Tuesday, February 10, 2009

One more inch and he would have struck oil or blood

I am beginning to believe that my dentist missed his calling. As I was sitting in the dentist chair his hand in my mouth up to his elbow. The shrill sound of drill hitting bone and the acrid smell of burning tooth. I realized that maybe as a child this man wanted to be an oil farmer. Maybe he dreamed of wearing a cowboy hat and living in Texas, taking care of a big oil rig. This could be the only explanation for the amount of joy he seemed to gain from excavating my tiny cave like mouth. Him on a mission with his mighty drill. Me wondering if the shot he gave me would do anything for the pain or just make it look like I rode the short bus for the rest of the day. Just as he hit what must have been a central nerve cluster he pulled out all the childlike wonder fading from his eyes. Then proceeded to fill my mouth with something that tasted like a mix between black liquorish, hydrogen peroxide, and the souls of unwanted children. I had to wonder what path this poor white coated baby hater took in life that he would willingly get bitten on a daily basis. Then I got the bill and it all became amazingly clear.

2 comments:

Tonia said...

I think dentist's have the highest suicide rate

The maid said...

The highest suicide rate is with shrinks, but I do think a lot of dentists end up living on the streets of L.A. or else moving to Canada and living next door to Bruce Willis.