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Bring the Pain, Skippy

Hmmph. Went to a periodontist yesterday. Wife was all bent out of shape because I busted a tooth… three months ago, when one of the little bastard wetbacks I caught in the backyard decided he wouldn’t run right away and threw a rock at me… I was an idiot and didn’t a) duck, and b) just cut the dogs loose right from the git-go, and paid for it, while the midget pudenta made it over the fence before the boys got hold of him.

Anyway, day before the day before the day before yesterday, a piece of jalepeño got snagged in the divot while we were eating dinner, and I howled when the juice hit the nerve, and she found out, and everything went higgledy-piggledy.

Wife’s Daddy was a dentist, and my teeth are, to put it mildly, a train wreck. Too much drink, smoke, pucks, fists and occasional beer bottles (and gnawed-off beer bottle caps, for that matter) have intersected my pearly porcelain portico. I, naturally, was totally screwed once I was found out, and summarily delivered to the dentist’s office. The guy ran x-rays, jammed shit into my gums, and declared I need my entire mouth ripped apart, scraped, then stitched back together… and weirded me right to Mars by mucking about with and muttering to his assistant about my tongue. WTF?

DOC: “We’ll do it in quadrants.”

ME: “What’s this “we” shit? Just knock my ass out and write me a neverending painkiller scrip.”

DOC: “That’s a rather cavalier attitude, Mr. Lynch.”

ME: “Stop that. Call me “TC,” or “Red.” Or just lose the “mister.” I’ll be calling you “Skippy.” That’s a rather overloaded vocabulary you’re playing with, Skippy. “CAVALIER?” You don’t even know what it means, do you? The Limey connotation, I mean?”

He basically wants to tear my mouth apart, yank a couple of wisdoms; had the balls to tell me that “it’ll save you misery you will suffer later”–as if putting off misery was a bad thing–and then told ME I was being “cavalier”… like I give a shit about King Charles?

He had absofuckinglutely no idea who I am or what I was talking about… story of my life.

ME: “Oh, nevermind, Skippy, you win. I’d rather be in screaming pain these next few months, as opposed to some time in a future that I might not even live long enough to make it to and enjoy all that toothy terror then. SIGN ME UP!”

HIM: “Your Wife told me “he’s a piece of work, Doctor [redacted].” Now I know what she meant.”

ME: “No, you don’t. But if you don’t knock my ass out hard enough, and I feel anything remotely resembling pain while I’m sitting in this here chair, you will definitely find out–in a heartbeat–what she was talking about.”

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