Torture, Death, and Dentistry…

(This was supposed to be posted yesterday but this damn site's been down.... so, let's pretend it's yesterday!) (Yuck! I'd rather pretend it was Friday!)

Today, I have my first dental appointment in five years… yes, that's right. Five years!

Five years without a cleaning. Can you imagine? The hygienist is in there, rooting around (no pun intended), when she asks, "Mr. La Celle, when was the last time you ate sesame seeds?"

"Um, 1987," I answer.

Which is when she uncontrollably vomits...

See, here's the thing. When Rosa and I split up, I figured there was no sense in taking care of my self because, after all, my life was over. I was ready to die, right? And then the trip to the Grand Canyon didn't work out. (For those not in "the know", I was supposed to kill myself. Nothing ever goes as planned.) And then, I met Vicky.

All of a sudden, my life wasn't over any longer. It was taking a new start, something I hadn't foreseen, and not taking care of myself was no longer such a good plan.

I went to the doctor and found out I was in pretty good health. Pretty amazing, considering.
Last year, I lost a filling. I was in a show; it was the night of a performance. I was eating licorice, which ripped the filling right out! (That was an interesting night, to say the least!) So, I know I need that redone!

But dentists and I have never been the best of friends. Dentists have always been bad news. When my adult teeth were coming in, and the baby teeth didn't want to come out on their own, a dentist had to break my old teeth to be able to pull them. That was fun! Then, I had a dentist drill and fill three teeth - WITHOUT ANESTHETIC! More fun for me!

So, I don't like dentists.

Dentists are the kind of people who will say, "I don't know, Mr. La Celle. This tooth looks like it's ready to go."

"Are you sure?" I'd ask.

Then, he'd hit me in the mouth with a hammer, taking out several teeth and say, "Yep, I'd say you've got a few bad ones. Looks like the other side of the mouth might need some work, too."
"Okay! Okay!" I'd yell, spitting blood and bits of tooth. "I trust you!"

Dentists always had a very Ren&Stimpy-esque quality to me.

This time, I had to find a new dentist, one who took my insurance. And how do you do that? I mean, really? The bastards at 1-800-RIPYOURTOOTHOUT are only on there by virtue of having paid for membership. You can't believe your insurance companies.

And the ads! Oh, crap! The ads! "My name's Bob Murzasky, founder and graduate of the Murzasky school of dentistry. I founded my own school because those other schools - the bastards who wouldn't let me attend - don't teach the basics. Here, we teach you the Hammer, the Chisel, the Vise, the String and the Doorknob, and, of course, all the latest techniques in torture perfected by our friends in the US government. I didn't have to go to a real school to become a dentist and neither do you at the Murzasky school of dentistry."

This is when the voice-over comes in. "The Murzasky school of dentistry is not a qualified dental school and is actually located in Bob's kitchen. Stay away! Stay far away! Don't look in the basement! No! Don't! Oh, god! The bodies! Rotting flesh! The horror! Oh, God! The horror! Aaaaarrrggghhhhhhh!"

…. yeah, I hate dentists...