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50:34

He finds one day that there's a circus up for sale for pretty cheap.

"I paid only $50,000 for the entire operation. Think of it, boy. A genuine circus with lions, flying trapeze, a sword swallowers, and a girly show. Marvelous. Of course, the tent had holes in it. The lions had mange. It was the real stuff. The king of rube shows. The climax of my career. I was the ringmaster, boy. I immediately began to rejuvenate the circus and had a band stand constructed which closely resembled a gaping set of upper and lower teeth. The redcoated musicians looked as if they were about to be chewed up by the superersized teeth. I called it Painless Parker's Dental Circus and it staged performances in towns up and down the coast of California."

He says that while other circuses continue to fail and diminish, his with all this love and care put into it actually does pretty well. This is around the time that he says he extracted the 357 teeth in one day and had the necklace made. But although it is fun, he knows that the circus is not a long-term amazing financial decision. And eventually, with the help of his wife's urging, he does sell it. Tells himself once again, "This is it. I
retire from street dentistry. I'm going to focus on my offices. I, painless Parker. I'm going to get normaler." He lied.

"One afternoon, as I was walking down San Francisco's Howard Street, I happened to observe a local sidewalk evangelist preaching to a small group of individuals. This self-made man of religion calling himself the cardinal had devised his own religion and was seeking converts. I couldn't stand the painfully amateurish job this evangelist was doing. It was enough to turn a man's stomach. After taking all that I could, I laid my gloved hand on the evangelist's arm and said, "Brother, before hearing your golden words, I was charging ahead in life down this sidewalk, merely contented to seek worldly gain. Now it's different. I've just received the call to speak to your little flock here, if you don't object." The evangelist was somewhat taken back, but stepped down from his soapbox to allow me to ascend to the sidewalk pulpit. "Flock," I said, "God hates a man who neglects his teeth..."