THE JOY OF TOOTH PULLINGPosted - 5/3/03 3:31 AM PST - 0 1 0 1 0 -
What is this all about, you ask? Have you ever heard of blood? It's this strange liquid that flows through your body and, as a side effect, keeps you alive. If you injure yourself, small to large quantities of blood can escape from your body and flee like so many plasmic Richard Kimbles. If you swallow a moderate amount of blood, a flavor, similar to that of copper, is left in your mouth. Swallow enough blood and your belches will start to taste like a roll of Abe Lincolns. A few weeks back, my dentist discovered two tiny cavities in my upper wisdom teeth. I was given a choice: fill them or remove them. Having never had chunks of enamel brutally torn from head, I obviously went with the later. Over the years, I've heard countless horror stories about wisdom teeth extraction. Most people have all four removed at the same time, regardless of the consequences. I remember a kid in high school that was unable to speak or chew solid food for a full week after the operation. In Acting 3, the teacher forced him to do a monolgue from Twelth Night in this condition. I think someone filmed it. Poke around Kazaa and you may just find an MPEG copy. According to my orthodontist, if a doctor has to remove teeth that haven't broken the surface of the gumline, the patient is in for days of tremendous pain. My teeth popped out years ago. This was going to be a breeze. Wisdom teeth extraction is the adult equivalent of having your tonsils removed. It's a right-of-passage. It's also fucking terrifying. To make matters worse, you aren't allowed to bring a Care Bear into the operating room. While I guess you could, such a practice is universally frowned upon once you can legally buy a six pack of Jack Daniel's Hard Cola. You're also over the maxium age-limit to have an indentured mother wait on you hand and foot during the recovery period. No doubt about it, this was going to suck.
Without losing a beat, the dentist entered, took a seat and jammed this instrument of doom straight into the softest, squishiest part of my mouth. It felt like a sting from a robotic scorpion sent from the future to terrorize my gumline. Six stings later, they left the room to let the anesthetic take effect. Like a fool, I didn't bolt and flee for the county line. I stayed in the chair and flipped through a copy of Highlights. Apparently, against all reason, it's still being published. The weird thing about this magazine is that hasn't changed, even slighty, in over 45 years. The layout and columns haven't budged and the management has made no attempt to cater to today's pre-adolescents, which would rather steal Humvees than read insructions on how to make paper plate tamborines. Even Goofus and Gallant still make a monthly appearance. The editor-in-chief must be an octogenarian Mormon living in house made out of candy. The existence of a current issue of Highlights magazine defies at least fifteen laws of physics. Still, this kindly little magazine is proof that there's hope for humanity after all.
Tooth removal hasn't advanced much in the last two-hundred years. While the dentist didn't tie my tooth to a door knob and slam it, the first thing he broke out was a pair of pliers. They resembled what you might find in a bin by a Home Depot cash register, only shinier. As if loosening a lug nut, the dentist wrapped the pliers around the right tooth and jiggled it. All I could feel was pressure. After what seemed like an hour, he reached for a pair of clamps the size of a baby.
A close up of the extracted teeth. Feel free to print these on a t-shirt decale.
"One down," the dentist announced as the assistant jammed a tube in my mouth. Pink blood salvia filed the tube and shot off down a line into the floor. Where does all this orthodontic waste go? Maybe it shoots down a pipe to a Fresca plant in Denver.
Ten minutes ago, I was walking home from the car lot from where this dinosaur has been "roaring" for two weeks now. A Beaverton sherrif zoomed past and slammed on his brakes when he spotted me in my black jacket and suspicious-looking stocking cap. His tires skid as he did a 180 and buzzed back to where I was looking over my shoulder. The sheriff jumped out of his squad car and pointed a flashlight at my eyes. "Where are you headed," he asked. His coworker was already radioing for back-up. "Uh, home. I live around the corner." "What are you doing out here at 3 in the morning?" "Well, it's going to sound stupid but I came down here to take a picture of the dinosaur." "The dinosaur?" Not only was I dressed like a burglar, I was tripping to boot. "Yeah, the balloon down at the Ron Tonkin dealership." "We've been getting a lot of calls about robberies tonight. Where's your ID?" "Back at the house." "What's that in your pocket?" "The camera." He still wasn't convinced. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, dressed like the sort of person that breaks windows in the middle of the night. How many cautionary Stevie Wonder songs are there about this sort of thing? I was about to earn myself a ride a police car. With no cards left to play, I showed him the camera. "OK, well, if you see anybody breaking windows. Give us a call. We're getting slammed." They zoomed away. This is how I spend my Friday nights. Yes, the picture stinks but it's going to stay. I've just been a victim of a stocking cap profiling.
 OK, where's my arts endowment?
Back in the dentists chair, the mixture of dried gauze and warm blood was making me nauseous. The feeling disapeared when the doctor returned with a prescription slip. My problems melted away. All was well in the world.
|