Fragment #16 - Dr C Szell

I have to go to the dentist today, and the last time I went was what I would describe as an unfortunate disappointment. In I went and sat down, the dentist then started to tap gingerly at my teeth. Tap, tap, tap... Tap, tap, tap. He then told me that all was well and sent me to the reception as quickly as he could, that man nigh on shoved me down that corridor. For this small service of tooth tapping I had to fork out thirty quid. Thirty pounds! Now I'm not mean with my cash but for that kind of money I want to get some real satisfaction, I want to know I’ve been to the dentist. I’m talking pain here folks. For that money I expect, at least, to have terrible horror stories to tell the grand children. I want to be able to watch the torture scene in ‘Marathon Man’ and think that he’s a lucky bastard just getting away with that. I want years of hypnotherapy trying to get over the mental trauma, some treatment for the years of sleepless nights and repressed memories. I’m not a masochist but I do want value for money.
Thirty pounds at my reckoning should at least buy me a weeks worth of agony. What is the point in going to the dentist if you have no real reason to feel sorry for yourself after? Like most men I have this tendency of playing up my 'battle scars’. Why should I go when I have nothing to tell the folks down the pub? I want to be able to go there for a pint, hold my head high and say: “It was so bad, not only did I go blind for three days, I also had to be peeled off the ceiling with a spatula. Yes mate, it was worse than when I got my ball sack stuck in that metal drawer!” Saying that it was a painless tooth tapping just hasn’t got the same ring to it. So here I am, sitting here looking forward with a mixture of dread and anticipation, because dear reader, I have a hole in one of my teeth. And later, I'm going to the pub.