"Hand me the Beavertail Burnisher."
"...The Watkins Torque Wrench..."
"I'll need the Goat's Foot Elevator."
These are not phrases you want to hear at 8:30 in the morning. In fact at that hour I'm usually in deep REM sleep, dreaming. And the only thing I want to hear is Scarlett Johansson whispering in my ear, "let's go for number 5."
The reality is, these are not phrases you want to hear at any hour of the day. It means you're in the dentist's chair. And apart from the freaks who live on the outer edges of Tinder, no one likes sitting in a dentist chair.
For the past few months my lower right jaw has been throbbing. A low grade, off and on pain, not unlike the pain of an indecisive client. Naturally, my wife admonished me to see the dentist. And naturally I ignored her.
It wasn't until the admonitions slipped into triple digits that I heeded her advice. After 23 years of marriage this is how the pattern goes.
The initial good news from the dentist was that the tooth had a minor fracture. With any luck, he could seal it up and top it with a crown.
Of course that's the kind of luck that only shines on goyim.
On my second visit, the dentist was busily preparing an impression of my lower right jaw. That's when they stick this contraption, filled with cold blue Playdo, in your mouth until it hardens or runs down your uvula and sets off the gag reflex.
As he removed the goo, he noticed that the fracture in my tooth was now a full blown crack. In my weak understanding of dentistry I thought that meant going from a crown to the more dreaded root canal.
But like I said, I don't have that kind of luck.
The Uberfuehrer... er, dentist said we were now at DefCon5 and that the tooth, the cracked tooth, had to be extracted.
Years ago, I had my wisdom teeth removed. And under some mild anesthesia and ample Vicoden, it was a rather pleasant experience. But Dr. Mengele wanted to extract the tooth right then and there, using nothing more than Novocaine and some semi-rusty pliers.
Since I was already in the chair and didn't want to let a good plastic bib go to waste, I foolishly told him to start yanking.
And that's when I heard the other phrase you never want to hear at 8:30 in the morning.
"Hand me the Franklin Forceps of Eternal Pain."
Here is the Mammoth-sized molar so delicately pulled from the back of my mouth.
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