Sorry for causing painful flashbacks to some of you as you read my title. And if you’re not moved in any way, you’re a masochist. You probably consider 50 Shades of Grey a beautiful piece of literature and like all things kinky and painful. To wet your sick appetite for more moments of pain spread throughout this post, I’ve decided to add some visual stimulation in the form of tooth porn…
No I didn’t. Or rather, I couldn’t. The high levels of disgust after seeing some disturbing pictures of bad teeth prevented me from posting. Most of them I seriously regret finding. Which should be a warning to all: Don’t Google Image everything you can think of!
I decided to play it safe and stick with a simple Wikipedia schematic that would be appropriate for a (mostly) kid friendly blog. This will prevent permanent scaring of my readers or not.
This is what happens during a root canal. Or more accurately, this is what happens to one or more of your teeth during a trip to hell. In order to place the violence in context, imagine all four of these lovely illustrated steps being performed by a pair of latex covered hands shoved in your mouth whilst holding the said instruments. Which include, but are not limited to: A mirror, a drill, an injection needle and at least two types of scrapers. Let’s not forget the vacuum cleaner that sucks every ounce of moisture from your mouth, turning it into something resembling the surface of Mars. Only drier. And then that lovely taste of medicine sloshing around your oral cavity. Fun.
Point is, irrespective of how disgusting/painful/intimidating/excruciating/nauseous/sick/twisted/sadistic/unnecessary this procedure is, there are a few things in life I hate more.
Like sitting on a grounded plane as a result of some stupid excuse like getting fuel or doing urgent repairs on a wing. Delays happen, and it’s annoying, but what really gets my knickers in a twist is those few times when “they” allow you to board the plane and then announce the delay. You are stuck in a weird smelling, metallic tube, in close proximity to hundreds of people you’ve never met, in the most uncomfortable seat known to man, then “they” tell you that you’re going nowhere for at least an hour. In cattle class “they” also don’t serve anything prior to the seatbelt sign going off. And with “they” I mean the spawn of Satan. Or any airline that thought it was a good idea to allow people to board knowing about a pending delay.
What about the wonder of unsynchronised traffic lights? Have you ever driven down a street with seventy eight thousand traffic lights and you get every single frigging one red? How is that even possible? I mean, #welandedonacometbut we cannot synchronise traffic lights? Do “they” realise it results in fits of rage? In inappropriate, immature behaviour as described by the Wife? Elicits violent sobbing? Unsynchronised traffic lights has the potential of turning the Pope into a raving, cussing lunatic.
Then there’s my favourite cold shower after a work-out in the middle of Winter. You might think that if I’m stupid enough to get up at the crack of darkness to train in Winter, that I should suffer the consequences. And that might be true but I pay to get hot water. It’s my birth right, like being able to have pizza once a week, and wine every night ’cause I exercise. The loss of temperature in my shower is mostly due to our super efficient South African electricity supplier (commonly known as “f*cking Escom) who randomly decides to cut power to my geyser, resulting in water that would piss off a polar bear.
All parents have kids but not all kids have parents. Some kids have morons disguised as parents. People who should never be allowed to procreate in the first place. And they are the ones who allow little Johnny or little Suzie to stand on the front seat whilst mommy is driving and smoking and texting. I don’t understand it, for unless these parents have some unknown superhuman ability, like cognitive perception of future events, how do they rationalise their behaviour? Maybe they don’t understand the laws of physics. Like the one that says: When the car suddenly stop, little Johnny might not. Unless he’s strapped in. An accident is an unexpected and instantaneous event. Otherwise we would call them stunts.
And let’s not forget those guys who seems to think that “anything” is acceptable attire when going to the gym. Even if “anything” implies shirts that makes normal shirts blush and is an insult to vests. Even a vest has some dignity in having two straps holding the whole thing together, covering tits and back. Mister Flex, I don’t care how buff you think you are, but I do not want to see nipples at five in the morning. Furthermore steroids causes back-acne and that is never a pleasant sight, as it ruins my appetite/makes me vomit. And whilst on the subject, if you decide to wear yoga pants or tights, please make sure you cover every little thing. With a shirt.
Therefore you will agree, a root canal is not so bad, at least not by comparison.