The New York Dentist

My dentist is a condescending arse who wears way too much purple and has a peculiar fetish for mouth guards. He is convinced I need a root canal, yet the man has no proof. He refuses to set my appointments prior to 1pm because I was 10 minutes late one morning roughly four years ago. I'm always scared to go into his office. He's a one-man show with no receptionist and no assistant. This is weird. I could easily disappear into the abyss of his purple-swathed office, never to return and no one would be the wiser.

Case in point: On Saturday, I stroll in at 12:55pm for two fillings. He sharply demands that I sit down and straps a lavender slobber catchall around my neck. And so the drilling, poking, prodding (torture, essentially) ensues sandwiched between caustic commands to "Sit still," and "Don't move your head," followed by my personal favorite, "Good girl." (Oh, gee! Can I have a dog biscuit, too? No? OK, I'll settle for another wad of cotton while I choke on my saliva.) Meanwhile, I can't help but think that I'd kill for an inspirational ceiling poster or something to serve as a distraction. When it's all said and done, he hands me a travel toothpaste to add to my growing collection of tiny tubes of Colgate. Sad to say I never get a toothbrush. The dentists in the Midwest would hook me up (toothbrush, floss, the whole nine yards). But not this guy. I then bolt before he can give me his usual laundry list of reasons as to why I should spend $500 on a night guard. Thanks, but no thanks.