Where's Robbo?

(Image lifted from the Rocky Mountain Llama and Alpaca Association)

This morning, I went to the dentist. While this would not be an extraordinary event to most people, it represented something of a red letter day for me because of the fact that the last time I actually went to a dentist was Christmas, 1989. [Insert your own gasps of horror and astonishment here.] I don't really have any particular excuse for this lapse except that I've never had any problems with my teeth and that I'm at least very good about brushing and flossing.

So you're probably thinking that Nemesis caught up with me this morning, right? Ha, ha - WRONG! Perhaps it's because I've always disliked sweets or else because of Uncle Joe Stalin and his secret water flouridation plan, but my 41 year streak of no cavities or fillings remains intact. (Sooper Sekret Message to the Missus: HA-ha!) Furthermore, although I've still got two upper wisdom teeth (one of which has rotated through 90 degrees, apparently), my gums are healthy enough around them that neither the hygenist nor the dentist saw any need to yank them. And on top of that, a lot of under-the-gum-line jabbing revealed just one or two spots that needed treatment to head off some potential pockets of disease. All in all, purtty durn good, I should say.

Nonetheless, they sure put me through the wringer for it. The hygienist looked a little and sounded a lot like Linda Fiorentino and had, shall we say, an extremely aggressive technique with the pick. Also, I think she started losing patience with my constant reflexive clamping down and obstruction. Over and over she kept saying, "Relax your tongue. Relax your tongue!" What I wanted to say in reply was, "How? What is a relaxed tongue? Where should it be? What do I do?" What came out was, "Uurrrhgh". I still feel like I've been punched a couple times.

On the other hand, the dentist herself was extremely pleasant and chatty (and easy on the eyes: she looked like Michelle Malkin's little sister). After she expressed her astonishment at the health of my choppers, we somehow got into a discussion about the evils of Bratz dolls and the comparative wholesomeness of Barbie.

[SIDEBAR ALERT:] Not that Barbie is particularly wholesome at Orgle Manor. Owing to various friends and relatives, we've got a whole sorority house full of them, all of whom, thanks to the Llama-ettes, are stark naked. (Don't ask me why, but practically the first thing the gels do when they get a Barbie is take her clothes off.) They all live jumbled up in one large, communal box, together with a singleton Ken doll whose bright eyes and smile take on a whole new significance in that context. Occasionally I'll look at him as I pass by and murmer, "Dude!" [SIDEBAR COMPLETE]

Anyhoo, there you have it. And having gone through it, I suddenly have an urge to rent Little Shop of Horrors - the scene between Steve Martin's sadistic dentist and Bill Murray's masochistic patient is, if I remember right, hysterically funny.

UPDATE: The topical anaesthetic Linda the Hygiene Sergeant gave me has worn off just as I'm starting to eat lunch. Ow.

UPDATE DEUX: Why the hell didn't you people tell me I mispelled "hygiene"?