I don’t know of anyone who enjoys going to the dentist. It’s right up there with sucking a gorilla’s nose until its head implodes, sliding down a fifty foot razor into a bucket of vinegar, or running five miles on bare feet through a field of sharpened bamboo shoots. And then people would choose going to the dentist. It is simply a reviled and anxiety-provoking activity.
I had the dubious honor of fulfilling a dentist appointment today. All the way to the torture chamber, I mean, dental office, I kept telling myself that I had nothing to worry about. These were professionals, after all, and would never do anything to intentionally cause me pain and anguish. What I didn’t figure on was that dentists are professional psychopaths! Not only do they relish in causing pain and anguish, but they even charge you for it.
I walked into the office and was immediately taken back to the Pit of Doom, I mean, procedure room. I was made to recline on a leather chair that was hooked up to all sorts of scary implements of torture. A mind-control device, cleverly disguised as a light, hung over my head. The dental assistant puttered around, arranging needles, drills, and various other pointy objects on stainless steel trays presumably for the convenience of the inquisitor, I mean, dentist.
Finally, the dentist walked in and calmly explained that she would be taking a thin piece of sharpened metal and by inserting into the tender flesh of my mouth and gums, would inject a mysterious substance that would cause me to lose feeling on the left side of my face and might rob me of the ability to speak clearly.
“So basically you’re causing me to have a stroke.”
“No…I’m numbing you so you don’t feel the pain when I use my drills and metal picks to grind your tooth down to the nub.” She looked at me curiously. “Are you all right? You seem a little nervous.”
“I’m fine,” I said, casually discarding the arm of the dental chair that had somehow come off in my hand.
“Fine, then we’ll get started,” she said. “Open up as wide as you can.”
Afraid she might ask me to pay for the chair, I complied and even managed not to scream as a needle the size of a railroad spike pierced my mouth. The process was repeated five times and by the time it was over, I was a trembling wreck. The dentist seemed a little worse for wear, as well, and kept putting her finger in her ear and wiggling it around.
“Wax?” I asked, trying to be polite.
“What? Oh, no. It’s just that all your screaming made me kind of deaf. Are you sure you’re not nervous?”
My mouth had started to feel kind of funny and I noticed I was having trouble speaking. “No, I…I’m noth nervuth,” I said. “Why would you think I wuth nervuth?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe it’s the layer of cold sweat you’ve managed to spread all over the room. You’ve completely ruined the chair.”
Suffice it to say, they finally had to just put me out entirely in order to perform the operation and when I came to, I was pleased to discover I had a brand new tooth. And a healthy respect for dentists…they leave me alone, I leave them alone. It’s a deal we have.