Sometimes I dream I'm biting down on tinfoil
1/19/25
Sometimes I dream that I'm biting down on tinfoil
What, you don't?
That's crazy. Because when I do, it makes my lips quiver and my face get all scrunchy like a jellyfish and my eyes pinch together as...ahh..oooh...goddamn...just thinking about it...
How's your mouth feel now, huh? You can thank me later.
Your dentist may be like mine. "Son," he gloats, "you're an absolute goldmine."
He peers into my mouth; he's practically swooning, knowing that my dozens of fillings, multiple crowns, a capped tooth or two - well, they're a guarantee of future work for years to come.
Maybe the cracking of a hairline fracture right when I gnaw some leathery beef jerky, or when I accidentally catch an unpopped kernel in that handful of kettle corn I'm shoving into my face. It could be the yanking of a decade-old filling as I chomp some sugar babies or bit-o-honey or jujubees. Or, hell, I may just cut to the chase with an atomic fireball or a jawbreaker.
He notes he's waiting for me - patiently I might add - to get bridge work as that's where the big money is.
I floss, yeah I floss. I do.
Why're you being so judgmental?
I floss during my morning shower (try to avoid thinking of me like this. Maybe put me in a 20" board shorts please, and maybe one of those UPF 50 swim shirts while you're at it, you know the long sleeve ones - and toss in a swim cap, ok?).
I floss every. single. day. So what if I sometimes leave the used floss on the ledge near the shampoos, I'm not a criminal, am I? No no, it's accidental, not for re-use, c'mon, you are truly twisted.
I double whammy my morning floss with my evening routine of G.U.M Soft Picks, advanced, the ones with the longer handle that purports 'whole mouth access', of which I deliver with supreme gusto.
Must I offer that I know a Soft Pick smells vile once the routine is complete - and yet I still often go about sniffing it (seriously, I apologize for even writing this). After, I do some electric toothbrushing, one full minute of mouth chaos, and with toothpaste no less!
I had four teeth pulled in my younger years; I think my first molars if you want to get all technical. This was to make room in my mouth because someone with a sick sense of humor decided to make my face too small. I took something like 18 novocaine shots (like a champ), and then the doc went to work, as if he was a plumber unsticking soldered pipes.
From my recollection there was a hammer, a cheater wrench (for extra leverage), one drill bit (for masonry), a faucet key, part of a hacksaw, and a deburring tool. And all the while, the dental assistant just kept reminding me to look at the crayon drawings on the ceiling (they weren't bad, to be honest).
The dental hygienist thinks I'm chaffed about all of her chastising. Really it's just my abs, which are on fire from having to perform sit-ups just to rinse.
I occasionally look in the mirro, aiming to name the color tones of my incisors. Are they light-gray or chicklet-yellow or maybe yellowish-yellow? I think, if you would't mind, could we just call them sociable-yellow, which properly reflects their look as a cross between banana peppers and cheddar bunnies.
Naturally, I ask my dentist if he could maybe whiten my teeth, possibly, as I needed at least one win in my camp.
"Son," he chides, "you gotta walk before you run."