The Cost Of My Past Stupidity Is Crimping My Fabulous Lifestyle: “Revenge Of The Diabolical Dentistas” – Part 1


On A Dental Implant.

For just under $3,200.

Plus additional costs (*).

A Steal, Right?


More Pain And Discomfort … 

As the proud reluctant, soon-to-be owner of a pearly white crown and shiny titanium Thingamajig … uh, really expensive screw.

The nefarious threaded Helical Torpedo – aptly named – that will be drilled into the uninviting bone residing below my always happy pinkish gums … after being surgically cut, separated and flapped back.

Doesn’t sound like fun times.

While I’m awake and breathing.

And, drifting back to the very day when this little Horror Show started.


About The Current (2nd) Tooth Occupying The Exact Space Where The Doomsday Device Is Drilling.

I couldn’t care less it’s fractured under the gums.

It’s served me well.

We’ve journeyed together through every bit of the colossal sh!tstorm long enough to know our bond and kinship runs deeper than the inevitable extraction.

Number Two replaced my baby tooth – central incisor, so cute – the tiniest and inarguably, prettiest one in my mouth.

I miss it dearly.

Not something one just ‘Gets Over’. 

Separation Anxiety is settling its unwelcomed self in a little too comfortably.

Regrettably, I take full culpability, having accepted a really cheap bribe from the Tooth Fairy a few years back.

A nickel or a dime, I don’t want to remember … a quarter was a bit rich for my clan.

Hey, I was six.

I needed the money to buy sugary candies so I could get more fillings later.

The Circle of Tooth Life, Simba.


From My Insurance Shylock About How Many Shekels They’re Kicking In (Unfunny Pun To Follow).

I’m expecting $40, give or take a Sawbuck.

And, this gem of a denial proffered from the Crickets inhabiting the orifices of ClaimSecure:

“… Sir, kindly spare us the indignity of delivering an insufferably lengthy legalese-smitten diatribe about why your ‘crappy’ insurance plan doesn’t cover damage done by ‘Blatant Acts of Stupidity’ after 31 years …”

I just knew they were going to say that.


Let’s Kick Back Like It’s 1988 Now … 

I’m Doing Something I Normally Don’t Do, But Different Than The Day Before …

On A Mattress.

Okay, futon.

It’s the late 80’s.

“Rick Astley’s yodeling ‘Never Gonna Give You Up’ in the background.”

I didn’t take his advice.

I should’ve.

She did …


To Whatever You’re Thinking, Folks.

Clear your mind.

Goofing around on the bed like big kids do, alright.

I was not alone.

Yes, there was a friend whom coincidentally happened to be female.

Guess you figured out the obvious quicker than I could tell you.

Inject your kitschy Batman superlative anywhere …




“It’s precisely the sound that happens when the heel attached to ‘How Was I Supposed To Know She Was A Bunny Boiler Sociopath With A Mean Streak And A Vicious Scissor Kick?’ decides my chin would be the perfect place to plant it.”


Over Here, Hits The Floor – Melon FirstLaid Out Flat On His Back.


Saved by his mullet.  You do know, I didn’t have a mullet, right?  No, I didn’t.

It was more Rockabilly meets Morrissey pompadour coif.

How I sculpted my Hair Helmut back in the day.

Just Like Today.

Except, yes, there’s a few thousand strands less – thanks for noticing – and its morphed into a dynamic new shade of Absolutely Fabulous In Gray, Bravo Darling.


I’m Stirring Myself Awake.

Fuzzy was he?

Constellations swirling above my noggin.

Its a cartoonish Wile E. Coyote / Road Runner moment.

My jaw feels like Mike Tyson’s been rag-dolling me across the street …

… then tosses me to Hulk Hogan to piledrive my head into the concrete sidewalk with a sledgehammer.


Root Canal.

My first.

Not, my last.

I’ll never forget you, babe.

You were everything to me … Love you like a Colonoscopy.

I’m smarting in my dentist’s chair anxious for the smiling Man In White to get on with his Medieval torture fixation.


The Unwinnable Battle Against The Abstinence Of Telling Sensational Lies.

Why is it that every Cop, Judge, Doctor, Lawyer, Therapist, Teacher, Preacher, Alchemist, Bartender, Uber Driver, Accountant, Taxidermist, Dentist, Barista, Mailman, Prison Guard, Cashier, UN Interpreter, Waitress, Bigfoot Hunter, Dominatrix, Conspiracy Nut Job, Secretary, Hooker, Shoe Salesman … not to mention the helpful Nurse at the neighborhood Meth and STD clinics … I meet always asks me the same question?

As if I’m ever going to have a different answer to this:

“Now, How’d It Really Happen This Time, Mike?”

Like I’d make up stories.



Close Enough To The Truth To My Dentist

So he’d buy in with empathy and take it easy on me.

Before he drills in deep.

Minutes before the freezing …

I dumbed down my version of “How It Almost Nearly Could’ve Happened If I Wasn’t Lying About How It Actually Happened” just enough so he’d comprehend the subtle nuances of good story telling while I plead the Statute of Limitations on Unlawful Stupidity.


“A freaky ass thing happened … you’re not gonna believe it, Doc. 

Anyway, I’m pulling dandelions from my front lawn, because I like the place to look good, right.  Then I get myself to thinking the way I do every now and then, about my rat-faced dink of a neighbor Roger and his trophy wife, Carl.

Now, you gotta ‘member, Carl(y)’s ‘Pre-Op’ at the time, so all of the estrogen hormone trickery hasn’t fully blossomed into his/her sexy lady parts yet – well, the two of them, don’t they go and spread themselves a wheelbarrow full of seeds of the Taraxacum flowering plant last fall. 

By the way, case you forgot, I’m an amateur botanist, so I know just about everything there is to growing all kinds of stuff in dirt.

And, there I go thinking to myself, again.  I’m figuring, its payback for my pooch dumping a load of warm Tootsie Rolls and spritzing lemon mist on their prized Marigolds. 

Like I was saying, I’m pulling weeds and sweating my cojones off.  I’m getting real good at it, too.  I’m digging and poking and pulling …  Using this small whatever-the-hell tool, garden thing, its called.  A baby shovel. 

Anyway, I borrowed it from Roger or Carl.  Probably, Roger.  Carl creeps me out.  Boobs and a Five O’Clock shadow?  Not my thing, okay.  Maybe if Carl was prettier, wore nice make up and dressed fancy.  Got rid of the gut.  Didn’t have an Adams Apple the size of a snowball.  Still, I dunno, whatever.

I’m jabbing around the yard, when this magnificent specimen of a grasshopper (Caelifera is the scientific name, by the way, you wanna go check it out on the Google button), jumps out of nowhere, nearly scares me to death and back.  And, what’s the little fella do next?  Attaches his ugly self to my lower lip.  What he did.  I know, right?

The mother’s really hanging on, eh!  Got a nice tight bite hooked in there real good and all.  So, I’m like about to loose it, freak out and whatnot, but my keen survival instincts kick in from my eBay Juan Padrone combat training.  Now, I’m now wrestling with this buggy-eyed prick about to inflict some heavy ground and pound.  The little sh!ts got some good fight in him.  Not letting go, eh.  

So, I get smart.  ‘Member, I’ve got this hand digger, pointy baby shovel pick axe of Roger’s stashed in my cargo shorts next to my smokes.  Now, here comes the smackdown.  I’m gonna knock ol’ Caelifera on his skinny green ass he doesn’t back his self right down the second we lock eyes. 

Not with my first go at it, for real but …  No, I miss him ’cause he’s in real close, shifty, stealth-like, but I’m staring down my nose at him.  My balance isn’t too good either.  Got the Vertigo real bad, eh.  And, the shakes, too, from Friday night’s bender at Greg’s place.

Could be I’m also a sixer of Buds deep into Saturday morning libations for hydration purposes.  Listening to my doctor, you know.  And, a coupla few extra shots of the Jack getting my weekend day drunk on.  Living smart for a change.

Few more swipes.  Whack-A-Mole, like at the ‘Musement park games.  Won me a Hello Kitty blow-up doll last summer.  Still haven’t used her.  Keeping her in the package for a special occasion, right.

Caeli’s fast.  Bruce Lee quick.  Kung Fu grip.  And, obviously he’s a good jumper.  I’ve done my intel on the World Wide Web, right.  Serious hops.  He moves. 

Whack, whack.  Whack, whack.  Whack, whack … 

Coward flees like a cockroach.

There I am, bloodied up real good.  Like a mess the cat drugged in.  Nose bent right outta shape.  Eyes blackened.  Purple, really.  Lips like ground beef smattered in ketchup.  Sloppy Joe face.

And, well, my tooth, she aches like hell, you know.  That’s it.  Really, happened ‘xactly almost close to just like that.  Over before you knew it.”


Circa Fall 1993.  

Five peaceful years after the Heel Plant From Hell.

About to nosh on a tart MacIntosh.

Its crisp, cool and crunchy.

I love Mac’s …

I’m one big gnarly, unapologetic bite in when the pain rockets north to my brain.

Same tooth.

Getting My Root Canal – The Sequel.


Christmas Week 2018.

Twenty-Five years later …

Granny Smith this time.

Pretty, innocuous.

See above.

First bite in.

Bad angle.

Pain From Hell Throbbing Like A Banshee.


I’m Stubborn, Stupid and Back In My Dentist’s Chair

Waiting for the X-Ray.


There it is.

A big, “Huh?”.

He sees something that looks suspiciously like big, fat dollar signs and a Happy Face emoji.

$ $ $  🙂  $ $ $

I Catch Him …

… Pretending to study the grainy black and white velum on the light monitor …

As he’s flipping through his smartphone checking the NASDAQ every fourteen seconds.

Coffee Futures, I suspect.


He says convincingly enough:

“Oh, this isn’t good.  Be expensive to fix.”

Yep, like that.


Two options, both bite me in the undercarriage.

Something about a Maryland Bridge.



Dental Implant.

“Cha-Schmucking-Ching … How’s Your Dental Insurance?”

Like your sense of humor and timing.

It sucks.

Around $3,500 (*).

He wasn’t lying.

Just a little shy on the real number.

He knows a guy he went to Dental School with.

Hook me up, no problem.

He Specializes In This Kind Of Dental Sorcery.


When The Price Of Coffee Futures Fall … 

Dental fees go all the way up!

Dentistnomics 101.


Take 6 Days To Kick In.

What Einsteinium Twit did the simple math when concocting this crap?

Were they out of placebos in Mexico?

Here’s an idea sure to cause a global pharmaceutical conspiracy:

One Pill + One Minute = End Pain?

Like making Oatmeal, Ragazzi.

Because antibiotics do Sweet Jack Snap for the pain.

“Oh, you can get your own Ibuprofen.”

I thought you were pushing smack for Big Pharma, Doc?

How about a little reach around for the pain, por favor?

I know you have Narcos hook-ups in Colombia, and the coffee gig is just a not-so-clever decoy as a side hustle.

I watch Netflix.


The Dental Implantologist – how goofy is that moniker? – my dentist’s recommended is conveniently on vacation.

For another two weeks.

Over the next ten days, I promise myself not to be cranky no matter how unbearable the pain.





Magically, I wake up on Day 6 and there’s no pain.

Oh, its there – gone Sub Rosa … reminds me later when I’m thinking I’ll save the 3.2K – but its taking a couple days off to re-arm.


I’m Told By The Energizer Bunny-Hopping Dental Assistant.

Now, here’s one from left field:

She mentions during introductions – Why, I haven’t a clue – she’s Romanian.

Okay, that’s nice.

But, I don’t know what it’s supposed to mean.

Other than by quick deduction of my commitment to cultural ignorance and stereotypes, through prior references of the three Romanian’s I’ve ever met:

Two are Engineers and one is a Ballerina.


Ballerina is code for Stripper.

Okay, I lose all perception of mind, space and time, with the Side Show Follies on deck.

No lie. 

This happened.  This week.  In my life.

“She starts dancing … doing a little ‘Hey, Now’ with her dark eyes …”

Yes, exactly like …

Finger snapping – shuffling shuffling, shuffling – then shoulder shimmying …

Her merry way across the room.


To The 80’s Dance Jams Piped In From The Office Sound System.

As the Old Girl’s grooving it out …

… to Funky Cold Medina?

Right in front of me.


Entering The Room … Greeting Me With An Apology.

Had a medical situation of his own to attend to.

I do a double take.

Looks enough like Roman Polanski – circa 1968 – that I’m about to jump out of the chair thinking he’s filming the sequel to Rosemary’s Baby.

I try to when he asks me why I’m there.

“You know exactly why I’m here.  That’s the X-Ray of my cracked central incisor over your shoulder.  If Dancing Queen can manage to shuffle herself to the left, you may want to take a little Look-See, Roman.”

Despite sounding like Larry King, we get on splendidly.

Until He Presents The Quote.

He shrugs, says,

“You checked the price of coffee futures, lately?”


Roman Excuses Himself …

I suspect he’s sauntered off to check his financial portfolio.

Lady Marmalade returns.

A deeper funk to her strut now.

Grooving Like Stella Just Got It Back, Sugar.

By grooving, I’ll be perfectly clear:

“The only thing missing from the pelvic gyrations was a pole.”

Okay, dry ice, too.

Stage lights.

And, whatever happened to my business expense account?


In A Two-Toned Smock, Stretchable Slacks And Sensible Reeboks.

Stella could move – and did – like no one was watching.

Except me.

I get uncomfortable whenever someone looks at me too long.

I’m good with a courteous, doable two-count.

Staring is something else.

Brushing my shoulder are you?

Just like that.

All I could say was,

“Hey, have we met before.  ‘Cause, I’m not paying extra for this, honey.”

Before Roman came back into the room.








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