Dental Damns

Open letter to anybody who wants to poke me, prod me, probe me, stick something inside me (medically or otherwise), pull something from me (including, but not limited to, blood, teeth and/or other assorted body parts), or, oh, I don’t know, say, have me PEE into a FRICKIN’ BOTTLE:

I do not LIKE being poked, prodded, probed, stuck or pulled. Nor do I particularly like peeing into a bottle.

I’m looking at YOU, doctors and dentists of the world.

Over the last few weeks, I’ve had teeth pulled, teeth crowned, blood drawn, urine sampled, other assorted levels checked and fluids changed, drained and flushed.

My body has, in short, become unto them as an ’83 Ford Tempo.

Here’s my position on this: if God had meant us to pee into cups, urinals would all be shaped like beer steins.

Nothing in particular is wrong with me. It’s just been a weird series of coincidences, cracked teeth and poor timing, in general. Plus, I believe the moon is in the Southern sphere, and Jupiter aligns with Mars.

But really, now. Enough’s enough.

So knock it off.

Quit it. NOW!

I’m not gonna whine, what with my dad sailing through triple bypass surgery with all the nonchalance of a man who’d jus fixed the sink’s plumbing, not his own. He used to be a marine. And he has three kids. So he has a level of pain tolerance that’s something extraordinary.

Still, I’ve spent too many days recently on liquid diets for a man of my still-relatively-sprightly age. And they were the wrong kind of liquids, too.You know, the kinds that say “25% of your daily required vitamins” instead of “75 Proof.”

I think (hope? pray?) I had my last bit or major dental surgery for a while, today. I’d knock on wood, but I’d probably get a splinter. Which would become infected. Which would require another MASSIVE round of poking, pulling, prodding and probing.

Losing that one tooth a couple of weeks back was a wake-up call to fix everything that COULD be fixed. Meanwhile, all the check-ups and blood-drawings and bottle-peeing (seriously, is this an Olympic sport yet? Because it TAKES SKILL) were for various health insurers and doctors offices and the like.

As a brief aside, did you know that my dentist wields a machine called (and I wish this were fiction, not cold, cold fact) the “Cavitron 2000.”

Let me repeat that, as to let it sink in properly: “CAVITRON 2000”.

Why nobody on the Dental Marketing Board or whatever had the slightest inkling that this might be a poor choice of names is beyond me. Because if there’s one thing I dearly love about going to the dentist, it’s trying to think peaceful, calming thoughts while having a bloody great loud machine scream “CAVITRON” from its antiseptic metallic side at me.

I mean, instead of “CAVITRON 2000,” they could have just called it the “Happy Time Fun Machine”, or something.

And considering I was born and raised in England, a land I dearly love, I should be happy I have any teeth at all, let alone a fairly decent smile. Snicker though the world does at America’s preoccupation with dental surgery, Shane McGowan and Shaun Ryder are hardly brilliant poster children for British advances in orthodontia.

But really, bottom line, you know…


At least maybe this is it, for a while, drill-wise.

Knock on non-splintering wood substitute…



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