I broke a molar on Saturday, right as I was enjoying my delicious, cholesterol-laden, heart attack-inducing Chicken Romano Fettuccini. Most of the rest of the tooth fell apart over the weekend, so I had it extracted today (too damaged for a root canal). I was hoping to see my usual dentist (who graduated in 1960 and would had made for one hell of a Marathon Man photo op) but I had to settle for one of his associates, who seems to be at least 5 years younger than myself.
The good news is that Junior more or less knew what he was doing, and managed to get my gums numb after just 75 Novocain pinches, which is probably the lowest any dentist has ever achieved since I was in the Army (Army dentists usually don't give a shit if you are hurting, Army dental hygienists are even worse, they take much pleasure in inflicting as much pain as they can).
The only thing I didn't like is that they charged me $15 for a bottle of mouth wash.
Now I have a hole in my mouth, and am about to partake in some Tylenol #3 as soon as Ivette can fill the prescription. Oh yeah.
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