Internal Monologue at the Dentist’s Office

Internal Monologue at the Dentist’s Office

Receptionist: “Welcome, aha, I see you don’t have a carrier—will you be using a card?”

Actually I was just hoping you guys would pick up the tab.

Dental Assistant: “Dunstan McGill! Oh boy. Come on back. So we’re going to fix that bridge, huh?”

“We’re” not doing anything. You have the tools. Knock me out. Wake me when over.

Dentist: “Wow, so you were actually missing those teeth—so was this genetic?”

It was not genetic. I grew up the son of Serbian pig farmer. Missing teeth was familial tradition.

Dental Assistant: (after putting cotton swab into cheek) “Oh boy, I bet you feel just like a gopher!”

What kind of royal creep are you? I’m not 5 years old. Fuzzy animals aren’t going to get me to pollyannishly forget that I’m about to spend 45 minutes with two grown humans shoving their hands down my mouth.

Dentist: (After accidentally chipping my teeth with her knife thing-y) “So…are you from around here?”

I do have people who care about me, if that’s what you’re asking. And yes, they would sue.

Dentist: (Now, struggling to figure out how my bridge broke) “I think we skipped a step. Yes, step #9, that’s it. We need to go back. Take it off.”

Step 9!? You’re looking at a fucking cheat sheet! Where did you go to dental school. Aha! There’s your diploma—those signatures look faked. Someone help me! She’s brand new!! And she’s wearing strawberry-scented surgical gloves!!!!!!!!!!!

Dental Assistant: (After blood has filled my cavity and I’ve swallowed cups of it) “Do you want some more suction?”

Nope. I’m fine drinking my own blood. It has a tasty, rusty-BBQ sauce vibe. And I’ve seen Breaking Dawn, so I know drinking shakes of this stuff will help feed the demon baby in my stomach.

Dentist: “Okay, Dunstan, things got a little hairy. The anesthetic will take effect momentarily. Just lean back and relax. You should soon be asleep.”

Wait. Why are you putting me to sleep? I didn’t ask for this. I have a cold! My nose is plugged! Can the anesthetic work if you have a cold? How will I breathe? What if there’s complications!? What if my last conscious thought is “should I tell them about my cold or not?” Welp, this is it. Zonk.

Disembodied voices, from the other dentist cube next to me: “I believe that is why he split from the Catholic Church actually…”

What the fuck? Where am I? Are they talking about Henry the 8th? Why did I have to get the diva just out of dental school!? Did I just die? I did. I’m dead. She killed me. And I’m in some scholarly purgatory where they’re sorting out the rights and wrongs of the Reformation.

Same voices, a few minutes later: “Yeah, I have Journey to the Center of the Earth and The Six Wives of ….

Oh jesuschrist! They’re talking about fucking Rick Wakeman. I’m not dead. I’m surrounded by vinylheads. Why can’t I have the prog-rock dentist?! I can’t see straight. I’m going to try and escape.

Dental Assistant: “No no no, Dunstan. You just rest. It’ll be all better soon.”

You’re going to kill me because I don’t own a YES record I just know it.

(Like 40 minutes later, after waking) Dentist: “How are you feeling Dunstan? Everything is just fine.”

Wait?! I made it! I’m alive! I’m so happy!! Yes, pat me on the back dentist. It’s good to feel human touch again. You have a very nice touch. Very nice. I’m still high on this mood-altering drug.

Dental Assistant: “That’ll be $300.”

Damn crooks!

Me: “Ummm…let me run out to my car. I forgot my wallet. I swear.”

~Dunstan McGill

Photo courtesy Betsssssy