I'm running scared these days from my
new dentist, who, while a skilled professional and stand-up guy, seems to err too often on the side of drilling with his cavity designations. Upon first peering into the Phutatorian orifice last year he found ten: it took two subsequent appointments to fill them all, and my neck muscles still aren't strong enough to support the additional weight of the porcelain.
My ten-cavity case has since become the subject of cautionary tales to other patients. Several months ago the wife was in for a check-up; while on the Rack she confessed a predilection for Diet Coke to Dr. Deahl's hygienist, a masterful Inquisitor and ruthless identifier of bad habits. "You know," said the hygienist, moving in for the kill, "we had a patient in here recently who drinks a lot of Diet Coke, and we had to give him
ten fillings." The wife then had to reveal that she shares a bed — and a refrigerator loaded with soft drinks — with this very same Patient of Legend. A short period of awkwardness ensued, after which the hygienist excused herself to review some x-rays. It's possible that some compensation is due for the stories told about me in my dentist's office. If ASCAP can make him pay for the mood music, I'm certainly entitled to a reasonable royalty. My lawyers will be in touch, Doctor.
That same hygienist assured me during my last visit that severe temporomandibular consequences would ensue if I continued to allow my jaw joint to crack as it does, with surprising violence, every time I open my mouth. She gave the warning as though there were something I could do about it. But
alas! that bone-jarring jaw-crack — known to set off the motion-sensor lights in our back parking lot — is just one more signature quirk of that appointment-dodging physiological marvel, your loyal correspondent,
Phutatorius.
