Adventures in dentistry

I don’t like dentists.

Never have, never will.

There’s a good reason dentists have one of the highest suicide rates of any profession.

Nobody likes them.

They are evil.

So are dental hygenists.

As you know.

I was first traumatized by a dentist at the age of six.

He was a liver-lipped pudge with a creepy smile who always insisted I hug him when I entered his den.

He seemed to climax.

Then he sat me up on the stool and had his bull dog lick me all over my face.

Mr. Sanitary.

When I was a kid, I always had cavities.

When I grew up I had none.

That is because Dr. Dread knew we were welfare kids and had unlimited funds to fight tooth decay, even though the state didn’t give us enough money to eat.

So Dr. Dread got rich filling all my teeth, regardless of whether they needed filling.

I had enough mercury in my teeth to power thermometers all over the city.

Then I broke my front teeth in a tragic sports accident.

 I was 13, just getting ready to go to high school and I tripped over my welfare running shoes that had become talking shoes.

You know the ones. They were so worn out, the toe literally busted in half and looked like a yawning mouth which caused me to trip and break my front  teeth.

I was mortified.

I had lovely straight teeth, my best feature, and now they were ruined.

Didn’t help that my brothers came home and made fun of me, making all these vampire faces.

What a couple of douchebags.

So I went to Dr. Dread and he fixed ’em alrighty. He put these gold harnesses on them making my front teeth look like the McDonald Golden Arches.

I wore these all through high school.

During this exciting episode, Dr. Dread made sure to scare me away from dentistry forever.

He fixed my teeth with no anesthetic whatsoever.

I didn’t go back to the dentist until university and I only did so because my dentist was my rowing coach and I was dating him.

He fixed my teeth and all manner of things changed for me. I went from looking like Ugly Betty to Geena Davis in a heartbeat.

I grew breasts at the same time.

 Suddenly, I was no longer a virgin. 

I was so grateful to Dr. Dave, I went to him for years. That’s because he gave me dental gas.

He would give me an extra little taste just for the hell of it.

I loved him.

Years past and I lost touch with Dr. Dave. I went to many different dentists who weren’t bad. But I never forgot Dr. Dread and my Little House of Horrors experience.

A few years back, I entered into a compact with one of these fancy dentists. She told me I had to have my crowns replaced because it appeared the teeth behind them were rotting. Again, I was horrified.

Until I realized that what she was saw in the X-ray was the brown cement Dr. Dave had used to seal my crowns thirty years ago, before this dentist was born.

I went for a second opinion. The second dentist, a nice Iranian, said the prognosis was bullshit.  I realized she only wanted to replace my crowns because I had dental insurance.

Like Dr. Dread

I have another dentist story, another true tale you can tell the kids around the campfire.

My friend Phil has a heart condition and when he goes to the dentist, he has to have antibiotics. The doctor forgot to give him the antibiotics and nearly killed him. Phil had been in perfect health before he sat down on the dentist’s stool and this pro allowed his diseased tooth to attack his heart valves.

Phil spent weeks in intensive care with doctors wearing enough gear to protect them from a nuclear meltdown.

All this came down just weeks after Phil retired from the government.

He’s better now, but he’ll never be the same.

I wonder if Dr. Dread moved from St. Catharines to Ottawa.


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