Down in the mouth

You say ‘po-tay-to’ I say ‘po-tar-toe’
You say ‘to-may-to’ I say ‘to-mar-toe’
You say ‘dentist’ I say ‘drill-wielding, gum-scraping, sadist, bib-wearing bastard.’
I do NOT like going to the dentist. The only thing I like worse than going to the dentist is going to the dentist a few days into a new year, when my teeth are coated in sugar from all the shit I’ve been eating over Christmas and the dentist is in a bad mood after having to do an emergency extraction for someone on Boxing Day. 
Every day I clean my teeth. TWICE, most days. I floss - not daily, I grant you, but I do it. I avoid hard things like peanuts and nougat as much as I can and I try not to grind my teeth when I’m angry. And STILL I get to lay in his chair and be lectured on oral hygiene and unreplaceable enamel and the long-term benefits of using expensive mouthwash (which just happens to be available from his receptionist.) STILL I get to spend 15 minutes every six months having what seems to be an entire set of tools from a medieval blacksmith forced into my mouth and rotated through every angle. Then, after spitting a mixture of blood, the roof of my own mouth and skin flakes from his fingers into his little mini-urinal of a bowl, I get to have him insist I come back in two weeks for ‘some precautionary X-rays’ and a ‘deep clean’ with a dental hygienist.
And of course I have to pay for all this.
You say ‘dentist’ I say ‘money-grabbing, pain-inducing, torturing fascist bastard.’

RC 4-1-18