Her favourite movie: Marathon Man
Favourite Actor: Dustin Hoffman
Favourite Scene: The dentist's chair, torture scene
Does my dentist vaguely look like Laurence Olivier? But she's a she. Is the fear making me hallucinate?
It had been six years since I'd seen a dentist. She told me the tartar buildup was so massive that seafood restaurants across North America would bid for me to be their sole tartar sauce supplier.
It began. The cleaning.
Three hours later…I decided she wasn't cleaning my teeth, she was chiseling them into a bust. Given the pain, I assumed a bust of Donald Trump, presented to him for his Inaugural address. My mouth will be transported to Mount Rushmore and glued in place beside the great Presidents.
Yes, Mr. Trump will be President, and the U.S. will develop a giant, decaying cavity for four years (maybe eight?). Afterwards the country will need a root canal and braces to straighten out the damage.
Or, was it torture? NSA-style. What was I to confess? Please, I am not a terrorist. The closest I've come to bombing is delivering a failing humourous speech at my Toastmasters club.
I confess, I've done some bad things. I put a recycled item in the garbage bin once. It won't happen again.
The constant rinsing. With that endless hose. At some point it stopped being rinsing and became water boarding. Can't swallow, sweet death approaching. I was willing to talk, but couldn't with water, various hoses, cotton, fear and a sharp instrument all lodged in my mouth.
Soon, Stockholm Syndrome set in. I began to love my torturer. I love you. I felt it. The giver and taker awayer of pain. What could I do to stop the pain? To show my love. I offered to father her children. She hesitated. No. They would be born with teeth like mine. Bad teeth genes.
She pumped me so full of flouride I could taste it in my tears of pain. My eyes will be cavity-free.
The ending. She was right. Tartarless, I was five pounds lighter.
I got the bill. I fell out of love.
I hate Laurence Olivier and Dustin Hoffman.
