Dental Dysfunction Week

Um, okay Short Guy, thanks for that information. But I'm thinking it's time for a big Dysfunction Theme Week. And while the idea of Pentacostals datin' Goths sounds adequately dysfunctional, I've opted for dentistry.

Why? Because it is apparent from the IDonCherryO's (Cherry-Os? Har!) post, Aggie's morose reply, and previous discussions involving Conch Shell and electric toothbrushes that dentists and their evil minions, hygienists, are in the heavy guilt business. Guilt far worse than your mother laid on you for not calling on Mothers' Day.

To be fair, it's probably more transitory. Ya go to the dentist for your (depending on your insurance package) six-month/one-year/five year checkup, are soundly chastised and feel terrible for a bit, then leave with a hole in your equity. Soon you forget, and the smile on your lips and the song in your heart returns. Until the next appointment, when everyone again picks up their assigned part in the eternal morality play. Whereas Mom is going to make sure you remember her for next time. She started coming by the psy-ops tools instinctively, about the time you were in utero, and she is not afraid to use them.

Being a wild canine, equipped with wild canines, my dental amenities began and end with the odd stolen Milk Bone, allegedly to scrape tartar and improve breath. Anybody who's ever smelled a dog's breath knows that this is rarely adequate. I hereby recuse myself from this discussion.

But I know that straight, blindingly white teeth are part of the total package that wins you the heart of your prospective Pentecostal Goth amour. Why is it that dentists and their evil minions, hygienists, do not bear down on this fact?

I mean, let's face it people. For some, giving up coffee and red wine to prevent unattractive staining may lead to even more unattractive withdrawal symptoms. Flossing is messy, what with all the drool and stray bits of cotton wedging irredeemably between your teeth. Veneers, no matter that all of the extreme makeover shows on extended cable treat them as mere casual afterthoughts to a complete body lipo/hair extension/lip-and-boob-pump/nose-job/wardrobe refresh, can involve much discomfort before the deed's done. And electric toothbrushes make your eyes jiggle.

There's gotta a be a payoff. If you're going to put up with all that discomfort and lost time, you want to be assured that the Pentecostal Goth of your dreams will look upon you kindly. Yet strangely, none of the e-dating sites seem to have a 'flosses regularly' check box. Now why is that? It'd certainly motivate more flossing. Although not, perhaps, less coffee or red wine. Yet you'd think prospective dates would be crying out for this kinda data...

image: dentist.net

Metablogging for Mega Money

At a recent Emergency Meeting, Conch Shell asked, "How can we make money from this?"

It doesn't look like anyone is about to hire us to metablog them, and the Ethics Committee has some sort of issue with us charging people to not metablog them. Meanwhile, ESI: The Sock Puppet Movie is languishing in development.

That leaves Google Ads. They do an amazing job of picking ads that will match your content. Attached is a screenshot I found while perusing one of the dating sites.

I do not floss, therefore I am (in big trouble with my dentist)

I have a dentist's appointment soon. But I have not been flossing nearly enough. And I can't bear to face the tut-tutting and sanctimonious sighs of my dental hygienist.

So which of the following strategies would best encourage me to floss?

a) Tie a piece of dental floss around my finger
b) Take a spool of floss to The Observatory each day and use it during work
c) Surreptiously photograph my dental hygienist, preferably while she's scowling, and paste the photo to my bathroom mirror

In lieu of Conch Shell's Thursday post...

Our favourite street...

Strumming past the graveyard

I attended a funeral on Monday. I didn't know the deceased, but it was nice to be there to support his grieving widow.

Her husband died Friday night from pancreatic cancer. All tremendously sad. There were many tears as a silken-voiced guitarist strummed out a balm of gentle notes.

It occurs to me that the departed took his final bow as Coyote and I were enjoying a rare concert by the incomparable Daniel Johnston, a cat who's probably used up at least five or six of his nine lives.

I found the show inspiring, in part because Johnston has long struggled with mental illness. Everyone from Nirvana to Bright Eyes has covered his songs. Some are heart-tuggingly touching. Others are just plain fun, even when it comes to death. As a prelude to the funeral mass, it seems fitting that Johnston sang his cheeky little gallows-humour riff on Bruce Springsteen's Cadillac Ranch: Funeral home, funeral home / Got me a coffin, shiny and black / I'm goin' to the funeral and I'm never comin' back.