***DISCLAIMER: THIS EDITORIAL MAY CONTAIN EXCESSIVE DRUNKEN RAMBLING BY A COMPLETE PERVERT AND MAY NOT BE FOUND HUMOROUS BY ANYONE***

I'm sitting in a waiting room reading Cosmo's "25 Ways to Please Your Man," checking the article to see if the top ten contain in any way, shape or form the words hand job, sandwich or fellatio. Typically, no, they don't. I quickly deduce whoever wrote the article must have been a woman.

When will they learn.

Today is my day off from the soul crushing monotony that is my job. An otherwise fun day which I usually reserve for downloading free 15 second clips of Japanese bukkake vids between levels of Tekken 2 whilst depriving my brain of oxygen with copious amounts of 80 proof clear liquids and frost brewed Rocky Mountain goodness. Yet here I sit in a meagerly decorated lobby abysmally sober and smutless waiting to see the dentist for a routine cleaning, something I regularly do twice each year like every civilized person living in a first-world country who isn't British ought to do. However today is going to be anything but a regular visit, as I was informed while checking in with the excessively perky receptionist annoyingly slurping from a grande Starbuck's cup, for today I shall be seeing his substitue- the dental hygienist.

"Jesus H. Christ on a rubber fucking crutch, not the dental hygienist," or as I prefer to call her, the tooth-scraping witch from Hell. "God damn it," I think to myself, "I unknowingly made my appointment for the day the REAL dentist is off. He's probably having fun playing a round of golf or contemplating suicide while blowing a thick line of Columbian bang-bang off a prostitute's ankle, the rat bastard, sticking me to suffer his barely trained intern. Piss."

I knew I shouldn't have come here sober.

Aside from the sole perk of getting to pilfer an occasional glimpse at her round, juicey, well ripened sweater fruit through the providentially unbuttoned top of her blouse while she leans in, I utterly loath the dental hygienist. The list of people I cannot stand attempting conversation with is a long one, but conversing with her is certainly one of the absolute worst. It's always a fucking nightmare. She wants to makes the most bullshit small talk as she's sending me to the furthest reaches of a new dimension of slightly tolerable yet still gallingly unsettling discomfort, all the while peppering her office banter with commentary like, "Well, just LOOK at your teeth! You haven't been taking proper care of them, now have you?" Obtuse and insensitive remarks such as this are to blame for instantaneously triggering the switch to the sarcasm center of my already over-stressed-the-fuck-out mind, which by this point is blaring at me to call this whole thing off and make a hasty exit to recollect myself at the nearest bar.

Preferably one with lap dances.

It should come as no shock to her when the next thing I spew out of my now bleeding, clamped open, cotton lined speech hole is, "Well lady, at home I don't usually clean them with a metal fucking spike." For some unknown reason, it always does.

Fuck you Oral B. "Brush like a dentist" my ass.

For all their fancy schooling you would think these people would have more common sense than to shoot nonsensical remarks at a person who's in one of the most agitating and vulnerable positions in modern society, second only to anally raped while bent over a cold stainless steel toilet bowl in prison, the God damned dentist's chair. It is a deranged twilight zone of total indignity. You cannot stop drooling on your self like a cerebral palsy victim, to which the thinner-than-OJ's-alibi paper bib offers little to no protection. There's a metal tray of sharp to pointy to "what the motherfuck is THAT?!" type instruments 6 inches away eerily reminding you of the last half hour of the movie "Hostel." A perfect stranger is hovering over, poking and prodding and breathing heavy and sometimes smelling of liquor, much like Counselor Mitch at the Christian Youth summer camp after taking a supple limbed 8 year old boy into the storage shed to make him mouth cuddle his "naughty stick." Unlike the dentist, at least afterwards Mitch will spring for a kayak ride and ice cream which the two participants eat in murky silence broken only by the phrase, "This is going to be our little secret," as they proceed to stare at one another with a vacant, piercing and reciprocally shameful gaze.

Going to the dentist is like being molested as a child. Is it any wonder why your kids hate it so damn much? It probably reminds them of being a victim.

Stop touching your children.

Floss daily.

-J.