In tooth I know not why I am so sad,
It wearies me but I don’t say it wearies you,
But how I caught it, found it, came by it,
What stuff ’tis made of, whereof ’tis born,
I am yet to know.
Who is not familiar with the famous opening lines of Demure Chant of Dentists? Antonio’s dental anguish can only be felt by someone who has spent his entire life under the harsh stare of The Man in the Surgical Mask. Since eighth grade, I have had various contraptions stuck in my mouth all in the name of enhancing my handsomeness. Some mothers are dead against underbites: not for them a kid with a lower jaw that is a genetic gift from thoughtful cave-dwelling relatives. The struggle towards public approval has led me through braces, retainers, bracing retainers and retaining braces. I have sacrificed 8 milk teeth in one shot…actually, with the help of 7 shots in strategic oral locations. Gums were scraped to expose coy canines. Permanent teeth were mercilessly executed to force the jaw to retreat from the frontlines. Most depressing of all, the waiting room was perpetually devoid of faces that had the potential to blossom once the chastiteeth grills were removed.
The visits never ceased. The odd cavity or decaying enamel always emerged to submerge bank accounts. My last trip home was mostly spent (ed: very apt) indulging the cash cow that is my mouth. The saga has been joyfully relived in this masterpiece. It was a watearshed event (ed: bloody crybaby!), the B.C.-to-A.D. transition of our times (ed: “Be for Chocolate” to “After Dentist”…snicker!). Holes were filled, crowns were slapped on, and I thought that was that. I was simply brimming with naiveteeth a year ago (ed: guess who was rooting his canal for Palin?). Circa 2009, I am back in that familiar supine position, helplessly watching objects violate the sanctity of my mouth. Syringes and water drills are totally blase at this point. For sure, those injections in the roof of the mouth still have a zesty zing; oh, and that delicious goo which you chomp on to make good impressions of your teeth, not to mention the stray blobs that stick to your face, thus imparting an infantile innocence to it; and how about all that suction to render the mouth as dry as British humour? Fun, fun, fun, fun, fun! Such is the price one has to pay to maintain street credit. After all, the other variety has been reduced to an ephemeral puff of dust.
I can’t smile that wide or even that often.
Like the similes and the metaphorical comparisons used in your post.
Good read!
Thank you, Doped Semiconductor. Your positive response suggests a tinge of boron in your constitution (ed: he’s praying he got that right!).
Oh yes! Boron indeed, leading to a positive hole in the crystal structure. After all, who wants a dose of phosphorus or arsenic for all the negativity that is involved!
True. As Pink Floyd said, “We don’t need no…uhh…junctions?
We don’t need no…depth control!”
Correct. Let me rephrase that a little, (if you do not mind?) “We don’t need no p-n junctions, we don’t need no diode control!”
Thank you for rectification.
I can’t match up to your humor but here’s my two cents I found looking for old coins on the beach: At least you earned some ‘teeth credit’. I figured it’d be easier on you if I made you cry rather than smile.
To match my humour, all you have to do is stoop really low.
You’re looking for coins on a beach? Economy finally got to you, huh? Or is it lou for, let’s say, racquetball that is making you do this?
At the risk of sounding melodramatic let’s say , I was “gathering my thoughts” by taking a stroll on the beach. Little did I know I’d get richer by two cents.
I don’t think my humor can ever be matched. It rests deep in the abyss.