That's Empress to You

San Francisco, January 2012

This morning while walking to Bi-Rite to spend $62 on one bag of groceries, a Google Bus pulled up on 18th and Dolores. Suddenly hipsters emerged from doorways and stupors and began fluttering toward the big white bus like leaves wearing large glasses. It was a small squall and then I bought oranges.

Next time just smash in my head with a rock

If a woman in a blue mask, rubber gloves, and sharp instruments comes after you, run. Everyone in the office will say she’s a dental hygienist but she’s not. All you have to do is look at their phone headsets and comfortable shoes to know it’s a plot and they’re all in on it. This woman whose props include a photo of a chubby kid and pretty butterflies behind a plastic frame is really a sadistic monster. (Do you know how they mount those pretty butterflies? Right, they STAB them.) This “dental hygienist” is wearing that mask only to hide her evil leering grin.

She’s going to do something she calls Measuring Your Gum Line, but which is really stabbing you repeatedly in the gum with a small metal poker. When she is done with the outside of the upper teeth, contrary to the grateful prayer you are saying to the God you once again started believing in, about five minutes ago, she is not 50% done. She is only 25% done, because she’s going to do the same thing on the inside. And on the lower teeth, outside and inside.

Then she’s going to make horrific scraping noises right in the inside of your head, and because she’s holding your mouth open you can’t even ask her, “Why, for the love of God, why? What are you doing that is going to markedly improve my life?” Any gain in attractiveness due to clean teeth is more than offset by the wrinkles you’ve just cemented into your face from twisting it into grotesque expressions of pain and terror. She does it to every tooth, upper and lower, inside and outside, making each one creak and squeal and threaten to crack right in half.

After that she will try to choke you with poison mint powder, which she administers on the end of a whining drill-like instrument. She’ll only be finished after she invites Head Devil Incarnate to come over to poke some more and tell you you need a gum graft and it costs lots and lots of money.

On the bright side, you will be very happy when the "receptionist" tells you that you don’t owe anything, because you overpaid for the $950 crown you just got. And if you really want to feel better, when the "receptionist" tries to schedule an appointment for six months from now, pretend to enter it on your phone calendar, but instead simply push random buttons on the calculator app.