The Torture Chamber

That's where I've been.

Oh, you can call it the dentist's office if you so desire. But you are wrong. Dead wrong.

My self don't do too good on that there chair (read torture seat) they have anyway, and I am paying the price right now.

But I have been treated so roughly, I even broke a fingernail!

No monkey.

First, they make you fill out the same forms you filled out last time you were there, three years ago. And you have to sit on their awful waiting room chairs to do it, twisting and turning this way and that.

Of course, they are just getting you warmed up.

Then you are taken back by a chatty little thing, all Miss Sunshine of the Week.

Do NOT let that fool you.

She takes you to a room and throws lead over your chest, stuffs your mouth full of posion, runs like h-e-double toothpicks and pushes a button.

Forty times.

Then she makes you open your mouth like you are a python or something, and starts talking, asking you all sorts of questions.

Really? How do I answer those with all that stuff, including both her gloved hands, shoved in my rather small mouth?

She tells you what a goooood job you are doing taking care of your teeth, but that there is a teensy weensy bit of plaque build up.

Then comes the pick ax.

The question you have for her: Is now do I even have any teeth left?

She then attempts to drown you, multiple times.

Then comes the sweeping compound.

Remember sweeping compound? When I was in elementary school, in the old school, as well as my grandfather's grocery store, the floors were wood. And they used greasy, gritty stuff they sprinkled on the floors before they swept them. It kept anything from getting away from the broom.

That's what they use on your teeth, only it's pink instead of green.

Next is the floor sander. Where they find one that small, I don't know.

More drowning attempts.

Meanwhile, my  hair has been smashed, mashed, pushed, pulled and parted in ways I didn't know it could be parted.

And you just know you got ick all over your face.

Then the dentist comes in, joking around in his goggles and surgery mask. How do I know he is who he says he is?

He gazes at your teeth, a little hammering here, a little hammering there. He looks hard at the x-rays, glances at the clock - tee time! And tells you to keep doing whatever it is you're doing, your teeth look great!

Bye-bye!

I am limping back to the front, about to give them my life savings. (When I was a kid, check ups were free!)

That's when I notice I've broken my nail in all the meelee.

The receptionist takes my credit card, hands it back smokin', and asks do you want a six month appointment?

Not on your life, sister.