A lie told often enough becomes truth
- Vladimir Ilyich Lenin
Woe, be unto ye who doth not brusheth thy teeth, and say ye, the better one visits to remove of thy plaque and tartar thy teeth may be the more secure.
I did not brush very well when I was younger. Lazy, I guess. And meanwhile genetics – cursed inheritance! – did it’s terror upon me, and I was informed I would almost certainly suffer bone degeneration top and bottom, and my teeth would begin someday to fling themselves, screaming, from my mouth.
My dad’s side, see: he had, like 3 teeth left when he was my age. Bone degeneration. Shit.
So when I started to have a little discomfort in my late 20’s, I redoubled my efforts and dove in with both fists, a toothbrush in each, slathered with an ADA approved dentifrice, attacking that buildup with fury and aplomb. Go, demon plaque, and begone! Fucker!
Alas, according to my dentist, it was for naught, and I was destined to be toothless at 30. Then 35. The 40. Then 45…
You get the point. Anyway, I have all my teeth except that one molar on the lower right, all the way in the back; a victim of junk food, it succumbed to a piece of uncooked pasta, and later, after the temporary crown was 3 years old (hehehe…), fell finally to a goddamn Dorito. Farewell, good molar, you have been missed.
It’s been a titanic struggle to keep my teeth, and it persists.
On Tuesday, I went to see a periodontist, a word with clear etymology mixing the Greek root “perio” meaning “cruel” with “dontist” meaning “motherfucker.” We had a lovely time, my perio and I: we sat close together, face to face, me inclined gently back, while he reintroduced me to a procedure I have had before called “root planning”. Son of a bitch had the temerity to refer to it as “deep cleaning”. I just call it “two and a half fucking hours of goddamn torture.” Just did the right side. He’s doing the left side in two weeks.
Ever had Root Planing? It’s fun!
Blaming him is not fair, of course: he’s trying to save my poor little crooked, pathetic toofers, but still, you know? I haven’t eaten since, and I didn’t eat that morning anyway. I’ve lost a few pounds, which some see as a bonus, but I get these little headaches and I am a little dizzy sometimes.
And tonight, back to the studio to back up this yellow belt they tied on me a few weeks ago. I’ll probably last through the kids’ class, but the adult class is highly suspect at this juncture.
And so, Proodieland awaits. I have a bad attitude this week, thanks to my beloved Perio, And these Slate guys…jeez.
I will not repost – please read the originals HERE
Letter Writer 1: Dear Let’s See How Far We Can Blow This Bullshit Up Our Unsuspecting Readers’ Asses,
Ummhmm. Taking stock of the story here. Suspending disbelief, for the moment:
First, Dad sends the letter writer blithely into an email inbox, and...
Second, letter writer finds some deep, dark secret love child in remarkably plain view which nobody in the family knows about, and…
Third, letter writer also finds “angry emails” and proceeds to “assume” they are from this hidden love child’s mother.
Really, Slate? Actually, really? God damn it, this is such horribly fabricated bullshit I can’t believe anyone had the fucking stones to publish it. Fucking hell.
Letter Writer 2: Dear Oh Shit Here We Go Again,
After the first letter, I don’t think I need to apologize for being a little bit wary about this second steaming pile of donkey shit. As usual, Slate’s junior editors concocted a tidy little dilemma chock full of the potential emotional horsepower associated with the subject matter (this crap would certainly get the average Prudie reader screaming “child abuse!”) and a letter writer who takes the time to disclose they are an “adult”, thus we assume they are powerless, vapid, and bewildered about the “right thing to do.”
This is why people drink whiskey at seven O’Clock in the morning.
Letter Writer 3: Dear Dogshit,
In this little installment, the editorial staff (let’s drop the pretense, shall we?) grab the ear of pet lovers everywhere, who are likely to get up in arms about the lazy, stupid letter writer who should do a dog a favor and walk the poor, poor creature in the morning. Dissenting voices will, of course, say the roommate situation is unfair in this circumstance, and in the end nobody on the face of this entire fucking planet gives much of a shit one way or the other. How much traction can one get from a story with the punch line: “hire a dog walker, don’t hire a dogwalker?” Gawd.
Letter Writer 4: Dear Oh My God Are You Fucking Kidding Me?
Um…are you fucking kidding me? Someone actually expended what little effort needed and wrote this blubbery tripe, passed it on to an editor somewhere at Slate (possibly Prudie herself), and it was published? This simple minded, witless, asinine, puerile, cheesy, imbecilic, brainless, moronic crapfest about these shiny, fine, and fair twenty-something virgins who need to ask about goddamn come stains actually made it past multiple sets of human eyes and sensibilities and onto the page of a publicly viewed person in its current form without someone, anyone, saying “uh, wait. Isn’t this pretty fucking dumb?”
Digression: Man, that was one hell of a run-on sentence. I need a basic writing class.
Onward: We are asked to believe this individual has no friends, nowhere to go, no knowledge whatsoever about the subject? We blithely accept the implication that since he/she’s a fucking virgin this should likewise imply they live under a goddamn rock with no way to gather basic information about human intercourse?
I managed to gnaw on a bite sized Twix bar, leftover Halloween candy, and have a little bitty sugar rush going on. Glory be. It’s the little things.