I've Got Teeth!
Ok, I hear you. You have something wrong, now shut up. We’ll visit my friend the dentist (locally pronounced “the denist”) in just a few days. Now stay out of the way of this Alleve pill as it heads down what Mom used to call “the little red lane” and in about twenty minutes you will fall asleep. And, thank goodness, so will I when it’s time to.
“Back in the day,” as they used to say back in the day (and still do), my dentist as a kid was a neighbor with a drinking problem. Not the greatest match in the world, but he seemed to be pretty much with-it during business hours. I had my doubts, even back then, but I also knew a dentist with epilepsy. I figured the drunk was a better choice.
We also had what we termed a “society dentist,” the type Mom described as having a good bedside manner. He looked good, had the right mannerisms, and sucked up to the old ladies who came to him. One of his kids turned out alright; the other busted himself up putting on a cape and jumping off the roof thinking he was Superman.
Anyway, I went to the denist (see above for pronunciation) and got the first problem fixed; I have to go back in a couple of weeks for the final work. It was on a 30-year-old crown done by a dentist on an island where I lived; obviously, he did a good job. Not every windswept, offshore DDS is someone who couldn’t make it on the mainland.