It's like the Grand Canyon in there!

Today, I finally told it to my dentist.  I didn’t want to make his day or anything; I just wanted him to see what I mean. 

“Doctor,” I instructed, “Enough already! No more good news!”

He looked at me with a look of pure incredulity; I mean who doesn’t want good news?  So I just gave him to understand.

“Look, I walk in here and smile at you, and what do I get - a shot.  After I’m good and numb you look over my short cavity list and think for a few minutes.  Yep, you got yourself a few good choices there.  ‘Oh number 3 and five and twelve are done,’ (after 7 visits, mind you) you say breezily.  Then you pick.  It’s like blackjack. 

‘I’ll take number 57.’ 

You get out all your instruments and proceed to gag me, choke me, and inundate me with strange smells and even stranger sensations, while asking me ‘are you O.K.?’

I’m sorry if I sound bitter but it just gets me that after all these indignities you look into my mouth and say in an awe filled voice, ‘Wow, are you sure you didn’t feel anything?  No sensitivity to hot or cold??? This sure is a big one! It’s like the Grand Canyon in there!’
 
Listen here, Doc, all is fine and I’ll never complain but if you ever have an urge to say this to me again, choke it down, alright?  Because this I say by the nasty drill that I’ll in no way be held responsible for whatever the outcome is.”

I can see it already.
“Are you alright?” asks the doctor in a concerned voice.

“Whatever,” I think, “As if it’s going to make a large size difference.”“

“Well, raise your left hand if you feel any pain,” he says soothingly.

I just wait for it to come.  And without fail, “Wow, look at this,” he almost laughs, “It’s huge, this cavity is huge!”

Then it happens.  I raise my left hand and pluck the drill from his hand.  Brandishing it over his cowering head, I direct him to the very chair I just escaped from. 

Now, I’m like a kid in a candy store.  First, I take that suction tool and stick it up his nose.  I adjust the chair with a nice warning.

“I’m adjusting the chair now,” I say, and watch his apprehension rise as he realizes there is no escape.  I rev up the drill a couple of times and watch the fear in his eyes as the water sprays in his mouth and over to the great beyond like a fountain from a Beluga whale's blowhole.  Then I cram his mouth full of cotton. 

“Open a little wider,” I urge forcefully. “Let’s try to fit just one more thing in there. Close, close, close, close,” I repeat. “Uh, Uh, Uh, but don’t bite!” I shout. Now that really aught to confuse him.

I stick my head way over his bemused face and look into his mouth.  I can’t even see a thing. It’s like rush hour in there!  But I don’t let it stop me; after all, it has never stopped him.  “Look here,” I laugh, “You have a hole here the size of the Arizona!  Can you feel the trade wind in there?”  I cry over the sound of the revving drill. 

Then, with all that noise and the blue mask covering my face I call out all sorts of instructions.  “Too the left, no, to the right, lift a little, just a little more, no, no, do the Hora!” Yep, he does look a little puzzled.

“What?” he asks in a muzzled voice.  I come out of my reverie.  I’m still in the chair and everything looks strangely normal.  Disappointment mingles with the odd smell from the bonding agent.

“Nothing, nothing,” I sigh into my cotton balls.  I blink a few times to clear my head.  “Ever been to the Grand Canyon?”