go to a hospital or what. And the blood. That was an issue.

“Gargle with salt water five times over the course of the night. If it doesn’t get any better I might have to scope you…”

Honestly, I didn’t want anything going down my throat that wasn’t attached to an NBA player, but it’s been an embarrassingly long time since I last performed oral sex on anyone. I figured getting scoped would be good practice. Whether or not it would be any good for the fiberoptic intubator I wasn’t sure.

In a truly awesome and unexpected shift of events, my damaged throat wound up at the Knicks-Celtics game that night, a mere handful of rows away from my brother, Delonte West. While I hadn’t planned on going out, I figured that if I were to die, a Knicks game wouldn’t be the worst place to do it. Besides, if I started choking or coughing up blood again, maybe the medical staff would take me into the locker room. But by that point there were already three bloodied people in attendance. It looked like I’d have to get to the back of the line.

The next morning I didn’t feel much better. Exhaustion from my late night, coupled with the bleary-eyed reflexive consumption of high-fiber cereal, led to the painful irritation resurfacing like an unwelcome reminder of a misguided one-night stand. I knew I’d have to visit Dr. Schwartz and his camera on a stick. I made an appointment for later in the day. Hallelujah for health care.

Why are all nurse practitioners hot? I’ve had one who looked like Ellen Page with glasses and one who could have been a Swedish professional volleyball player and Tourneau watch spokeswoman. Dr. Schwartz’s RA looked like The Little Red Haired Girl from Charlie Brown, and when she peered inside of my maw she told me my airway was tight.

Ahem.

Apparently my airway appeared small to that nurse betty, but Dr. Schwartz poked around with a stick, had me sing an aria, and concluded that the airway – along with the rest of me – was just fine. He diagnosed me with a “traumatized pharynx,” told me to gargle with Gly-Oxide, take anti-inflammatories, and avoid spicy food. ‘Cause nothing puts me in the mood for Korean barbecue quite like the taste of a tongue depressor.

I don’t know if it was the doctor’s visit, a good amount of rest, or just the passing of time, but the sharp, scraping in my throat has now been reduced to a throbbing, annoying soreness. It feels kind of like I’m getting over a crying fit, or like I deep-throated #32. It’s a complaint I can live with. At least until Monday night’s Knicks-Magic matchup. Don’t ask how it happened, but I’ll be in attendance for that, too. If anything, it’s reason enough to live through the weekend.

Of course, I should tell you about the side-effects of my phantom condition. I’m terrified of spontaneously choking and coughing up blood pretty much any time I’m in public or alone. Last night I had a second date. It was fine, but not fine enough, and I made it home in time to catch some combined NCAA/NBA action. In hindsight, I probably should have just taken him back to my place and practiced for my scoping. Being single is hard to swallow.