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...
OK, Coyotedog, ya want dysfunction? Here’s somethin' you can really sink them molars into. Now I wanna talk about droopy members. Nah, nah -- not the slackers on the Buffalo defence. I'm talkin' about the decline and fall of the national pastime. That's right. It's playoff time, the season when real men rise to the challenge. And once in a while that means a little high-stick action. Yeah, that's right. You know what I'm sayin'. But them refs, they're callin' everything now. So no swingin' your lumber on the ice. And lemme tell ya, we could use a little more wood in the air. Yeah, you heard me. Now this ain't a problem for me. No siree. One stiff breeze from a passing Zamboni and she’s harder than a Volchenkov slapshot. But take a look at them ads they're showin' on the games now. Can we roll the ... huh? Do we have ... OK, now look at these flabby guys standin' round the barbecue talkin' about their little blue pills. Pathetic! And all the other ads are for brewskis and SUVs. So we got a nation of plastered guys flaccidly tooling around in their big honkin' cars. But we're not alone out there. Let's put some numbers up on the big board. Yeah, I done my research. Hugh betcha. Now according to this, one in nine guys in the Unexcited States of America can't salute the flag. Nope. That's cuz all the real men -- 'cept maybe Chris Chelios, gotta love him -- are over in Iraq, tryin'a-find Osama. And when you, uh, fully extend the numbers, holy Toledo, you get six million Italians and 20 million Brazilians who make like frightened turtles. No wonder them Brazilians can't play hockey. Cuz, ya know -- what, we’re outta ...? Looks like we're finishing a little prematurely – no, I don’ mean … aw fer -- jeez Louise! --
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