You Know the Drill

I was captured by ISIS yesterday and tortured.

Wait a minute. No. I was at the dentist.

Always get those two situations confused.

Had two teeth refilled. I asked for my entire head to be frozen. That’s what ISIS dental clinics do, if they can find your head.

Nope. Would have untold consequences on the brain. Ya, that’s what I was hoping.

Pain-wise, it was a breeze. There was none during the procedure! The pain started as I entered my PIN to pay for it.

Still, there were two bigger problems.

Holding my mouth open like a damn pelican for two hours was a chore.

The last time my mouth was that far open, aghast, was when my wife said yes to my marriage proposal.

I had enough cotton in my mouth that I took the opportunity to impress the dentist with my Brando. I did the scene when he finds out Sonny is dead. Her face mask was soaked in tears.

She thought it was from Godfather II, but I overlooked her ignorance.

Worse still was the drill. Not the pain. There was none.

The sound.

We’ve got to change the sound of that drill.

Why can’t we instill the drill with pleasant sounds. I think these sounds would work:

• a woman discovering her G-spot

• an Enya song

• a voice saying “congratulations on your tax refund”

• Donald Trump saying “I’m sorry.” Spliced, of course, from two sentences, one saying “I’m the greatest mind in the world” and “you should say sorry to me.”

Maybe just a sexy voice. A dentist’s drill talking sexy would be called drexting.

“What are you wearing, Paul?”

“Um, a dentist’s bib and sunglasses.” (this said after removing all the cotton from my mouth)

“Oooo, sounds sexy. Give me some fluoride. Or a floor-ride.”

“Sure. Let me just finish spitting.”