the alfmeister

a figment of reality's imagination

Loving them ivories…


Yep, book me in...wait! No Penthouse mags??

Yep, book me in…wait! No Penthouse mags??

It had been two years (pre-Feb ’11 ‘quakes) since I had last had my teeth checked, and despite repeated intrusions from two dentistry’s via mail, TXT, email, and calls at the most inopportune times, I finally sauntered into ‘my’ dentist for my six-monthly (!?!) checkup and clean.

Now behind proctology – no pun intended – dentistry must command a special kind of person willing to dive into the recesses of some stranger’s mouth while risking losing a finger tip, inhaling halitosis, being covered in spit, or getting a punch in the face as the result of a slip of that fucking pointy thing they jam between your teeth. So credit to them when they charge like a wounded bull because there wouldn’t be enough money, not enough exotic cars in the garage, enough kids at private school, or bikini-clad bits of fluff (on the side, of course) in rented apartments that would make me want to preach the value of flossing to someone bleeding from the gums and drooling.

Memories of the old ‘murder house’ always come flooding back when I see the dentist, although I have been somewhat blessed with only three fillings (all converted to white ceramic or whatever) in 40-odd years of chewing gum, Fruit Bursts, ripping red meat, smoking and coffee, so other than one particular drilling incident when I was a nipper, such visits don’t bother me in the slightest. In fact, and some of those who know, going to the dental nurse back at school was something to be waited on, full of expectation, and cherished. Our nurse was the hottest thing going, and while my now-raging hormones and class-time erections hadn’t kicked in, the feeling and smell of her ample bosom pressed into the side of my face, covering an eye and bordering on the corner of my mouth as she carried out her fine art are moments that will go to the grave with me…

…so back to the present…

'Hang on, I think my watch is in there..."

‘Hang on, I think my watch is in there…”

To my credit, and the young (read Doogie Howser young) dentist and the wee blondie at this side my time in the horizontal position was short as he ground, scraped, and polished my teeth while I wondered if he and the wee hottie helping were rooting at the motel across the road in lunch breaks, but it was his analysis of my x-rays that made me double-take…

…you see, two years previous, my last check up if you remember, at the same place, I was told by another dentist (older, seemingly wiser, a bit of plaque under his belt for use of a better analogy) had also x-rayed my teeth and claimed there was a cavity forming in one of my bigger choppers – molar, bowler, or something – and would need attention at my next visit (being the obligatory six months later). So one would think, in fact worry, over the following 24mths that his teeth were a right fucken state harboring devils and germs never seen before on a Colgate ad, void of any enamel and rotting through the gums and into my hefty jaw line…

…young doc (are they doctors?) gives me the clean bill of health…

…right….

….ummmmm…

"Don't worry Sir, this won't hurt me a bit..."

“Don’t worry Sir, this won’t hurt me a bit…”

…did old Arfur (remember ‘Minder’?) try to pull a swifty? Or is baby-blue here incompetent?

Either way, $144.00 later (with a free Colgate gift pack) later it didn’t seem too relevant.

But I got a wee kick in. Standing in the hallway between his office and reception that one moment, that question issued forth to me; “Do you floss?” I hate this question, designed to scare the individual into rushing out and buying 20cm of white string (which is just too similar to tampon threads if you ask me) and at first was proud to say ‘no’ in order to stand up to them. But such an answer would normally be met with patronising ‘tasks tsks’ and shaking of the head while be scolded about the failures of proper dental care, so of more recent times I (yes, I) just gave in and say “Yes, twice a day.”

I don’t know what made me answer the way I did today though…

“Do you floss?”

“I go down on my wife two or three times a week…does that count?”

The look on his face, the stifled laugh from his young, buxom ‘helper’, and the gasp from the reception and waiting room area made it one of the proudest moments I have had…now maybe they won’t bug me for my next appointment.

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