Category: Funny Business

My dentist and his staff are great people. They’re highly skilled, have a great drill side manner, and do everything in their power to make my visit as pleasant as possible.

Still, “going to the dentist” is a terrifying experience for me.

Here’s why.

I’ve had dental issues ever since I was a little kid.  Without dentists, orthodontists, periodontists and other kinds of “dontists,” I would either be walking around with hillbilly teeth or no teeth at all.

As a child I had this one tooth that was basically a fang, and if a kind dentist – I think his name was Van Helsing – had not removed it and done some sort of dental voodoo, I would currently look like half a vampire.

All that being said, I was quite the little trooper up until my mid-teens. Thanks to nitrous oxide (laughing gas), I would get good and relaxed before any dental work was done, and the procedures were mostly run of the mill.

I might leave with a numb lip and sore gums, but it was no biggie.

Then came 1978.

For reasons I can’t fully recall – or perhaps simply don’t wish to – I found myself at a dentist who did not provide laughing gas.

Strike one.

I needed a filling, so he had to give me a shot of Novocain in the upper left side of my mouth. But early on in the drilling, I started experiencing some pretty intense pain because the shot didn’t completely deaden the area.

Strike two.

After a couple more shots kinda/sorta did the trick, he again started the process of drilling, but part of the tooth shattered. I’m not sure what happened after that, but I finally had a full understanding of how Dustin Hoffman felt in “Marathon Man.”

Any time I hear the phrase, “Is it safe?” I pee a little.

Strike three.

Because of my fear, I spent years completely avoiding the dentist, and that dental neglect naturally led to a lot of problems as an adult. Only until I had a mind-numbingly painful abscess did it reach the point where I looked like that mountain man in “Deliverance” and decided I had to get back in the chair.

Even then, I wanted assurances.

Do they provide nitrous? And if so, will there be plenty on hand when I arrive? And if so, is there a chance they can go ahead and dose me while I’m in the waiting room?

If not, do I qualify for medical marijuana? And if that isn’t an option, would it be cool to spark up a joint?

(The answer, by the way, was no on all counts).

The fear was irrational, but very real. And I was not ashamed to admit that having dental work done was one of the very last things I wanted to endure.

So when I finally relented and returned to the dentist’s office for some major work, I asked that they crank up the nitrous to 11. I sniffed as hard as I could because – and I’m being completely honest here – I wanted my ass high before anyone came at my mouth with a needle.

Despite the gas I still remember gripping the armrests as hard as I could and contorting my legs in such a way that I looked like I was either trying to score a goal via a bicycle kick, or acting out a scene from “Flashdance.”

But you know what?

I came through it fine.

I didn’t enjoy it because only a masochist would, but the doc and his team held my hand (figuratively) throughout the ordeal and did all they could to ease my angst.

And since that time – which was about 10 years ago – I’ve had everything from a root canal to a crown replacement, and every time they make a point to comment on what a big, brave boy I am.

So, no, I’ll never look forward to trips to the dentist, but I at least know the folks there are going to do a great job. And I’m very grateful to them.

They still won’t give me nitrous when they clean my teeth, though.

That kinda pisses me off.

Road rage is a serious problem, one that can result in violent, physical acts from people whose anger manifests itself in the worst possible way.

But what do you call it when you confine your rage to screaming, cursing in unknown tongues and secretly wishing bad things on people in other vehicles – all from the relative privacy (and safety) of your own car?

I ask because I find myself suffering from this on a daily basis, and I may need help.

Before I go further, let me assure everyone that I’m no threat to become violent while traveling the highways and byways of America. I follow the rules of the road closely, which makes me (according to the film I saw in high school) an ACE driver – alert, courteous and educated.

I drive the speed limit, use my turn indicator for changing lanes, and stay out of the passing lane unless I’m passing.

I do not shoot birds at other drivers or ram them repeatedly when they piss me off. Such actions are dangerous and, if I don’t run the person off the road and into a ditch, thereby disabling their vehicle, they might retaliate.

And I never liked it when the mean kids beat me up.

However, that doesn’t stop me from raging in my own way.

For example, if you’re stopped at a red light, and the red light turns green, that means you should go, and you should go immediately.

Don’t lean down and look for that renegade French fry that escaped the bag, or check to make sure the cap on the half empty bottle of vodka in the passenger’s seat is twisted tight, or look in the backseat to ensure that the blindfold on your hostage is in place – just floor it.

Back in my kinder, gentler days, I would allow the driver in front of me a full second to get moving after the light changed before I started cursing. Now, if they don’t floor that mofo at the first green hue, I unleash a stream of obscenities so perverse and vile, I simply won’t repeat them here.

I even make up curse words, the latest being “catassdickery,” to describe the, well, the catassdickery of other people on the road.

I also scream, although it isn’t so much a scream as it is a strange, guttural noise that I imagine a yak would make if the yak was in line at the DMV trying to get his license renewed. This often happens when some wanker veers over into my lane without signaling, or flies off the on ramp right in front of me.

After I’ve cursed and made the yak noise, I then wish ill on the perpetrators. I know it’s wrong, but I can’t help myself.

I envision them finally reaching their destination and then having a large boulder fall directly on top of their car, crushing the vehicle and maiming them.

One time I imagined a man being mauled by a rabid owl.

I even went so far as to hope this one guy who almost sideswiped me got stuck in radioactive quicksand surrounded by cobras, although I’m not sure what scenario would cause quicksand to be radioactive, or even where quicksand might be found or how the cobras would make it through customs at the airport.

My spousal unit gets on to me when I react in such ways, offering advice such as, “Chill out!” and “Pick your battles.” She says it’s not healthy to get so worked up.

But really, I think what I do is quite healthy.

The offending driver can’t hear me curse or make yak noises, and if they happened to look at me during those moments they wouldn’t realize I was mad.

They’d just simply think I was having a stroke.

And more importantly, they can’t journey into the darkness of my mind, a mind that sees them covered in fire ants while being bludgeoned by snow monkeys with claw hammers.

Again, I’m not proud of any of this, but I just want you to know if you have similar thoughts and emotions, you’re not alone.

There are ways to vent your road rage so that no one gets hurt, even when their catassdickery warrants it.

 

Perhaps – if I can avoid illness, venomous snakes and stepping in front of a bus – I’ll live long enough to be a very old person.

And if I should reach that milestone (for the purposes of this column, I’ll define “very old” as 90), I vow to get my ass out of the checkout line as quickly as possible when I’m at the supermarket.

Let me explain.

I understand that many very old people are slow, and therefore it takes them a while to get up enough momentum to gather speed. That’s absolutely fine.

I have no problem walking behind a very old person, because, darn it, they’re very old and should be congratulated for still getting out there and being active Sure, there have been times I’ve wanted to leap over them gymnastics style, but I don’t.

I’m a good person and good people don’t leap over very old people unless it’s absolutely necessary.

However, I do have a major issue with supermarket check writers and – I hate to stereotype here – every one I’ve encountered in recent years fall into the very old range.

This is the kind of slow I simply cannot abide.

Yesterday, for example, I made a quick trip to the store to get a handful of items. I won’t name the store, other than to say it sounds like Publix.

So I grab my items (bananas, dog treats, baby bella mushrooms, table tennis balls, rubber dinosaur toy) and get in the aisle that has only one person in front of me.

That person was a very old woman, I’d guess between the age of 90 and 137, dressed smartly in a long sleeve white shirt, black pants and those weird looking black shoes that I always thought would be perfect for kicking field goals (if straight-on field goals was still a thing).

The best part, though, was her shopping basket had only eggs, milk, a loaf of bread and baby powder.

(I like to guess what people do with their groceries and, in this case, I assume she wanted to make sure her butt was cool and dry while she made French Toast).

But …

She was a check writer.

While most of us cool kids use either a credit or debit card for purchases, this very old person did not.

“That’ll be $12.54,” the cashier said.

“Oh … alright dear,” said the woman, reaching into her giant purse.

She carefully fingered through its contents before pulling out a billfold, and after slowly opening the billfold and laying it near the unused credit/debit card swipe terminal, she produced a checkbook.

Her next fishing trip into the bowels of the purse resulted in a ballpoint pen, which she grasped in her left hand while sliding the purse over with her right.

Next, she cracked open the checkbook – again very, very slowly, as if to raise the lid of a vampire’s coffin at twilight – and prepared to put pen to check.

“Who do I make the check out to?” she asked.

“Just make it out to the supermarket that sounds like Publix,” the cashier said.

“How much is it again?”

“It’s $12.54.”

“You said $12.54?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“The baby powder is expensive.”

“Yes ma’am, I guess it is.”

“It’s worth it, though, to keep my butt dry.”

Now this ordeal is bad enough, but supermarket check writers don’t just write checks, they also record the transaction right there on the spot.

So by now the milk has curdled, the bread is molded and the eggs have gone bad, but the very old person is still writing away, making sure to add $12.54 for “groceries” on the line below the $169.95 for “Willie G Skull LED Fuel Gauge” she spent at the Harley dealership.

I’m convinced that by the time she had grabbed her plastic bag of groceries and set out for her bike, the woman I saw come in earlier with the baby in the stroller left with a kid sporting a pornstache and bad attitude.

Now to be completely clear, I love very old people … I truly do. I’m advancing in age myself, and I pray that when I get to the stage where I wear pants up to my teats, younger people will take that into consideration before they trample me.

However, even if I make it to 90, I vow to always go the debit or credit route when checking out at a grocery store that sounds like Publix.

Life’s too short, and none of us are getting any younger.