You know what really frosts my flakes? Corporate dentists.
Going to the dentist was never fun to begin with. But, now that corporations got involved, it’s somehow even worse.
You don’t even check in with a human anymore. You stand there poking at a screen like you’re ordering a cheeseburger.
Then they march you into a big open room where everybody is laid out in rows like it’s an assembly line for teeth.
You hear every drill. You smell every smell. You don’t know if they’re working on you or rebuilding an engine two chairs over.
And your dentist? He looks about 12 years old. He’s three months out of school and already recommending $10,000 worth of “urgent” work. Apparently, every tooth in your head is one bad day away from a root canal.
And don’t get me started on fillings. Now suddenly every old silver filling I’ve had for 40, 50 or 60 years has to come out immediately.
“It’s outdated.” “It could crack.” “It’s a concern.”
Yeah? It lasted longer than most marriages.
But the new white stuff falls out faster than my patience in that waiting room.
I went in a few years ago because one of those new fillings popped out and left a crater in the back of my front tooth.
Simple fix, right? They numb me up, drill around, do their thing and send me on my way.
A few hours later, after the Novocain wears off, my tongue tells me the hole is still there.
It turns out Doctor Doogie fixed a tiny chip on the front of my tooth. For the seventh time, I think.
But, don’t worry, he was more than happy to schedule another appointment to fix the actual problem. At an added cost, of course.
I’m Grandpa Grumpy. And at this point, I’m thinking about switching back to pliers and a shot of whiskey.