Suggested Audio Lollipops:
 Cypress Hill “Insane In The Membrane”
 Paul Rutherford “Get Real”
If there’s one thing that makes my dick recess then it’s that inescapable visit to the dentist. I blame Marathon Man and, in particular, Laurence Olivier for my illogical fear. “Is it safe?” Those words have reverberated through my ear drums every time I have taken to the reclining death chair and, as a result, it is over three years since I last attended a check up. When you consider the amount of harmful sugar which has been corroding away my enamel day after day, it’s a small wonder that I still have teeth in my face. Regular brushing has kept the baying wolves from the door but, alas, wisdom teeth are a law entirely unto themselves and their emergence is without any rhyme or reason. Right now I have a humdinger and there are few more disquieting sensations than that of dental anguish. I simply couldn’t put it off any longer.
Dr Magnus Svenson is a decorated orthodontist and has enough letters after his name to suggest he knows his way around the root canal. His methods have been considered slightly unorthodox but the results speak for themselves. I don’t give a barrel of shit biscuits whether he’s the best licensed surgeon in the entire hemisphere; so long as his assistant has a tight little touche and I receive a lollipop for my troubles. It seems only fair that his subordinate be easy on the eye; after all I’ll need some distraction from the buzzing drill bit as it plummets towards my molars. With a little good fortune he will settle for an X-ray and make an appointment for a later date. At least then I would have some time to prepare. Sadly, this is looking unlikely, as Svenson loves nothing more than to act on a whim. Why put off until tomorrow what you can do today? Fuck you Magnus and fuck you twice. Third Time’s a charm I hear so, fuck it, let’s go for the triage of fucks. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Have you guessed yet that I’m growing a little restless?
I’ve just caught glimpse of his hygienist and, I have to say, thank God for the Swedes. Who would’ve thought that Pippi Longstocking would’ve grown up to be so…voluptuous? Consequently a lot of pornography originates from Scandinavia and those golden pig-tails will act as perfect reins as I ride her to Malmö and back. I’ll do no such thing of course other than smile politely and possibly soil my smalls a little. Meanwhile, she will do everything in her power to tantalize me; stooping over me with that impossibly well-organized cleavage as she allows her perfume to waft through my nostrils, rendering me powerless. In truth, she will likely spend most of the time sucking any excess saliva away with her handy portable vacuum while I endure the agony of Svenson’s drill bit but I’m trying hard to focus on the positives right now. They’re all I’ve got left at this point.
I never asked for teeth in the first place. Ever since the excitement subsided over visitation from the tooth fairy, they’ve caused me no end of distress and offered precious few positives. It’s great that my gums have company; I wouldn’t relish the thought of my face capitulating entirely. They also make chewing more rewarding as eventually even Prime Rib loses its distinctive flavor, becoming little more than belt leather. But every bonus comes complete with its very own downside and right now I’m on one such downward spiral. No pain on Earth, other than childbirth apparently, is quite so all-encompassing as dental pain. The ears, nose and throat are in cahoots thus any discomfort felt is intensified by the power of three. How about some ear ache with that persistent throbbing agony? It’s kind of like the old kick in the scrotal bag; too much discomfort for one area and better shared with the abdomen for a more all-over desolation. I’d take the sack tap right now, particularly if facilitated playfully by Ms Chloë Johanson’s stiletto.
I’m not the only one courting dread as the waiting room is currently at capacity. Strength in numbers right? Not exactly. Routine check-ups for the most part; I seem to be the only person present in any kind of discomfort and the lady at reception has kindly noted such and made me a priority. She likely feels as though she has done a good deed but the truth of the matter is that she’s throwing me into the wolves den which kind of makes her my nemesis. The words “don’t worry sweetheart, you’re next up” may seem consoling but the prospect of hearing them chills the very blood in my ventricles. I could feign illness and make my excuses but even Whiskey isn’t cutting it any longer as the agony is becoming over-bearing. Time to stand up and be counted; prove to myself that there are worse things in life than a trip to the dentist. It’s funny, outside of genital warts, I can’t currently think of a single fate more mortifying.
Here come the words I’m dreading. Little Billy McIlroy has been ejected from the hot seat and is leaving seemingly in more anguish than when he arrived. Clutching his face with tears streaming down both freckled cheeks; he appears to have had his spirit broken during his consultation and this doesn’t bode at all well for me.
“Mummy it hurts bad”
“Don’t worry chicken. Let’s get you home shall we? Where’s your lollipop darling?”
“Dr Svenson has run out”
What? No lollies. This is catastrophic. The removal of any scant remuneration has placed a whole different complexity on things and I’m up in arms, at least in my mind. Other than sterile instruments there could be no greater consolation than that post-ordeal lollipop and, without said sweetener, this is looking decidedly bleak.
“Mr Stevens. You’re up”
There they are. The words I was dreading. Time to man up and I will be required to so do armed with the knowledge that there are no lollipops awaiting the end of my excursion. Would it have been so troublesome for Magnus to stop off at the mall before his shift and pick up a family pack of Chupa Chups? Where’s his compassion for his fellow man? He doesn’t have that in his possession and do you know why that is? It’s because he’s a dentist. The most heartless practitioners on the health service aren’t bogged down by any unnecessary sympathetic tendencies; instead they take great pleasure in introducing us to our very worst nightmares. His gatekeeper has spoken; there can be no more places to hide. It’s time to puff out my chest and take any vile medicine coming to me. I’m searching desperately for some words of encouragement but instead I get twelve-year old Marci Bannister; niece of Damien Thorne and heir to Lucifer’s throne.
“He’s gonna mess you up good”
Thank you Marci for your understanding of my plight. I fully intend on tailing you home and serenading you from outside your bedroom window to the tune of “ugly little mutt in ugly braces.” I hope your jaw shatters you little bitch.
“Just remember little girl, you’re up after me”
“Routine check up butt chin”
Dagnabbit. I want one of those.
“You wait until you hit your twenties. Not so routine then let me tell you. And when that day arrives, I’ll be loitering in the foliage outside, ready to cram your shitty little cheeks with gobstoppers, then place your head in a vice and crank it”
“That’s my daughter you’re threatening”
“I’m sorry. No offense intended. I’m just nervous. Nothing’s coming out right today”
“You should be ashamed of yourself”
“Yeah! You should be ashamed of yourself mister”
Who asked you shit knickers? Your mother should have you on a muzzle.
“I apologize unreservedly”
“Don’t you dare use that kind of language Marci”
The welcome clip around the year. Suck it Marci. There’s your just desserts right there and the kicker is that I never lifted a solitary finger. Astonishingly, the gloom has begun to lift. That bright red palm print spread across her cheek has made me feel more chipper about my upcoming plight and, each time I twinge, I shall picture her in my mind and my grimace will contain a distinct smile of sorts. There’s a whole world of anguish heading your way Marci; menstruation doesn’t wait around forever and teenage pregnancy is a particularly potent threat, even for disgusting little freaks like you. Particularly for disgusting little freaks like you. You’ll be so sick of being called Troll Tits by sixteen that you’ll give it up to the first dick out of shrink-wrap and I’ll see you in the benefits queue by the time you’re eighteen. We’ll see just who is smiling then shall we? Neither of us as we’ll both be destitute.
“Mr Stevens. Stop dallying. You’re holding up surgery”
Deep breath. In through the nose…hold it…hold it…now exhale. I think I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. One final baleful leer in the direction of Marci Bannister, in which I imagine her face being slapped by an unruly gibbon wearing a studded glove in sub zero temperatures, and my rejuvenation is complete. Bring it Svenson. It is imperative that I keep up my strut and don’t allow my shoulders to drop for a picosecond as I know full well that Marci has her beady little pips on me at all times just waiting for me to come a cropper and return her to the psychological ascendency. Despite my new-found resolve, the closer I get to that fateful door, the more my gut twists.
“Take a seat. Mr Stevens is it?”
“Looking at my records it would appear you’ve been holding out from us”
“I misplaced my appointment card”
“Well the main thing is that I’ve got you now”
“Lay back please and tell me what seems to be the problem today”
“How unfortunate for you Mr Stevens. Tell you what, why don’t you open your mouth as wide as you can for me and I shall take a look”
“Don’t you need your assistant in here?”
“She’s just scrubbing up. Normally you’d get Chloë but she’s got gastroenteritis right now so I’ve drafted in Betty as a replacement”
Betty? Maybe the name Betty is making a comeback. Regardless it isn’t filling me with hope.
“Speak of the devil. Here’s Betty now”
Yes, there’s Betty; all 300lbs of her. I’m frantically searching for pluses and the only one forthcoming is the vague consolation that I won’t need anesthetic if Betty leans across me as her excess wing baggage will likely suffocate me where I lay. I know, I shall focus on the hairy mole on the dimple of her sizable cleavage and prey for hypnosis. Gastroenteritis need not provide a reason not to come into work Ms Svenson; why the blazing hell should I be the one to suffer? Aren’t I about to endure enough heartbreak?
“Sorry I’m late. I snuck out and picked up some more lollipops”
Alright Betty. You’re off the hook…for now. Watch where those arms hang and we may yet get on okay.
“Open wide Mr Stevens”
“Betty. Get the clamp. Seems like we have ourselves a wriggler”
Don’t you fucking do it Betty. Betty?
Congratulations Betty. You’ve displaced Chloë from the summit of my death-list and that is no mean feat.
“Oh dear Mr Stevens”
What do you mean oh dear? Oh dear I don’t have the correct instruments to continue oh dear? Oh dear you have a clean bill of health so there’s nothing further I can do oh dear? Or perhaps oh dear we won’t be needing you as Ms Svenson has recovered miraculously from her bout of sickness oh dear? Any one of the three will be simply fine and dandy.
“Oh dear that will have to come out”
“Nothing to worry about. We’ll have this done in no time. Betty, would you be so kind as to pass the Novocaine?”
“Certainly Mr Svenson”
“This should help numb the area Mr Stevens. It’s quite a trip let me tell you. You’ll be off with the fairies the whole time”
The fairies? I love the fairies. The fairies are very welcome to sit in on the procedure. I hope they’re of the sugar plum variety. Little flappy wings complete with pixie dust. Bring on the fairies and, while you’re at it Magnus, I’ll take your Novocaine. Hold on, how is it administered?
“You may feel an initial pinch. Betty does this needle look sterile to you?”
“Let me ‘ave a look”
Shouldn’t you be wearing gloves Betty? Lordy, I’ve ended up with the world’s worst dental nurse. Look at the calluses on her fingers. And her nails. Sweet mercy those nails; backed up to the cuticles with sludge. Jab me quick. Get it over with Svenson.
“That should do it. Actually Betty, do you think we used enough?”
Should? That’s better than fifty-fifty right? I should suffer a coronary before I’m sixty. Come to think of it I think I may be in the throes of one now.
“Look at his pupils Betty. It’s working!”
There’s no need to act so surprised Magnus. Never mind, I’m starting to feel a sensation.
“Now where’s my drill?”
Those words should be my kryptonite right now but astonishingly I feel inclined to take them in my stride. The chill in the air has lifted and I suddenly feel all warm and fuzzy. Ain’t no thang. I can do this shit or my name ain’t Jim Morrison. Look at the psychedelia, you can see that too right? It’s kaleidoscopic. Yippee. I’m as high as a giraffe in a top hat. I’m not even fazed by the drill; as ominous as its appearance may be, I’ll be too delirious to care. Hi fairies. You are sugar plum after all, how delightful. Actually Betty’s underarm satchels are a thousand acres of fun. Watch out, here comes that hairy mole. Is it…is it waving at me? It is. I cannot help but be mesmerized by its wispiness. I just want to tie a red bow around it and tickle it with my eyelashes. Do people name their moles? If not then they’re missing a trick. Betty’s can be called Maude. It looks like a Maude.
Svenson is hard at work currently and the great thing is that I don’t have a problem with that. Maybe it’s on account of his walrus whiskers. Never noticed them prior but they’re thick enough to pluck a cello with, three each side, taut like facial rapiers. This is marvelous; second only to the time when I dropped acid during The Mask.
“That should do us. All finished Mr Stevens. Swill some mouthwash and spit out for me, then sit up, and you’re free to leave. Don’t forget to make another appointment with reception on your way out. Oh and I almost forgot. Here’s your lollipop”
Dagnabbit. Why do I always get strawberry?