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This rainy morning my oral surgeon posted X-rays of all my teeth up on a flatscreen.
“Those back molars are crammed with blood-infested bacteria. My goodness, they look gross. Root canals pronto. Oh and lookie here. Six of your other teeth, the ones that look like v-shaped fangs, have all sorts of blackened areas that aren’t supposed to be there. One of your front teeth is a thing of wonder. Only seen three like this in my lucrative dental career. Looks like this creature’s tooth got traumatized at some point. Did someone punch you in that tooth?”
“Could have been Adrian Branch’s elbow when I lofted a floater over his gangly self for the buzzer beater to upset number one ranked DeMatha in 81.”
“You hit a buzzer-beater to beat DeMatha?”
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about, Denty.”
“Wish I could say that,” said Denty. “But I was 4 foot 11 so hard pivoted away from hoops towards oral surgery school. Pays plenty, you Buckteeth Bandit.”
“Hey, Doc, what’s that tool you use during the root canal that feels like a weed whacker spinning like a merry-go-round? I like that sensation of feeling like my mouth is my front yard and you are whacking away the weeds. Love the concept of someone else doing my yard work.”
Denty doesn’t know how to respond. None of his 94,567 patients had said these kinds of things.
“Anyway, as I was saying, your mouth is cluttered with eroding, broken, and bacteria-laced teeth. I can see you needing at least 23 root canals, 25 crowns, 27 cavities, and 29 extractions. All of which I recommend we do before the end of the year.”
“Yo Denty, that’s new math. I thought I had like 12 teeth. Yo, Denty, on a scale of 1 to 10 with 1 being perfect teeth and 10 being Dracula, where would you rank mine? Pie r squared – 3.146? Avogadro’s Number? Crazy Eights?”
Denty again isn’t sure how to respond. Buckteeth blurts.
“Hey Doc, I’m an all-or-nothing kind of guy. How about we ditch that multi-pronged approach, extract every one of my teeth, and call it a lifetime? That way we won’t have to think any of this through and plan out a slow-moving diabolical dental death trek. Just yank ‘em all out, clean up the bloody crime scene, and let me free to slurp tapioca, yogurt, pudding, and suck on deviled eggs the rest of my life.”
“You don’t want your teeth anymore?”
“Not if it means I have to disrupt my life constantly coming to your office to drill holes in my teeth, making me wince, and showing me pictures of the horror movie that festers inside my mouth. My x-rays were featured in a Hitchcock thriller.”
Denty said: “If you want us to extract all your teeth, we will have to get you to sign a consent form.”
“Fine, let’s do it and that will be the last time I sign one of your consent forms and have to interrupt my sports blogging bonanza to drive to your office. Take all my teeth out, Dent Man. Yank ‘em all. Time to end this madness. I got a sports/healthcare system blog to bang out.”
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Sammy Sportface, a sports blogger, galvanizes, inspires, and amuses The Baby Boomer Brotherhood. And you can learn about his vision and join this group's Facebook page here:
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