Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Imagine my surprise. My convoluted, crescendoeing delight.
Sitting in a dental chair, sweating like a glazed ham, and the dentist didn't ram a drill the size of Belarus down my throat.
In times past, the dentist has pwned me. Pwned like how Simon Cowell pwned Dannii Minogue's ass during X Factor.
He prodded, he poked, he asked me how much I grind my jaw (all the fucking time, and I'm not wearing that sexy headpiece to bed, douchebag, before you ask), and then he pressed a button that made my chair go upright again.
Upright sans drill. WTF.
Apparently my teeth are in perfectly great nick.
Dude, since when?
I don't floss. You don't need to tell me, because I want to floss. I really do. Sometimes I lay awake at night, sweating. Sweating like an eskimo in a Dubai parking lot, worrying about my gum-to-tooth surfactant ratio.
And yet still. I don't get up and thrust a piece of wax string there. I just live in the futile hope that my electric toothbrush is doing a vaguely excellent job of keeping the velvet off my gnashers.
So. When the dentist confirmed as such, I was kind of a bit suspicious. Given last time he literally drilled craters larger than Azerbaijan through my molars.
Maybe, as someone suggested, there isn't any tooth left to drill? In fact all that epoxy that now fills my gnashers means I can't get cavities anymore.
Whose pwned now eh? Whose your bitch now, drill guy?
PS: Totally going to floss tonight.
PPS: Wouldn't want to tempt fate.