Quite frequently I find myself fielding the same questions over and over whenever I am introduced to somebody new.  Questions like, “Sweet bastard, what’s that smell?”And “Sweet bastard, what the hell’s wrong with your teeth?”

I haven’t figured out the answer to the first question yet (I have theories), but I do know the answer to the second question. You see, I haven’t been to the dentist in about, oh, a fucking eon or so.  Many people tout the old adage of treating your body like a temple, well, I think it’s more fun to treat your body like a biker gang’s outhouse.

Fuck you!  I’m gonna smoke, drink and eat pork!

In recent years I have tried to be better about what goes in and out of my body, as well as performing the general maintenance associated with getting older.

So, about two weeks ago I finally swallowed what little pride I had and decided to make a dental appointment.  This was a massive step for me, since I have a paralyzing fear of strange men probing the inside of my mouth.  The last time I had a strange man shove his hand inside my mouth it was a non-consensual affair that took place in the alleyway behind a Thai restaurant.

And I learned two things that night:#1; alcohol doesn’t completely numb the body and #2; too much curry makes people do weird shit.

Moving on…

Wandering into the dentist’s office, I was quickly put to ease by the sight of an older gentleman sitting across from me in the waiting room.  He had a harelip and, swinging from his deformed kisser like a liquid pendulum was a thin, gooey string of spittle.  Apparently, he was unaware of the juice that dripped from his lip.  I’m guessing this had to do with the intellectually stimulating reading material that he was intently focused on.  For my money, nothing explodes synapses quite like a People magazine article about those fucking idiots from Jon & Kate Plus 8.  The whole time I was sitting there I was thinking, Do people with harelips have more dental problems than people without harelips?  I mean, their upper teeth are more exposed to the elements since, you know, there is no lip there to protect the enamel.  Do they have more tartar buildup and plaque?

Before I could solve these deep riddles and before I could barf or jam a complimentary toothbrush into my eyeball, I was summoned to the X-Ray machine.  At first I got excited, since a heavy bib was draped over my head.  Briefly, I thought, Sweet, Gabe’s gonna be eatin’ ribs tonight!  Alas, the bib wasn’t there to soak up barbeque sauce, it was there to, I don’t know, soak up radiation or something.  Then a telescope-looking contraption was swiveled around my head and I was forced to bite down on several hard plastic things.  The last time I was forced to bite down on several hard things I was in the alleyway behind a Thai restaurant and…oh wait, nevermind.  Anyway, this interlude was somewhat disconcerting because I have a severe fear of robots, machines, and, strangely enough, radiation.  I handled this well though, only a drip or two of piss trickled down my pants.

Anyway, after several years of neglect (wherein I gulped down half a dozen fillings, regularly flossed my teeth with beef jerky, and consistently gargled with Mountain Dew; leaving my mouth looking like the worn-out bunghole of a shit-prone Rottweiler) I took my medicine like a man and was calmly dragged to the dentist’s chair, where I white-knuckled my way through relaxing probes, pokes and scrapes by a variety of sinister hooks, spatulas and harpoons.  For a minute there, I thought I had wandered into the OB/GYN office by mistake.  I can’t wait to get back the results of my tongue Pap smear!

Immediately I realized that nothing eases the tension quite like the feeling of a metal hook scraping across sensitive teeth.  I especially get a kick out of sharp steel instruments being jammed into rotted-out cavities.  Somehow I was able to survive this torture, only to be told that I had to come back for more work.

More work?

So this is what my life has devolved into.  One uncomfortable dental visit after another (and, this is no knock on my dentist or anybody else at the office; they’ve all been great).  As of now, I have a temporary crown on my back, right molar; while the left side of my mouth has more exposed holes than an AVN awards-show after-party.  Basically, this means I can’t eat anything solid.  And that means I can’t eat anything good.

So I’ve added more Whiskey to my diet.

Take care of your teeth kids!