On the Lighter Side
Getting Cleaned
By David Crawford
I was working hard at home , in the middle of a difficult task in my office , when I was distracted by the business line ringing .
I paused my game ( ahem ) and answered the phone …
“ Mr . Crawford , this is Ilsa , She-Wolf of the SS calling from the dentist ’ s office , with a reminder that you are overdue for your teeth cleaning . Again . Please report to the office immediately or we ’ ll burn down your house .”
I ’ m just kidding — she didn ’ t really say “ report to the office .”
So I prepare for my date with destiny two days hence . This means brushing one ’ s teeth so violently that your spouse suspects you have come down with a virulent new strain of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder .
“ You ’ re not fooling anyone you know ,” my wife said . “ And don ’ t floss so hard either — look at all the gunk on the mirror . It ’ s disgusting .”
I brush and floss sixteen times per day , unlike my usual two . Well , four if the hygienist is asking . This attempt at atonement is akin to hitting the gym nine times per day , beginning two days before your Caribbean cruise departure . Or driving conservatively when the gas gauge in the car is nearing empty . The Day arrived . I found myself deep in enemy territory , resisting their clever interrogation techniques . I surrendered only what is allowed under the Geneva Convention - name , address , dental plan number . In the waiting room , I frantically ate an entire bag of Oreo cookies in a show of defiance to my captors . As my cheeks bulged , The Torture Beast herself , wearing a perky red jumpsuit , no doubt to hide the blood stains , emerged from her lair .
She smiled charmingly , spittle dripping from her fangs as she grinned her evil grin , and dragged me by the hand into the nearest chamber . There , armed with the tiny , hideous metal implements of her trade , she tirelessly poked , prodded and scraped my mouth back to a condition of hygienic perfection unseen in years . I nearly bled to death . At some point in this process , punctuated by her cries of “ Please stop screaming Mr . Crawford !” and “ Security , tighten the straps !” she ushered in the great man himself .
The Dentist . ( Dramatic music erupts in the background )
He was wearing a mask ( as all professional torturers do ), and proceeded to open my clenched jaw by asking me an innocuous question about my golf game , then plunging his fingers into my mouth when I attempted to answer . Clever . Using the little magnifier thingy ’ s on his glasses , he examined my teeth and called out strange coded messages to his assistant , Igor .
“ Number 28 , Stan Musial on third , humidor molar .”
“ 7th at Belmont , 25 on Bicuspid to win …” Something like that anyway . After more poking and speaking in tongues , he said “ Everything looks good I ’ ll have to take some x-rays and everything you need done will be ten thousand dollars rinse please !” I may have passed out at that point . After he had his way with me ( so to speak ), I didn ’ t think I could endure any more , brave though I had been up to that point . Alas , I still had to survive the Getting the Teeth Rubbed with Gritty Mud Technique , and the Mouthful of Minty Foam Procedure . All the while they were plying me for information — knowledge about the weather or my business or my children . I resisted as best I could . I ’ m not clear on how I got away . I remember brief flashes of things - running with the paper bib flapping around my neck , leaping over a waiting room coffee table , writing a check — it ’ s all a blur .
I have recovered for the most part . I still get the odd flashback , but I ’ m fine . Really . Thanks for asking .
Just remember to keep some floss in your Escape and Evasion kit . It is useful stuff when you need tripwires or booby traps .
This article was originally published on the website www . HumorPress . com . David Crawford is a Canadian Humor writer . He can be reached at funnycolumn @ gmail . com .
November / December 2010 • Pennsylvania Dental Journal
51