I've spent a great deal of time in the dentist's chair. Maybe it's my penchant for power napping right after snacking on a full sleeve of Oreo's, or the merciless way in which I bite down on Jolly Ranchers because I like how it makes my teeth stick together, but my oral bed has been made for quite some time now (TWSS?). After several pulled wisdom teeth, a couple of root canals, filled cavities, and even a little gum surgery, I'm used to having my mouth and my wallet violated in all sorts of voluntary ways. The bulk of this work has actually taken place in the past two years, and the main reason I don't shart myself every time someone turns on a high-pitched drill-sounding device in my presence is because I've got such a great dentist. She's calm, gentle, soft-spoken, and easy on the eyes. She isn't stingy with the Novocain and will always 'script me some lovely narcotics with which to further avoid reality.
However, I didn't always have it so good. I used to not even care if my dentists were male or female, a mistake I once paid for dearly. The last male dentist I ever had, who shall henceforth be referred to as Dr. M (as in Motherfucker), started off well enough. I was pleased with how quickly he brought me in to handle a cavity that had developed on the back of my front teeth, seriously threatening my grill.
A few minutes after the chubby, numbing sensation had taken over the front of my face, Dr. M returned to get started on me. "This should only take half an hour or so" he said, a smug look of self-assurance hiding somewhere beneath his perfect smile. He then geared up -- mask and gloves -- but when he leaned over me I couldn't shake the feeling that something was out of place. In a flash it became frighteningly obvious; the surgical mask had been placed in such a way that it was only covering his mouth. Dr. M's big fat nostrils were now breathing who-knows-what right into my wide open facehole, not to mention all the incidental nicks and scrapes he was opening up with the drill across my gum line. In my mind I envisioned a constant stream of germs and assorted particulates being ejaculated from his nose and settling into my exposed gum tissue. And then, with the Gods conspiring against me, things got even worse.
At first glance it didn't seem like anything of size or consequence whatsoever. A little flake, but a noticeable one nonetheless, of snot was dangerously close to the edge of his left nostril. It clung for dear life onto one of his nose hairs, wildly flapping back and forth with each breath like a towel that had been hung out to dry in a storm. By this point I would have sworn it to be the size of a towel, too. It was all I could look at. He may have very well drilled directly into my brain stem, but I was too focused on willing that little bastard to hold on. Just a few more minutes I thought. Don't let go big guy -- you can do it!
But it couldn't. Like the Rock Biter from The Neverending Story, it just wasn't strong enough to hold on. Only instead of having its friends swept away by the nothing, it shot straight into my mouth. I gagged something fierce. Dr. M pulled back and I sat up, wondering if anyone would blame me for throwing up all over his expensive dental equipment. "Whoa-ho there! You need some suction?" he asked. "No, yoo da sucthun!" was the best I could retort through dead lips and tongue. I considered other, more harsh phrases such as "duh-ee affhoe" or "peef of sitt cweep," but ultimately decided it better to hold off on the insults until he was finished putting sharp instruments inside me.
To make matters worse, in the final moments of the appointment he stepped away for a few minutes to take a call. When he returned he ran gauze over my teeth to check the bite and ensure there weren't any sharp spots needing to be buffed down. After he gave the all clear, I looked over in enough time to see that the hand he had just pulled from my mouth was un-gloved. As in my tongue now knew the taste of the bare, hairy-knuckled hand that he was probably holding the phone with moments earlier. I looked at him in a confused, squinty way and asked "Did yoo jush puh yo un-gwoved hand in mah mouf?"
His response floored me, "Yeah, but only for a second," he said with a smile. A SMILE. Motherfucker. Not just motherfucker, but real slow and angry, like MUUUUTHAFUCKAHHH. I wanted to punch him in his stupid leaky nose. Instead, I told his receptionist that I couldn't find my Visa and to just bill me. A bill which I sent back without payment, save a pair of rubber gloves and the words "I would have paid this if Dr. Knuckle Hair knew how to use these" scrawled across it. In the end I'm happy to report that he never even sent me to collections for the unpaid amount, but above and beyond that I'm even happier to report that that son of a bitch didn't leave any diseases in my mouth. Unless of course you consider reverse gender bias to be some kind of newfangled, ridiculously awesome disease of obviousness.
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