Derek J. Barbee
Date Unknown

The Dentist

I just got back from art class about ten minutes ago (3 hours of drawing, nonstop!) and I really don't think it should be legal to get people up before 9 o'clock during summer vacation. It's inhuman.

Then my dad announced that I had a dental appointment. I really think those doctors are looking for a way to convince me and my dad that I need braces. I think they get some sort of sadistic glee out of making kids look funny. They probably have score sheets, and compare how many kids they made look funny over the past year at those big Dental Association Meetings.

"I gave 534 kids braces over the last year!"

"Oo, very nice, Carl!"

"Oh, yeah? I gave 672 kids braces!"

"That's nothing. I once surgically implanted parts from a bicycle into a kid's teeth and told him it would help!"

So I'm forced to go to their offices, and sit in their funny smelling waiting rooms and read boring magazines. Once they remember that I'm sitting out there (Which usually takes about an hour) they herd me into one of the rooms the size of a toilet. They sit me down and take out the doohickeys and gadgets that look like they belong in either open heart surgery or a Jack the Ripper movie.

The doctor comes in and tries to make polite conversation. I try to be polite, too, but once he starts poking and prodding around in my mouth saying things like: "I'm sorry, did that hurt?" "Oops!" and "See right here? This part of the gums are all red and inflamed" I start getting pissed off. I start seriously considered saying things back like: "If you poke me there again with that frogsticker of yours, YOU'RE going to be all red and inflamed!"

So he continues the polite conversation while he's got his arms down my throat up to the elbows. Then he asks me questions.

"So, what've you been doing this summer vacation?"

I stare at him, wondering how long it's going to take him to realize that he has a very sharp and metal object in my throat, and not even going to attempt to respond, in fear of hurting myself. He looks at me expectantly, waiting for my response. I mumble something incoherent, and he nods in apparent understanding. "Oh, that's good. Staying out of trouble?"

"Uggah hong oogak, hreak."

And I swear that those dentists are smiling under those masks they wear. Do they actually ENJOY torturing pure innocent people (Okay, forget me, but beside the point!) with machetes? "This won't hurt at all . . . unless I accidentally do THIS! I mean, oops!"

How did these people even get started on this profession? In career day at their schools, did they announce over the loudspeaker: "All students interested in Law Enforcement, go to Room 65. All students interested in torturing people with sharp objects, go to room 4."

So I have to try to find some way to make their jobs less fun. My advice is for before all that happens, when you're sitting in the chair, waiting for the doctor to come in. You know what he's gonna do to you, but you don't know how to stop it. Well, here's how you can use that to your advantage. Y'see, the older you are, the longer you wait. I say, get up and hide all the tools before they come in.

"Now we'll drill with the . . . uh . . . umm . . . that's odd . . ."

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