Four years is not. Long. Enough.

Two guys were standing outside having a cigarette oblivious to the storms of anxiety raging in my soul.  I sighed deeply, but timed it badly, as I managed to inhale seventeen tonnes of second-hand smoke.  I squeezed passed the smokers, as they were courteous enough NOT to make any space for pedestrians.  I wasn’t in the mood for a confrontation.  I could have killed them with my one-touch-Ninja-jab, but decided to spare their lives.  I had bigger fish to fry.

I grabbed the handle of the glass-door and swung it open.

The disgusting smell of nicotine was replaced by something worse.  An odour straight from a troll’s armpit, attacked my nostrils.  Somehow I suppressed the urge of flight and made it to the counter.  The rude receptionist barely looked up.  What a great day I was having, being ignored twice.  I cleared my throat for a little attention, as the massive shadow of my 6 foot frame was obviously not imposing enough for Miss Whadafackduyawant.  She was old but definitely single.  In her defence, my hunched shoulders and terrified expression might have diminished my size somewhat.  When she finally decided to stop watching porn of play Angry Birds, she barked a question in my general direction.  I turned around wanting to be sure she actually spoke to me, and then reluctantly offered my name.

Whilst she remained seated, she shuffled through a heap of files, stacked three meters away. Eventually she found mine and I was really happy that she did, for I still had Christmas shopping to do this year.

“Check if everything is correct,” instructed Cruella De Vill, as she flung the file at me.

Normally I would have been funny or clever or charming but I was nervous and annoyed, which limits my power over woman.  I scanned the information and flung it back to her.  It’s how I roll.

“Take a seat.”

She didn’t even use the magic word. Bitch.  Which is not the word I was referring to, I meant she didn’t use “Please”.

I used my best impersonation of the infamous you-said-what! look woman gives so perfectly, but it was lost on her, as she went right back watching instructions video’s on how to boil bunnies.  I crossed the room to put as much distance between us as possible, as one never knows what kind of mental power evil people posses.  I sat on one of the orangiest, most uncomfortable chairs I’ve ever had the misfortune of using.

Then the noise started.

A drilling noise that was even worse than the mortuary smell that was hanging in the air.  The kind of sound that cuts through bone and make babies in China cry involuntarily.  The kind of sound that separates red and white blood cells in your veins.  The pure soundtrack of hell.

And it lasted forever.  I didn’t think I was going to make it, but after eternity lapsed twice, it finally stopped.  The silence was deafening and I could feel the colour slowly returning to my cheeks.  A few minutes later one of the saddest human beings walked through the door that connected the orange chair room with the sequel to Hostel.

Drained of energy and a will to live, he briefly looked at me when he passed.  His face had an expression of pure violation.  Did he just shake his head out of pity? I wanted to cry, couldn’t muster the tears, so I just threw up a little in my mouth.  I tried swallowing, but without spit that impulse becomes impossible.  My mouth was drier than the Sahara desert, except off course, for that little bit of bile.  I remember thinking that I should just forget everything and run like the wind.  Which reminded me, I was constipated as well.

I was working my way through the five stages of grief, and during denial, an innocent looking lady peeked through the door and ushered me in.

“Take the first door on your right.”  She said, with a little too much excitement in her voice, I might add.

I stood in the doorway of the room of gloom.  The white reclining Iron Throne stood in the centre, manufactured from ten thousand screams.  King Joffrey, in his female form, was standing next to it, her face covered with a blue surgical mask.  Hiding the wide grin, as her beady little eyes focused on her next victim. Me.  My mind raced through a million things to tell her, but in the end I just kept my mouth shut.  It would be forced open soon enough.

Sorry for the nightmares I'm causing with this image  from

Sorry for the nightmares I’m causing with this image from

“How can I help you today?” She said with her fake-friendly-actual-serial-killer voice.

I gulped, like no cartoon ever and managed to swallow my Adam’s apple.

“A check-up, pleeeeeaaaasssse.” I was abusing the magic word, for my Mother didn’t raise an ape and I was hoping that my friendliness might spare me from severe pain later on.

“Maybe a cleaning,”  I added with my frog voice, which happens when a man doesn’t have an Adam’s apple.  I was sweating in places where sweat glands doesn’t even exist.

“Sure thing.” She said.  “Hop on.”

The only thing worse than a sadist, is a friendly sadist.  I’m not sure what she was thinking, as I wasn’t 12, and I sure as hell wasn’t happy to see her.  I wasn’t planning on hopping anything.

“When was your last visit?”

“Would you stop with the flippen questions, already!”

Relax, it was only a thought, as my speaking ability was still severely restrained.  She seemed to understood my silence and took my file from the table to her left, right next to all the other horrific tools she was going to stuff in my mouth in the next few seconds.  Then she called her assistant as they always work in teams.

“I see your last visit was 4 years ago? Could that be true?”  She actually sounded surprised.

“Yes.” I said flatly. “I don’t like dentists.”

“No-one does.” And she smiled again.   Wickedly.  It might just be me, but I am confident she grew horns at that exact moment.

The moment when the chair flipped back and my torture session began.

18 thoughts on “Four years is not. Long. Enough.

  1. This made me laugh so hard Pieter! I have often been quoted as saying I would sooner give birth than go to the dentist. Thankfully, my dentist office prides itself on filling the reception area with cheery, attentive souls & a very gentle & patient King Joffrey, unlike the cantankerous witch who has set up residence in yours’!

    My dermatologist office, on the other hand, houses not one but two, of the most miserable people I have ever met. What is with them? Why would any reasonable person want them as their front line people? It baffles the mind!


    • I also always said that I would rather have a root canal than… Well that is a wasted analogy now, is it not?

      I survived the ordeal, obviously, and I am happy to report that I don’t need any follow up visits. Dental hygiene…check.

      Happy to have made you laugh, I was in urgent need of some comic relief.

      Liked by 1 person

  2. My goodness…I think your Blogging 101 lessons have gotten inside your head! Such a buildup……and we now all know our Superhero Pieter’s weakness (don’t feel bad…all superheroes have a weakness as I’m sure you know…)


    • I know, but sometimes when you look in the mirror whilst shaving or admiring your nose, the little voice inside screams wildly, only to realise it’s actually your teeth talking…Wanting some attention. So I go.

      I tend to listen to the little voices in my head. All 73 of them.


  3. I feel your pain, bud. Been there. I don’t go unless something is wrong. They’re going to stick you with a needle anyway so it may as well be for a “good” cause. It seems, at my age, every time I go they want to do a root scraping at a cost that would bankrupt Manhattan. So I use little tiny brushes to get the plaque from between my teeth. Don’t plan to ever have to go to dentist again.


I won't bite, I promise...

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