Opinion: Death To The Dentist
I would rather sleep, do homework, have a tea party with a poisonous Bulgarian centipede, converse at length with a blade of grass, or dig my eyeballs out with a rusty spoon than visit the dentist on a Thursday morning.
When did the dentist become an object of so much pent-up dread and hatred? Probably when getting your teeth cleaned ceased meaning visiting that cheerful dentist who took one look at your cute little cavity-ridden baby teeth and sent you off with a new toothbrush and some (generally slimy) prize you could throw at the walls in your room until your mom secretly confiscated it. Oh, how longingly I remember the good old days as I endure a torturous half hour of an oral hygienist hacking at my bleeding gums while Scooby Doo plays ominously in the background.
And, of course, the impostors who brush once a month get primo prizes, while I—the dutiful flosser and three-times-a-day brusher—am limited to a prize box devoid of anything slimy.
The oral hygienist’s furious cleaning is nothing compared to the countless x-rays, which consist of one of the aforementioned angry hygienists brutally stuffing a piece of machinery halfway down your throat. Despite the great discomfort of being about to throw up from the smell of latex gloves and the aftertaste of the foamy stuff they brush your teeth with and the fact that a piece of machinery is triggering your gag reflex, the hygienist barks that you need to stop squirming.
And why do you put yourself through these minutes of radiation-emitting hell? For the moment of revelation when the dentist explains to your mother that it’s time to get those wisdom teeth out!
So next Thursday morning when you’re expected at the dentist, take a moment to think, what would you rather be doing?