Plaque and Punishment

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You ever notice how going to the dentist feels like a punishment for crimes you didn’t commit? I’m sitting in the car, parked right in front of the torture chamber they call a dental office, and I’m freaking out like an astronaut who just realized the oxygen tank is making suspicious noises.
I mean, what kind of sadistic profession starts your day with phrases like “You might feel a little pressure” or “This won’t hurt a bit”? That’s dentist-speak for “We’re about to drill into your skull like it’s an oil rig in Texas.”
And the waiting room — oh, the waiting room. It’s like purgatory with magazines. You sit there pretending to read Better Homes and Gardens while your soul quietly packs its bags and tries to escape through your molars.
Then they call your name. You walk in like a condemned man, and the hygienist greets you with a smile so wide it’s suspicious. “How are you today?” she asks. Lady, I’m about to be waterboarded with fluoride — how do you think I am?
And the chair — that medieval recliner of doom. They tilt you back until you’re staring at the ceiling like it’s going to offer spiritual guidance. Then they shove a tray of metal instruments in your face like you’re about to be dissected by aliens.
The dentist strolls in like he’s auditioning for a horror movie. He’s got gloves, a mask, and a drill that sounds like a chainsaw mating with a blender. “Open wide,” he says. Buddy, I’d rather open a vein.
And don’t get me started on the suction tube. That thing’s like a vacuum cleaner with intimacy issues. It sucks your tongue, your dignity, and half your childhood memories out of your mouth.
So yeah, I’m sitting in the car, gripping the wheel like it’s the last lifeline before the abyss. I’m a plumber staring at a toilet that just growled back at me, And all I can think is: next time, I’m brushing with whiskey and flossing with barbed wire. At least then I’ll be prepared.