The Dentist

At noon I have a dentist appointment.  I've already flossed with a jigsaw so my gums are ready.  For people who are supposed to care for your mouth it's a bit odd that, for example, the hygienist takes after her duties with all of the delicacy of a cowboy desperately hanging on to a bucking bull.  First, she jams the floss below my gum line to just above the colon.  Then she hears a snapping sound or some stimulus that reminds her of a dark part of her childhood and out comes the dental Exorcist jerking and flailing until she pulls out food I'd actually swallowed for breakfast.  And then invariably, sweating and disheveled, she mats back her hair, takes a hit of nitris and calmly tells me I need to floss more.   My mouth is so tender I have to breathe through my nose and Igor wants me to take her practice of attacking my gums with barbed piano wire home with me.  Maybe if I need to get some plaque out of my aorta I might use her Greco-Roman style.  And then after the gum flogging, an oral probe with a tiny metal pick which I'm always sure will hook a root and pull out thirty-feet of nerve, and the Shrieking Banshee brand polishing tool caking your mouth with wet sand, they conclude the visit with a reminder to be more gentle when I brush and floss.  More gentle than what?  You mean I shouldn't use a revolver to shoot stuff out of my teeth?  So I really don't even need to go.  I can skip the bi-annual lecture and just stay home and chew on some sheet metal.  Unless of course I get a free sticker.  Although the bleeding gums and the screaming associated with eating hard foods like mayonnaise are signs enough you've just come from the dentist.