The tooth, the whole tooth & nothing but the tooth

The tooth, the whole tooth & nothing but the tooth

I have a confession to make. I have a secret fear that I am going to share with you. All three of you that read my blog. Clowns don’t scare me. I am not scared of big dogs (despite being mistaken for a chew toy as a kid once or twice) and I have no problem dealing out the big squishy on bugs of various shapes and sizes.
No worries there.
What I am afraid of, downright terrified of in fact, are dentists.
Terrified.
A big fat wuss, even.
When I was a wee lad, lo those many moons ago, I had the single misfortune of visiting a dentist with the chair-side manner of Orin Scrivello, DDS. (What? You didn’t see Little Shop of Horrors? Tsk, tsk)
Let’s just say that he had a talent for causing me pain. Who knew a simple tooth extraction would turn into a scene from Friday the 13th? Sure, maybe the tooth breaking while he tried to yank it from my per-pubescent mouth wasn’t his fault. But surely he could hear my anguished scream while he hummed a few bars of the Battle Hymn of the Republic, right?
And when I waved my hands to get his attention to let him know that the anesthetic had worn off and it was a little uncomfortable for me, what with him digging the shattered remains of my tooth out.
Maybe he was just too engrossed to notice.
Well, ever since that lovely little watershed moment, I have been reduced to complete globs of jelly whenever someone mentions a dentist.
Sure I brush and floss and what not but the truth is, I’d rather lose my teeth on most days than go back.
Unfortunately for me, one of my molars had other plans.
A filling I had since the Carter Administration, decided to up and leave without telling me one day and my poor molar, bereft and really just a hollow shell of its former self without the filling, was left broken.
Literally. Like a huge chunk missing. Sort of like an off white version of the second death star. In my mouth though.
Ah. Fun times.
I like pain. Loads and loads of it. Heaping tons of it. Don’t you? There is nothing better than pain that feels kind of like someone driving a really thin, sharp needle the size of a railroad spike through your skull.
That’s the best.
But since I need sleep and my constant crying was beginning to scare my kids, I decided to bite the bullet and go to the dentist.
He gave me options. It was adorable. “Would you like to save the tooth? We would simply do a root canal and then you would need a crown of course…”
Suddenly I had this image of a jackhammer being forced into my mouth and a large Hell’s Angel with a really neat tattoo of a skull and spider web and a sledge hammer and a bottle of whiskey –
“It would take about 45 minutes to do the canal work and depending on the…”
And he would be laughing as a really scary Dental Hygienist with a heavy German accent snickered as she wiped the gore off the walls-
“But of course, the choice is entirely yours.”
I smiled like I had actually been listening. Which I was… sort of.
“How much would all that cost?”
“Around sixteen hundred.”
“How much to just pull it?”
“Two hundred fifty-ish.”
Hmm. A bionic tooth complete with GPS transponder and weather detector or a family vacation in the summer? Assuming the Keys doesn’t end up looking like the Alaskan coastline after the Exxon Valdez passed through, a vacation would be nice.
“Pull it.”
The best part of the whole experience was that, other than the injection for the pain killer, I never felt a thing. Sweet. The tooth stayed in one piece as it was extracted which was a win as far as I was concerned.
Worse part?
I woke up this morning and realized that I got stiffed by the stinking Tooth Fairy.

Bacon! Now with Extra Justice!

Bacon! Now with Extra Justice!

You know, I have had weird dreams. I mean really, really strange dreams. Dwarfs with lightsabers, Nazis on surfboards fighting ninjas.
I once had a dream where the car I was driving had wheels made of Oreos. Took me forever to get home on account of me snacking on the tires.
But last night. Last night I had the mother of all dreams.
First I am going to start with the Raccoons. They were the first sign that something was wrong. I awoke to find the window of the kitchen pried open, little footprints all over the house. Up the walls, over the counters.
The food still in its containers left me a trifle puzzled.
If the furry little burglars were not after food, then what?
Suddenly, with a sense of foreboding I approached my X-Box 360 console. My games were askew.
I knew it! They were after my games!
Again.
But ,wait. The games were still there, safe in their plastic DVD cases. Scattered a bit to be sure but otherwise unharmed. Little pellets of Raccoon poo showed that something startled them. They left in a hurry.
They were afraid.
But what could strike fear into the heart of a hard core gamer Raccoon?
Only one thing.
Ruskies.
As I rush out into my yard and see people running in fear.
“Russians! They’re everywhere!”
The Russians, apparently, are coming.
The next thing I know, I am on the roof of a tall building, my squad mates calling out enemy positions as they try to surround us. The wail of sirens echoing in the distance. and the roar of troop transports overhead spilling parachuting Spetsnaz.
Holy Eisenhower!
Its raining Commies!?!
“I have movement on my right! Engaging targets now!”
Kowalski, my sniper, is zapping approaching infantry from the top of our really tall skyscraper like a kid with a magnifying glass.
Yes. Kowalski.
Of course there is a Kowalski in my unit! The Kowalski is always the crazy bad ass. Every unit needs one. I can hear the staccato of machine gun fire getting closer. Bullets crack into the cinder blocks we are taking cover behind and I can feel the bite of concrete fragments pelting me.
The smell of cordite is thick in the air.
Any minute now I expect the enemy to start raining mortars on my position.
It’s what I would do.
And then I see it. Shining in the early morning light, right next to an air conditioning condenser unit.
Lying there in all its greasy glory.
It’s bacon.
Glowing magically, it calls to me like Excalibur to Arthur, like donuts to fat kids, like interns to … well… everyone in Congress.
“My God. It’s a machine gun made of bacon.” I scramble over to it, ducking as rounds cut the air over my head.
I pick it up.
Kowalski, who stood up to reload, sees the gun in my hand and this manic, exultant look blossoms across his face, “He’s got the bacon gun!” He plants his boot on the edge of the building and just starts blasting away, laughing maniacally.
For the record, Kowaslki is awesome.
I stand next to him, aiming the bacon gun, and open fire. It kicks hard but, because its not that big, I am able to keep it on target. I can see little puffs of dirt where the rounds are striking below me.
I lead an advancing column of enemy soldiers with my withering fire and I see them drop. Others run screaming “Salo! Salo! Ahhhhh!” in terror.
The ammunition never seems to run out. I wave the gun all over the broken ranks of soldiers beneath our position, the smell of bacon filling my nostrils.
I can hear the rest of the men in my squad cheering as enemy forces break ranks and run. Somewhere behind me a massive American flag is unfurling, I hear it snapping crisply in the breeze.
Dawn has broken.
The enemy is fleeing.
America is safe and old Glory flies high.
I love the smell of bacon in the morning.
Smells like…. victory!