The Dentist

Nothing is more random and inconvenient than your bi-yearly trips to the dentist.  Since we are too primitive to figure out how to correctly brush or floss ourselves, each of us (unless you're incredibly poor and don't have dental coverage) subject ourselves to a stranger shoving foreign objects and minty (aka disgusting) paste into our mouths twice a year.  Since a trip to the dentist usually takes away valuable time I use to sit on my ass and watch tv, I have become somewhat of a pro over the years when it comes to prepping myself for the visit, in an attempt to make it as fast as possible.

First of course, you have to brush your teeth BEFORE your visit.  I know, this makes absolutely NO sense at all since you're headed in to get a mega cleaning anyway, but you know you do it.  I remember one time I forgot to do the pre-brush, and that was the day I was told my oral hygiene was declining.  What an embarrassing moment.  Getting scolded for being some dirty loser who doesn't know how to correctly brush is a pretty low moment.  Of course, after my pre-brush, I pull out the floss and go to town.  This is usually hard, since I search for the floss for about 15-20 minutes, after all, THIS IS ONE OF ONLY TWO TIMES I FLOSS ALL YEAR.  Eventually, in the back of the drawer, I find the dusty floss sample I was given on my last visit, and awkwardly attempt to get the job done.  I have always sucked at flossing...never truly figured it out.  I just can't seem to master wrapping the shit around my finger and simultaneously sliding it between my teeth, trying to avoid cutting the shit out of my gums.  Sometimes I'll brush a second time after the floss, especially if I anticipate getting the hot, thirty-something mom assistant as my cleaner for the day.  God forbid I let that hot little siren down...

So you finally get to the dentist.  First, you check in with the receptionist.  This woman always seems to remember your name, even though she only sees you twice a year and sees countless people walk in and out of that house of pain every day.  After some awkward small talk, you eventually retire to the waiting room to pick out the issue of TIME that seems to be the most current (within the last year) and simultaneously looks like it has the least traces of human germs all over it.  Did you ever think about how unsanitary those magazines are, for such a sanitary place?  The doctor's office is even worse.  Don't touch a damn thing in that place.  I swear, there is feces, blood, and mucous all over everything.

There's always that creepy old lady that stares at you in the waiting room too.  God knows how long she has been sitting there waiting for her husband while they replace every damn tooth in his skull.  The amazing part, she is doing absolutely nothing to occupy herself.  No magazine, no knitting, no snack...NOTHING.  Her hobby is to just stare at you, since after all, you obviously remind her of her grandson, who is now in prison serving 5-10 for breaking and entering...but he is such a good boy!!

Mercifully, your dental hygienist comes to call your name, right before the old bag's evil eyes melt you to death.  And wouldn't you know it, you get the hot one!  Jackpot!!  Okay...she's not actually hot at all, and a little bit old, but considering what you have to work with in the dentist's office, she'll have to do.  I might be the only person that feels this special connection with my dental hygienist...maybe I am a sick person, but truthfully I think I'm just an average guy with a man's brain.  After all, how many people in your life have you let shove their hands in your mouth at will?  That is a truly special bond.  Maybe it's the way she asks me to turn my head "a bit to the left" or to "open wide"...but wait, no, "close halfway".  There must be some type of code in there she is trying to communicate to me with, letting me know how she wants to run away to Rio de Janeiro with me.  After all, I am obviously the most obedient and attractive patient she has ever had...

Now you make it into the room.  On my trip, I manage to avoid the x-ray, which can be best described as trying to fit a baseball card in your mouth while trying to avoid gashing up your gums.  On this trip, it's straight to step two, which I call Captain Hook.  Yes...this is the magic metal tool that is no more than a small, sharp hook.  When used correctly, it can chip away plaque you've been building up for the past six months, with ease.  If you get the old hygienist with the thick glasses and shaky hands, it can turn into a deadly weapon leaving your mouth looking like an Andrew WK album cover (look it up).  My question is, if this hook works so well, why don't we have one in our own bathroom?  It's like dentists have a corner on the market.  All that your health insurance is paying for is the right to get the Captain Hook treatment twice a year.  After all, the polisher is basically a glorified electric toothbrush, and floss is just some fucking string.

So after your cleaning, you are then asked to wait a few minutes, or a few hours, for the dentist to come in and evaluate the job, since obviously the hygienist is not intelligent enough to notice if one of your teeth is rotting out of your mouth.  Recently, my primary dentist has changed.  The dentist I've had since I was five (we'll call him Dr. Awesome) is getting old and cutting back his hours.  Dr. Awesome always found a way to be the coolest guy on Earth.  When I was little, he'd give me all sorts of sweet ass stickers that I would promptly slap on EVERYTHING once I got home, never to be removed.  As I got older, we would talk about the Bills, and other random guy stuff.

So my new dentist is this little pudgy guy we'll call Dr. Sausage Fingers.  This guy has no personality at all.  His small talk on this visit involved some bullshit about how holiday stress makes people grind their teeth.  Well guess what douche, I really don't care.  Let's have some damn man-to-man time here.  Ask me about beer, or ultimate fighting or some shit.  On top of this, easily assumed by the name I assigned him, his short, pudgy fingers should have led him into any profession OTHER than being a freakin dentist.  When these things are shoved in your mouth you feel like you're Joey Chestnut scarfing down the last few hot dogs on the 4th of July.  Mercifully this only lasts a few seconds, and eventually I'm clutching my free tooth brush on my way out.

But first, time to make your next appointment.  "Okay...Mr. Williams...how does 5pm, Wednesday, August 20th, 2074 sound?"  Oh yeah...no problem...let me hop in my time machine and let you know, since I really have an idea of what I'll be doing that far into the freakin future.  I never save the damn card they give you anyway...I just wait for the courtesy call the day before.

Next thing I know, it's six months later.  I'm doin the pre-brush and spraying on some cologne for my baby girl hygienist, ready to do it all over again.  I love the dentist.

Christmas Shopping

Nothing is more demoralizing than Christmas shopping.  Every year, society asks us to leave our inhibitions at the door and head to the mall, with no idea of the shitstorm we are about to run into.  Every year I pray to God (ok, no I don't, since I don't believe in that, but let's pretend I do), that my dear family and friends will say to me, "Oh, BB, why don't you just buy something for yourself in my honor, and I will do the same?"  WOW!  What a genius idea that would be!  But instead, we're forced to buy gifts for our family and friends and fucking hope they'll like it enough.  If not, that's what they made gift receipts for I guess.

Speaking of which, the concept of a gift receipt is terrible to begin with.  You give someone a gift, and provide the receipt in case your taste sucks so bad that your gift is completely unacceptable.  But, the "gift receipt" doesn't show the price you paid.  Fantastic, so when Grandma decides the lingerie you got her just doesn't bring out her figure as well as she wanted, she can return it.  But guess what happens when Grams presents the gift receipt to the pimply-faced customer service rep at Target?  The asshole tells her EXACTLY how much it costs!!!  So now Grandma is taking your $26.00 and buying Depends and candles.  Christmas is so awesome.

I was at the mall this weekend, finishing (read: starting) my Christmas shopping.   Going to the mall on the weekend before Christmas is basically a death wish.  I would totally put on chain mail and carry one of those spiky-ball-on-a-chain things like Gimli in Lord of the Rings if it was acceptable by society.  Unfortunately, it's not, so I listened to "You're the Best", got pumped up, and headed to the mall.

I don't even try to fight for a parking spot at this time of year.  I'm a single asshole and I don't need to worry about dropping off my wife and kids at the door so they don't freeze to death.  My move is to head immediately for the parking garage and drive to the top level.  I'm out of shape anyway - that walk down the two flights of cement stairs is the best cardio I'll get until around April or so.

Once you walk into the doors of the mall, it is worse than any Halloween haunted house you will ever visit.  If you make your way through the disgusting Goth kids smoking cigarettes outside the door, you are immediately subjected to the "I-used-to-be-a-high-school-jock-but-now-I'm-a-Best-Buy-security-guard" dude.  This prick looks you in the eye and asks how you're doing...and you're forced to acknowledge him.  If you don't, you fear you'll be stripped down like some TSA screening.  Does this guy really think anyone is going to walk out of here with something like "Eat, Pray, Love" on blu ray?  Shit, the damn security alarm goes off pretty much every damn time someone walks through it and they just wave your ass on - "Go ahead!" - I could walk through with the codes for North Korea's nuclear weapons, and I don't think Mr. I-impregnated-my-prom-date-and-now-I'm-attempting-to-duck-child-support is going to stop me.

So I make it into the mall.  Now I'm dodging rednecks rubbing cologne samples on their body, and grandmas consulting stoned-out high school age employees on what the most popular sweatpants with "juicy" written on the ass would be the best for their granddaughters. Finding your way through the department store entrance is like some fucked up version of Pan's Labyrinth.  Next thing you know, you're stuck in the women's hosiery section trying not to get caught staring at the mannequins.   At this point, I'm already sweating between the balls (did I mention I'm overweight and lazy?) and wishing I left my jacket in the car.  However, just like the troops storming Normandy Beach, it's too late to turn back.  After dodging some screaming kids waiting for their mom to pick out a cheap sweater, and a dude in a Dale Earnhardt jacket helping his son pick out a John Deere t-shirt, I'm finally out into the actual "mall".

Now it's every man for himself.  My move is to tuck and run, speed walking against the grain and dodging middle aged moms sipping the Orange Julius they bought in the food court.  This is the hard part.  I have no fucking clue where I'm going.  At this point I'm just a zombie wandering through the mall.  I have showed up with no game plan, no list, and no real idea what I should be buying.  I spend the next hour aimlessly wandering in and out of stores and generally pontificating about how happy I am that I don't have to push some demon spawn child around in a stroller.  By the time I leave, I have bought a shitty sweater my mom will probably hate, a random video game for my brother, and a hat for myself (to hide my receding hairline).  My only thought is the cold beer awaiting my homecoming in my fridge.

On the drive home, I think about how little I have accomplished.  These feelings of despair are instantly washed away once that first sip of beer hits my lips.  I try to salvage some of the Christmas spirit as I sip my PBR and sloppily wrap my presents.  Who gives a shit...I am a lonely asshole who shops for three people.  I have somehow purchased everything they want, and the things I missed are later purchased as I drunkenly input my credit card number on amazon.com.  Another year down...

To wrap this story up - I truly love my family, and I know they feel the same.  As generic the gifts are they asked for, I know they'll appreciate them.  The feeling I enjoy the most is enjoying a spiked Egg Nog on Christmas morning with my parents and brother as we trade stories of how crazy the holiday shopping season truly is.  Don't let anyone tell you different...the true meaning of Christmas is getting sauced with your family.  Merry Christmas, assholes.