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7:14 a.m. - 2004-09-21

YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TOOTH!

So I go to the ... hmmmm ... he's not really a dentist although he works on teeth. I guess he could be called the tooth doctor. But for the sake of argument, let's just refer to him as that "goddamned Satanic fuck" for now.

So I go to the goddamned Satanic fuck (GSF)yesterday so he can confirm that I have a cracked tooth and determine what the hell we're going to do with this cracked tooth o' mine.

After reading a six-month old People Magazine in the waiting room for just short of an eternity (Are J-Lo and Ben on the outs? Oooooo...the suspense!), I get called back to the chair o' death.

The GSF assistant is very sweet as she takes X-rays of this pain in the mouth. She's actually a little too sweet. She's got one of those voices that constantly sounds like she's trying to soothe a baby.

"Would woo wike a magazine while woo wait for wa doctor?" she cooed to me.

"Got anything from this century?" I snarled.

She tossed a Time magazine at my face with Michael Dukakis on the cover and a story detailing his chances of winning the presidency. The guy has a lot of good ideas for this country. I may end up voting for him after all.

Roughly six hours later, the GSF comes in the room.

"What seems to be the problem?" he asks.

Jesus, Mary and the Spook.

Let's see Doc ... I'm in an office where you work on teeth ... let's take a guess here ... ummmm ... my herpes is flaring up again??

"My dentist thinks I may have a cracked tooth," I reply meekly.

"Ah," the doctor says, like this is something completely foreign to him. "Let's take a look."

He pries my mouth open and begins fiddling with my teeth.

"Does this hurt?" he asks, touching a tooth.

"Nnnngh," I reply.

"This?"

"Nnnngh".

"This?" as he hammers out the drum solo to Led Zeppelin's "Moby Dick" on my cracked tooth with a ball peen hammer.

I felt like the amazing Couch Woman as I pressed myself so deep into the chair that I became one with it.

"NNNNNNNNGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!" I nnnghed.

"Ah," he said. "I think I've found the tooth."

Nevermind that I had told the evil bastard that it was tooth #30 already. My dentist had determined this last week as he made me chew a ball of aluminum foil to find the bad tooth.

He slaps me to and fro as he stares into my mouth.

"It's cracked alright," he deducts. "Looks like you're going to need a root canal."

Somebody call Robert Stack because this mystery has been SOLVED, BAYBEEE!!!

"Well, let's schedule a root canal," I said, wiping the puddle of blood from my chin.

"How about in two minutes?" the GSF says.

Huh?!?

I was led to believe that I was here for the doctor to look in my mouth, determine what needed to be done and then SCHEDULING the procedure to be done at a later date ... like sometime in 2011.

Nope.

Put on your dancing shoes, Santa ... it's time for the ROOT CANAL RHUMBA!

Now then ... here's my vast experience with root canals:

1) Growing up, anytime there was a dreaded chore to be done, my Dad would say "C'mon ... this will be more fun than a root canal!" Meaning this wasn't going to be fun at all.

Hmmm ... that's the extent of my root canal experience really.

So I was a little ... hmmmmm ... what's the word? "Scaredfuckingshitless"? I think that's it.

"Do we have to do it today?" I whimpered.

"Why not?" the GSF asked. "You're here. I'm here. I've got the tools and you've got the tooth."

"I thought ... you know ... I'd have to psych myself up for something like this first."

"Bah!" he said. He actually bah'ed. As God as my witness, the evil bastard bah'ed. "This will take 45 minutes tops and you'll be good as new."

I looked at the cooing GSF assistant who had her bottom lip thrust out and looked as if she were about to cry. I guess this was her silent showing of sympathy.

The GSF grabs a needle about two and a half blocks long and says "This may sting a bit."

Oh.

Well thanks for the breakdown of what's about to happen, Skipper. I've never had a hypodermic needle puncture my flesh before. Gee. I thought it'd tickle.

I have no idea where he inserted the needle, but it felt like he jabbed it repeatedly in my lungs via my mouth.

"Lemme know when you start tingling," he said.

Because of the years of subjecting my eardrums to the sounds of high energy dance music, I thought he said "tinkling".

So I tried like hell to piss my pants to no avail.

Meanwhile, my head started feeling like invisible butterflies were swarming around it.

"My head's tingling," I mentioned to the assistant.

"Oooooo! His widdle head is tingwing!" she cooed. "He's weady, Doctor!"

The GSF came back into the room.

"Can you feel this?" he said, rubbing his hand against my cheek.

"It tingles a bit, but no. It's numb," I responded.

"How about this?" he asked as he punched my cheek repeatedly with a roll of quarters tucked tightly inside his fist.

"Nothing," I said.

"This?" he asked as he tongued my ear.

"Nope," I said.

"You're ready," he said, putting on some tight fitting purple gloves and his little Michael Jackson mask.

Now I don't claim to be a dentist or a goddamned Satanic fuck. I have no idea what a root canal entails and since I'm not exactly propped up in front of a mirror while he's doing this, I can't say for sure what he did.

I'm guessing he broke my tooth open and scooped out some of the worst smelling shit I have ever smelled in my entire life.

My God. They could bottle the shit that came out of my tooth and use it as a much more effective alternative to smelling salts. It smelled like a combination of raw sewage and death.

After 45 minutes of subjecting me to my own deep dark nasty toothy shit smells, he declared the whole operation complete.

I wanted to ask him about any restrictions I should have as far as eating, drinking and performing oral sex, but it quickly became apparent that he had amputated my tongue because all I could say was "Ninghya bbbbbbubba herrr huh".

"You're going to be numb for several hours," he said, cleaning my inner tooth shit off his glasses. "Chew on the left side of your mouth and avoid sucking dick as much as possible."

I protested that I wasn't gay, but it came out more like the monster in "Young Frankenstein" singing "Puttin' On The Ritz".

After paying the lady at the counter $260 for this fun filled couple of hours, I stumbled out into the parking lot, slapping the shit out of my cheek for kicks.

I stopped and got some Lortabs because the doctor wouldn't prescribe morphine, came home, took a pill and passed out cold on the bed.

Woke up in a puddle of drool and a face that was no longer tingling but throbbing.

I can expect two more days of pain according to the little sheet he handed me as I tried to tell him I wasn't gay.

Fun, fun, fun.

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