Dentists - Unorthodox Rapists

It’s a beautiful springy day, ah, just smell that fresh fertilizer rich air as you get off the bus and cross the road to your mailbox, you find a penny on the street and do a little Chaplin-jump of pure joy, the kind that makes your passing neighbour cover the eyes of his little Cavalier King Charles spaniel just in case you’ve completely lost it, but it’s a good day, that’s all. Nobody tried to strangle you with a phone cord at work, and newspapers read “chocolate makes you a better person – proven facts!”. Maybe today will be the day for a mailbox filled to the brim with exotic parcels from less exotic admirers (like that scary bloke down the street with no eyebrows), free chocolate samples and free midget porn. Today is the day, indeed, nothing can burst your bubble now!

Except for that little card greeting you at the bottom of the mailbox, like a dead body in the pool, a chocolate stain on the back of your white trousers, a moustache on a ridiculously pretty man... It’s a notice on your annual appointment at the dentists.
You hear a violent scream, and soon realise it came from your own self. The postman, now returning to his car having done his job for the day, twirls around rapidly, and making a swishing movement with his hands screams: “I know Taekwando!”, but it’s not him you want to kill today, no matter how much rubbish he crams into your violated little mailbox on a daily basis, it’s yourself. You know you’re a grown-up now, no more begging for ice cream at the shop, no more playing with anorexic plastic dolls, and certainly no more mum and dad lying to you telling you you’re all going to the circus to get you to the dentist without anyone dying in the process.

Regular maintenance of your fangs is all that’s gonna keep you from a mental institution, if your parents weren’t lying about that too. Without your teeth looking all swanky you won’t get a job, you won’t get laid, and you can’t have any more hard candy. Now, I don’t know about you lot, but that last thing is what scares the hell out of me, and therefore I have accepted a certain evil into my life. I need to visit the dentist, but I won’t go without a fight.

The days after that fatal card, pass quicker than a sexy blonds musical career, you wake up bathing in your own sweat, and have a little swim before changing the sheets for the tenth time that night. Tuesday morning all your die hard friends show up at your door, forcing the bottle of vitamin pills that you’re threatening to kill yourself with out of your hands, as you hiss and spit like a snake on crack, but pretty soon they have you hogtied and helpless in the back of a Volkswagen on the way to the dentist.

I don’t know if I’m the only one to notice this, but the waiting room in a dentists office is always so bloody light and airy, like you’ve already died and gone to heaven, surely just another trick to make you fight the dying process in the dentist chair a bit less enthusiastically, but the stench of cleanliness and dentisty chemicals slap you in the face to remind you to keep fighting. Your friends seat you between a spotty kid with the whole bloody transsibirian railroad jammed into his mouth, and a sad case of a middle aged JAWS syndrome, can anyone say YATZI? As you sit there, watching the other tooth victims go through all the ladies magazines in hope of a glimpse of flesh, you start to wonder whether your fear of dentists is a tad bit irrational, until a chilling roar of immense pain from the next room shatter the glasses of the spotty railroad kid and makes your friends run for cover. Two seconds later you find yourself smeared onto the glass exit door, whilst three strong male dental secretaries round you up like a mad bull at a rodeo. You manage to get a hold of a wooden coat hanger, and rip off two pieces to form a cross against the unholiness of the situation, but once the gates of hell open into the dentists office, there’s no doubt in your mind that Jesus doesn’t care about your dental situation, unless your teeth touch alcohol or genitals.

And so, you find yourself strapped to the mechanical chair, with a bright Gestapo lamp stinging your eyes, and a shadowy figure of a man leaning over you whilst putting on latex gloves, which is never a good sign, unless... No, there are no unless’es, sorry. Some things I have learned about dentists during all these frightening sessions over the years, is that they always have gigantic nostrils. I sometimes like to think it’s nature’s way of distracting you from the pain, just like a terrible car accident you can’t stop staring at, even though blood is spraying everywhere, like a fountain. Also, they always lie to you when they say what they are about to do, because never ever, in 25 years, have I heard the words “immense pain” or “suffering”, come out of a dentists mouth.

So there he is, approaching you with some gigantic crude power tool in his hands, ready to violate you in the most passionate way he knows how. In truth, dentists are nothing but well educated, paid rapists, who just happen to rape you in the wrong orifice, with the wrong tools, but that’s a whole other political debate. You’ve finally had it, sneaking a hand out of the strap you’ve been fighting for ten minutes, you blind the dentist with a squirt of extra minty toothpaste, which leaves you just enough time to get to the door, diverting the two dental secretaries with a tiny mirror and various other pointy objects you grabbed whilst fleeing. Coughing up cotton balls in between the curses, you make it to the door, throw yourself out onto the street, cheering for joy. Cheering for the freedom, cheering for the sunshine, and the endless toothache that will make you a soup eating bastard the rest of your days... Oh well.