Woo-Hoo Motherfucker...
Here's my latest piece for "The Bullsheet". I just finished it a couple of minutes ago and I I'll be damned if I ain't a little proud of it. It warms the cockles of my heart. Yep, that's right, warm cockles.
This morning I got up at the freshly scrubbed ass-crack of dawn to go to the dentists. I had to go the dentists because I don’t floss my molars every 30 minutes and upset the great god Apollo (little known fact: Apollo was not only the Greek sun god, but also the deity of Hellenic dental hygiene…it ain’t as glamorous as being the keeper of the grand Milky Way’s only light source so he kept it on the d-low.) causing cavities to spring out my damn teeth like dandelions on a cracked sidewalk. When I walked into the office three minutes late for my 8:30 appointment I was immediately chastised by the secretary on duty for my lack of punctuality. The woman has an oddly faint Eastern European accent, which only adds to her matronly, fascistic persona. The last I showed up late she called me on my cell-phone in order to verbally berate me long distance. I don’t know how she got my cell number, but the woman is nothing if not tenacious. She would’ve made a great second grade teacher at a parochial school.
After my ritualistic scolding the dentist called me back to one of the operating rooms (is that the right term? It sounds too severe for a dental practice. You go to an operating room to have a gallstone removed, not for an abscessed tooth) to fill fix my dysfunctional grill. Now, my dentist fits the archetype to a T: middle-aged white guy, pleasant, yet stultifyingly boring, and with unattainable expectations for my oral grooming habits. I don’t need to bore you with the details of the room itself because all dentists’ offices are alike. I actually think the rooms are manufactured en masse at a factory outside Poughkeepsie, NY. Any who, I lay back in the dentist’s chair that was designed the way I imagine Barcaloungers are in hell to let the nurse pump the left side of my face with enough anesthetic to fell a full grown Clydesdale.
It was when I was sitting back, listening to the slightly audible music being played throughout the office that I had a revelation. They were playing a local station called WARM 98, supplying me with “all your soft rock favorites” (note: soft rock ain’t a genre of music. Rock by its very nature is harder than the Hope diamond. Soft rock deserves to be buried in the American Pop Culture cemetery with “Mambo No. 5” and Bryan Adams). Journey’s “I Want to Know What Love Is” started floating from the speakers and I thought, “Why the flying fuck do I have to listen to this shit? It’s painful enough with the rotten taste of enamel and chemicals filling my mouth as I have my teeth bored down and you have to compound my pain with this pap?”
Well, you and I don’t have to endure that endless torture no more because I’ve decided to switch from being and Lit major to pre-med, and as soon as I get the D.D.S behind my name I’m opening a chain of “Drew’s Dental Dementia” outlets. No more of this soft rock crap playing in the waiting room. You sonsabitches are getting AC/DC on full blast. And instead of anesthetizing my patients with a sterilized needle, we’ll do it the old fashioned way with a tankard of bathtub gin and some methamphetamines. As for those frumpy nurses wearing form-obscuring O.R. scrubs, they can hit the road. Nothing but amateur models wearing the bare minimum amount of leather: pasties and thongs for the female nurses, a pair of chaps for the men.
With 5,000 kilowatts of Led Zeppelin assaulting your ears, about 30 ounces of 150 proof liquor coursing through your body, a couple of tabs of LSD6 hitting you smack dab in the medulla, and a failed runway model leaning over your chair you won’t have time to think about the drill rotating at 3,000 RPM several inches above your face. This will make your mandatory trips to the dentist like your own private biannual bacchanal. So stop worrying about flossing and go out to get yourself some cavities so you can have a good time.
This morning I got up at the freshly scrubbed ass-crack of dawn to go to the dentists. I had to go the dentists because I don’t floss my molars every 30 minutes and upset the great god Apollo (little known fact: Apollo was not only the Greek sun god, but also the deity of Hellenic dental hygiene…it ain’t as glamorous as being the keeper of the grand Milky Way’s only light source so he kept it on the d-low.) causing cavities to spring out my damn teeth like dandelions on a cracked sidewalk. When I walked into the office three minutes late for my 8:30 appointment I was immediately chastised by the secretary on duty for my lack of punctuality. The woman has an oddly faint Eastern European accent, which only adds to her matronly, fascistic persona. The last I showed up late she called me on my cell-phone in order to verbally berate me long distance. I don’t know how she got my cell number, but the woman is nothing if not tenacious. She would’ve made a great second grade teacher at a parochial school.
After my ritualistic scolding the dentist called me back to one of the operating rooms (is that the right term? It sounds too severe for a dental practice. You go to an operating room to have a gallstone removed, not for an abscessed tooth) to fill fix my dysfunctional grill. Now, my dentist fits the archetype to a T: middle-aged white guy, pleasant, yet stultifyingly boring, and with unattainable expectations for my oral grooming habits. I don’t need to bore you with the details of the room itself because all dentists’ offices are alike. I actually think the rooms are manufactured en masse at a factory outside Poughkeepsie, NY. Any who, I lay back in the dentist’s chair that was designed the way I imagine Barcaloungers are in hell to let the nurse pump the left side of my face with enough anesthetic to fell a full grown Clydesdale.
It was when I was sitting back, listening to the slightly audible music being played throughout the office that I had a revelation. They were playing a local station called WARM 98, supplying me with “all your soft rock favorites” (note: soft rock ain’t a genre of music. Rock by its very nature is harder than the Hope diamond. Soft rock deserves to be buried in the American Pop Culture cemetery with “Mambo No. 5” and Bryan Adams). Journey’s “I Want to Know What Love Is” started floating from the speakers and I thought, “Why the flying fuck do I have to listen to this shit? It’s painful enough with the rotten taste of enamel and chemicals filling my mouth as I have my teeth bored down and you have to compound my pain with this pap?”
Well, you and I don’t have to endure that endless torture no more because I’ve decided to switch from being and Lit major to pre-med, and as soon as I get the D.D.S behind my name I’m opening a chain of “Drew’s Dental Dementia” outlets. No more of this soft rock crap playing in the waiting room. You sonsabitches are getting AC/DC on full blast. And instead of anesthetizing my patients with a sterilized needle, we’ll do it the old fashioned way with a tankard of bathtub gin and some methamphetamines. As for those frumpy nurses wearing form-obscuring O.R. scrubs, they can hit the road. Nothing but amateur models wearing the bare minimum amount of leather: pasties and thongs for the female nurses, a pair of chaps for the men.
With 5,000 kilowatts of Led Zeppelin assaulting your ears, about 30 ounces of 150 proof liquor coursing through your body, a couple of tabs of LSD6 hitting you smack dab in the medulla, and a failed runway model leaning over your chair you won’t have time to think about the drill rotating at 3,000 RPM several inches above your face. This will make your mandatory trips to the dentist like your own private biannual bacchanal. So stop worrying about flossing and go out to get yourself some cavities so you can have a good time.