Open Wide
I'm sure most of you will agree that there is nothing more terrifying than going to the dentist.
As you wait for the day of your appointment, your anxiety levels go through the roof of your mouth. You imagine what is to come, and I suppose that whatever your imagination pictures in the cinema of your mind, that terrifying horror flick of scrape, grind and drill is almost as bad as actually being in the dentist's chair. Almost, but not quite.
It's a primitive practice, this thing we call dentistry. Think about it. We let someone invade our mouth with handy little power tools to have a go at some kind of absurd dental renovation, not just once mind you, but over and over again. That's right, every six months or so, someone calls us on the telephone and instructs us to show up for a little invasive S&M.
But it's not rough sex, is it? I mean, there's no orgasm waiting for you after the hogtying or flagellation comes to an end. No, after your painful little date with Dr Molarbaum and his evil assistant, you get a second whacking, when you stagger from the dentist's chair into the waiting room and the bright-white-smiling receptionist presents you with a bill that approximates the cost of a down payment on a house.
And, incredible as it may sound, you pick up the tab for the entire affair. You're still so half-drugged, so half-crazed from agony, that you actually pull out a credit card and pay some atrocious amount for your tryst of suffering.
What's worse is that there is usually a follow-up appointment, a second date, yet another frightening ménage à trois with those two masked invaders, the very two whom you've just managed to escape, so that they can complete their illicit bump and grind in your most sacred orifice.
The horror, I say, the horror!
Oh sure, someone will tell you that it's all a necessary evil. Someone will placate you with admonitions to be brave, to be an adult, to be calm.
Nonsense.
Next time, the dentist's office calls, be afraid. Be very afraid. You're in for some STD, Some Terrifying Drilling, and no amount of penicillin will ease your suffering.
I'm sure most of you will agree that there is nothing more terrifying than going to the dentist.
As you wait for the day of your appointment, your anxiety levels go through the roof of your mouth. You imagine what is to come, and I suppose that whatever your imagination pictures in the cinema of your mind, that terrifying horror flick of scrape, grind and drill is almost as bad as actually being in the dentist's chair. Almost, but not quite.
It's a primitive practice, this thing we call dentistry. Think about it. We let someone invade our mouth with handy little power tools to have a go at some kind of absurd dental renovation, not just once mind you, but over and over again. That's right, every six months or so, someone calls us on the telephone and instructs us to show up for a little invasive S&M.
But it's not rough sex, is it? I mean, there's no orgasm waiting for you after the hogtying or flagellation comes to an end. No, after your painful little date with Dr Molarbaum and his evil assistant, you get a second whacking, when you stagger from the dentist's chair into the waiting room and the bright-white-smiling receptionist presents you with a bill that approximates the cost of a down payment on a house.
And, incredible as it may sound, you pick up the tab for the entire affair. You're still so half-drugged, so half-crazed from agony, that you actually pull out a credit card and pay some atrocious amount for your tryst of suffering.
What's worse is that there is usually a follow-up appointment, a second date, yet another frightening ménage à trois with those two masked invaders, the very two whom you've just managed to escape, so that they can complete their illicit bump and grind in your most sacred orifice.
The horror, I say, the horror!
Oh sure, someone will tell you that it's all a necessary evil. Someone will placate you with admonitions to be brave, to be an adult, to be calm.
Nonsense.
Next time, the dentist's office calls, be afraid. Be very afraid. You're in for some STD, Some Terrifying Drilling, and no amount of penicillin will ease your suffering.
