And Now, C-dog Attempts To Make His Dentist Appointment Exciting And Post-Worthy Just For You

NOTE: As dentist appointments aren't, historically, exciting in the least, please be aware that this is a very difficult feat. It should not be attempted by anyone other than a sexy professional such as himself, as the risk of facial burns, genital scarring, and even a bloody death at the hands of Freddy Krueger are not only possible, but nearly inevitable. C-dog is brave. C-dog is wise. C-dog's got an eye-booger that he really needs to take care of... c'mere... yeah, okay... got it. Now, without further adieu... front rows, have your splash-protecting tarps at the ready...

C-dog's Trip To The Dentist

The first thing that you should know about my new dentist office is that it's in a mall. The Mall of Manhattan, specifically, and to make matter's worse, it's right next to the food court. In fact, you have to walk behind the counter of the Sbarro's and head through their kitchen to get there; I was fine with this, actually, as loading up on garlic knots has always been a part of my dentist-going routine. After stopping off to make a few pies (I like to stay in practice, just in case I'm ever called upon by my country to whip up some 'za for the Marines), I headed into the waiting room.

It was a hellhole, like a backwater town in South America, but meaner and much more swamp-like. The room was filled with the dregs of humanity: an old sailor with a gimpy leg and no fingers cackled to my left while smoking opium and hawking boosted car stereos; an underage Thai prostitute played checkers with a toothless Eskimo who sported an eye-patch, a prosthetic arm, and the most gorgeous head of blond hair I'd ever seen; a solider of some forgotten war twitched to my right, shrieking about Socialism as he Indian-wrestled what appeared to be a Yeti. The whole place reeked of feces, sorrow, and pepperoni pizza (Sbarro's). Nervously, I filled out the required paperwork, squatting in a dank, out-of-harm's-way corner that was only sort of covered in animal urine. From the back of the office, tortured wails echoed in perfect harmony with the whine of an industrial, gas-powered drill. I began to openly weep. Then, oddly enough, it began to rain.

After what seemed like days, weeks, entire baseball seasons, my name was called... shouted, actually, by a stern, bloodied woman who wore an old SS uniform and clutched a rusty dagger to her bosom. I was placed in handcuffs, a black hood was roughly tugged over my head, and then I was frog-marched toward oblivion. I am unashamed to admit that I soiled myself; you'd have done the same.

I was placed in a room that stank of unwashed mattresses and opened cans of tomato sauce (Sbarro's), and I was left there for at least three weeks. From across the hall, I heard the unmistakable sounds of an illegal cockfight. Someone was in the room with me, of this I'm sure; I felt his or her presence and I certainly smelled a few silent, deadly farts that were not my own, but they never spoke, never even whimpered. I can only guess at what sort of horror my hood concealed.

Finally, I was taken from my holding chamber and dragged into another room. I was brutishly thrown into a chair and my hood was ripped off, my eyes filled with a blinding light. As my sight adjusted, I found myself in a rather tidy, cheerful examination room... it wouldn't have been out of place in the finest of suburban dental offices, save for the rotting corpse of a circus clown that was inexplicably chained upside down to the far wall. I sat, eyeing the rows of dental instruments... the tiny mirror, the various scrapers and picks, a handgun... until a swarthy, Latin man entered with flourish of velvet curtains and the crescendo of an unseen orchestra. "Hello," he said, "It is I, your dentist. Welcome to your nightmare, my little friend!" He advanced on me and I noticed that he had six fingers on each hand. Someone was screaming, long and loud, and I realized that that someone was me.

Anyway, turns out I'm going to have to get a root canal. But that's okay, because it's also going to be really expensive, even with insurance. Bummer. I guess it's a good thing that I took that second job (Sbarro's).