Just Lie Back And Relax

Today was one of the two scariest days of the year. It was time to go to the dentist. I don't know exactly when this stopped being a minor event and was transformed into a full-scale, R-rated, fear-fest but I think it goes back to when I was a kid. Back in the good old days our mum would take us every four months to Mr Wilberforce, who would look at my teeth, tell me they were OK and send me on my merry way. Then for some reason he fucked off and we got this psychopathic cunt called Kilroy who started drilling holes in them. I vividly remember him one time filling a large molar and telling me in advance that since it was not a deep cavity I wouldn't need an anaesthetic injection. "If you start to feel pain just put your hand up and I'll stop."

So he started drilling and it started hurting; I put my hand up. "No, it's not hurting - I haven't gone that far yet." He drilled some more (did I mention that he was a cunt?) and I put my hand up again. "Not much more to do now - it's not worth stopping." And so on, until he finished. I think I must have been about eleven. If I could track down Mr Kilroy today I swear I'd put him on the ground, step on his bollocks and ask him to put his hand up when it started to hurt. "No, I don't think it hurts yet - I don't have my full weight on them. Let's try this. Cunt." At least he knew how to put in a filling - that bastard's still in there.

When I left home I pretty much avoided going to the dentist unless I did something stupid like drunkenly breaking a tooth. (There was this party trick involving biting a chunk out of a beer can that seemed a lot more sensible when my brain was suspended in alcohol.) Coming to the US didn't help because everyone here is brought up to be a tooth-nazi, with a pathological obsession with straight, white teeth; I, meanwhile, subscribe to the Austin Powers school of seduction - never mind the teeth, it's all in the accent, baby. The first time Mrs Bison went to the dentist here he replaced every filling in her head and I thought "Fuck that - if he sees my teeth he'll be planning a new BMW". Consequently I left it about eight years between visits. And I didn't floss either.

Mrs Bison subsequently found this really friendly dentist and eventually I was persuaded to go, just for a check-up. Now life isn't fair, so apologies to all you poor bastards whose teeth require caps, bridges and extensive underpinning, but I escaped with just a bloody enormous descale and clean. And it's been like that every visit since (only with smaller cleanings - it really helps if you don't leave it eight years between examinations). Nevertheless I still dread going to the dentist. I hate sitting in the chair and opening my gob so he can start working his way down the line with his little poky metal stick, prodding and scratching, looking for decay. I dread having to have a filling, or having to have one replaced. (They're all more than 25 years old now, so it can only be a matter of time, surely?)

I don't need sedation, gas or tranquilizer darts, but the feeling of walking out and knowing I don't need to go for six more months is pure joy. And these are the most friendly, kind people you could wish to have fuck with your teeth. It doesn't make much sense - I'll willingly go into the gym (which is almost next door to the dentist) and do squats, which are an exercise in total body pain, and are doubtless screwing with my joints, but the moment that whiny drill thing gets near my teeth I lose all my sense of humor. It's just a different kind of pain, I suppose.

Anyway, I've seen Marathon Man, so don't tell me not to be a big pussy. I have a feeling Mr Kilroy saw it too. Probably many times. So put your hand up if you enjoy going to the dentist. Yeah, thought not.


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison
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