From: brian herzog
Subject: a trip to the dentist, by brian herzog
Date: Tuesday, April 22, 1997 4:35 Ml
On Saturday last weekend, I went to the dentist. The building was very big, and I was frightened by all of the screams that were coming from inside. After I got inside, though, I found out that Cedar Point was waiting for me in the waiting room, and that all the screams were coming from the martial arts place next door. I said hello to my brother as he left, and then was ushered into a room.
The room had a window, and a poster, and a trash can. I sat down in the chair, which was also in the room, while the dental lady tried to pick up my brother, who had not arrived yet, through me. I found this odd, so I told her to shut the hell up or I'd ram a bulldozer through her eye. I really didn't say that at this time.
She shoved some large metal spears into my mouth quite violently, while politely asking me how the weather was. I told her, in a very mumbled voice, that she could just turn her ass around and look out the damn window for herself, because I was too busy bleeding. I didn't really say this, either. I didn't say very much of anything, even when the lady hopped in her M1A2 Bradley Assault vehicle to attack me for improper brushing techniques, which were the direct cause of me having a small cavity in one of my wisdom teeth.
She remained on the turret of the Bradley for about ten minutes, manning the fifty-caliber machine gun the entire time. She was very upset at the world about my cavity, and starting telling me how everyone goes into automatic pilot (that's a direct quote) when they brush, or that they aren't awake yet in the morning when they brush, and that, even though everyone that comes into her office promises that they will pay more attention when they brush, they are all lying to her because they stop after a week or so and the whole world would be a much nicer place if everyone would just concentrate when they brushed their wisdom teeth.
By this time, I was almost dead, because somewhere in the middle she decided that a fifty-caliber machine gun was not quite good enough punishment for me, so she brought out her very fine gum poker, with a very sharp point, and began poking away. Apparently, however, this was not satisfying her bloodlust either, because she then decided that what I needed was a pretty unhealthy dose of unadulterated radiation. It was at this point that I think I saw Elvis.
After I stopped glowing a real doctor came in, poked me some more, and then turned to the lady and said, "you were right," and went away. I was going to ask him for an autograph, but got sidetracked when Elvis started tickling my feet. So I kicked Elvis in the face and stood up.
I was still a little woozy from the radiation treatment, but managed to make it to the front desk in good style. There was a cackling witch behind the desk, so I just handed her my papers and didn't ask her about the care and feeding of kidney stones. By this time the waiting room was full. They were all waiting patiently, but I didn't have the heart to tell them that there were no trains running that day. So I just turned around, went "bloo-bloo," and walked out. I tripped over a parking block on the way to the car, fell on a very strategically placed poisoned spike, and died.
By the way, most of this didn't happen. But as they say in New York, some of this is true, some of this is better. While I was lying there, bleeding to death on the spike, which shouldn't have taken as long as it did, considering that the cleaning crew was still mopping up my blood in the examination room, I struck up a wonderful conversation with a kangaroo, which had been stuck on the spike since early last week. He said the worst part about it, after the pain goes away, is having to listen to all that damn yelling from the karate factory next door.
I tried to explain to him that you don't make karaties, since karate is a form of art (martial art, that is), and cannot be commercialized in a mass-production sort of way, but he was having nothing to do with it. So we continued, talking about the current market for karaties, and also the supply problems involved, what with the shortages of parts and all, and how it was understandable that so many were having to close down here in the U.S., and move out to the pacific rim, due to labor costs.
Then the kangaroo died. So I stood up, made straight for the lemonade/medical stand some kid set up on the edge of the parking lot, purchased a glass of lemonade, which had too much sugar in it, and an ace bandage, which had just the right amount of sugar in it, and made for the car.
I decided then that it would be a pretty fun thing to try to pick up all the rocks in the parking lot. I walked casually over to one, smiled at it and said, "do you come here often?", but got no reply. I sauntered over to the next, a cute little rock all by itself in the corner, and with an even more charming smile than I gave the first rock, and a flip of my hair, said, "hey, baby, I just started a new band, but I need a rock to roll with - what do you say?" It just ignored me even more than the first, so I dejectedly gave up the idea. I don't need them, anyway, I thought. Most of them are just dumb as... , and what I am looking for is a committed relationship with someone intelligent.
So I stood for a bit checking out the grass, seeing if there were any lawns worth mowing, but seeing none, I got into the car, which by this time was still the same color was it was when I got there, and drove away. The end.
Brian
