Dental Death Match

I was going to the same dentist in Chicago for about thirty-five years before it hit me that there was no reason he should be entrusted with my teeth for the rest of his career, or my life, whichever ended first. So feeling very pleased with myself, I went and found a new dentist. My primary requisite was that he or she have graduated in 2000 or later. Research shows that psychotherapists' performance improves with experience. I have no reason to assume the same goes for dentists. Under the care of my new dentist I have benefitted from technology much improved since the 1960s. For example, no more scrape, scraping with those nasty looking picks to remove plaque from the teeth.  My new dentist uses some whirring electronic device that takes less than half the time as the old method, eliminates the chalk on blackboard sound, and doesn't involve a less qualified person than he fooling around with my teeth. He is great. If anybody wants his contact information, send me a direct message, as I assume he probably would rather not have his practice associated with some of the weird shit on this blog.

Recently we decided I should get one of those mouth guards that prevent one from grinding or clenching one's teeth while sleeping. A plaster mold went off to the laboratory, but when the wee mouth guard arrived it proved to be tighter than Mamie Eisenhower's girdle! It went into my mouth just great, but we had to take turns wrestling it out, with him exerting masculine force, me scratching my gums, and him exhorting me not to break my nails in the process. After much grinding, adjusting, and inserting and removing, it seems to fit, and I have dutifully been sleeping in it. My name is cleverly inscribed inside the plastic, which again brings me childish pleasure, although I'm not sure what contingency might make that necessary, and try not to speculate too much about it.

Google 'mouth guard images' to see what can happen when you don't use one!