Dental Hygiene; How to Castrate Rick Perry


So. I’m a crybaby. A Certified and bone fide, ADHD-addled, lunatic, printed on recycled and tear-stained paper crybaby.

Remember me telling you about Gram’s potion for gum disease called Ginger I’m Invitin Ya Ta Go Away? That’s the one she brewed to promote pink gums. We started doing some clinical testing on it out to our laboratory in Dripping Springs. That’s the testing that got Gram sued by the American Dental Hygiene Association. I did a postie here to the bloggie on May 22nd if you want to refresh your memory.

Getting served with the papers caused Gram to load a couple moose slugs into her big shotgun for a trip to our dentist’s office, and a face-to-face with Melissa. She’s our dental hygienist for twenty years from over to Dr. Kelly Keith’s place. Melissa is the sweetest person I know, and has never mashed my lips between my teeth and her instruments of torture. She never causes any more pain than is needed to clean your teeth.

That’s right, never once in twenty years has she brutalized my mouth.

The underlying reason for bringing up this dental stuff, is that I need to tell you about the other health issue I’ve been dealing with these last two weeks. I’m screwed up at both ends, folks. I’ve got the fistula dealies on my ass, and I need a root canal in my mouth. The tooth started throbbing two weeks ago, the night before I headed to Dallas to start what I can’t tell you about yet.

Dr. Kieth, of course, was down to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, basking his Lilly-white butt on the beach while I suffered. When he returned my call to his emergency number, he said, “I’ll give you a prescription for an antibiotic and some Vicadin for the pain, Mooner. Come see me when you get back.”

I could hear the surf and surf girls in the background of the call. But I couldn’t hear an appropriate level of empathy in his voice.

I tried to explain to him the problem I was having with the tooth pain and the ass pain and the entire sitting on not-church wooden benches dealie. But he was too busy enjoying himself to have any sympathy for me.

“Oh, stop acting like a baby, Mooner. Take your pills and see me when you get back.”

I called Alma for an appointment for this morning, and I just got back to work from making it. Alma is the industrial strength Super Glue that holds the dental office together. When I called her, she said to me, she says, “Now look, Mooner. I’ll move things around any way that I can to accommodate you. But call me to tell me if you need to move your time.”

I have to admit that I was just a little worried that Melissa would be laying for me when I showed up for this appointment. I had to warn her that Gram was on the war path, and about the whole lawsuit thingie back to when Gram was headed Melissa’s way with a shotgun back in May. I felt compelled to tell her that Gram was locked and loaded and headed her way when I stopped the attack. But I had no need to worry.

“No problem, Mooner. Your Gram is a sweetheart.” See, I told you she’s a gem.

I didn’t have the heart to tell Melissa that I hadn’t stopped Gram from shooting her until I tackled the old gas bag as she was opening the door to her Ferrari. If I hadn’t caught my grandmother before she got under way- well Melissa would have a different opinion as to the flavor of Gram’s heart.

Anyway, I sat for an hour-and-a-half while Dr. Kieth attempted to do a root canal on my tooth. I’m resistant to Novocaine, so he has to shoot three full vials into my gums to deaden me. Basically, he numbs me from my chin through my mouth, into my nose and sinuses, up into my eye and eventually into my scalp.

After a ten-minute wait, I look and feel like a man having had a recent stroke. One side all dead and out of control. Makes me hope I never have a stroke. Maybe we should shoot smokers full of dental anesthesia all up and down one side of their bodies- keep them numb for a week, or so. Make it a requirement to get health insurance.

So, he’s drilling and looking, and drilling and water blasting, and drilling some more. He’s a little frustrated. This I know because he always chatters with his assistant, Kelly, as he works. He’s describing everything he does, and why he does it, as he goes. I think he does this as much to update the patient as he does to speak with his helper. It’s reassuring.

Anyway, he gets the first of the three canals drilled and cleaned of dying root with minimal trouble. But his frustration mounts as he attempts to find the other two dead root tombs. He suddenly stops the work, puts his tools on the tray and pulls his face mask down.

“Well Mooner, we have some good and bad news both.”

I fucking hate the entire good/bad news dealie.

Dr. Keith went on, “Good news is I finally found the first root chamber, and that one is done.” Then he added, “But the other two canals have calcified down to over 14 millimeters, and that’s bad news. I can’t drill any more without risking breaking or damaging your tooth.”

“Wha thah thit, Dother? Ah nee mah theeth.”

I know, Mooner. That’s why I’m stopping here.” he said. “I’ll send you to the specialist and see if he can save it for you.”

Now, my week will be ass doctor on Wednesday morning to plan a general ass surgery, and then Thursday afternoon to the tooth root doctor for that shit.

I think I’m going to lock myself in my room with a few cases of Carta Blanca and a bunch of my favorite movies. I need to spend some quality time with my pig and what has started to feel like my ostrich. The pig was mine from the start. The abandoned ostrich has felt like an outsider until recently. Gram didn’t find them hiding in my closet while I was gone, but Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry were getting a little stir crazy. Maybe I’ll take them boating.

Speaking of the ostrich Rick Perry, does anyone know how to castrate an ostrich?

Oh well, I need to get back to work. Manana, y’all.

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One Response to “Dental Hygiene; How to Castrate Rick Perry”

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