You Can't Handle the Tooth...

Had a fantastic lunch today at the dentist's office. I figured that since I didn't have to pick the kids up early from school, or take the car into the mechanic, I might as well pop in to the dentist to get one of my molars shaved down and fitted with a fake molar cemented right over the top of it. And the visit sure didn't disappoint.

First of all, it took like an hour and a half. My dentist's a nice enough guy, but it's like the dude suffers from major ADHD. He'd drill for awhile, chat for a bit about his upcoming fishing trip, then disappear for about ten minutes, then come back for more drilling, then jam some cotton in my face hole, then chat about his golf trip, then go take a shit, then come back and drill some more. I was half expecting to look like fucking Dionne Warwick when he was done in there, but all I was left with was a cartoony looking temporary fake tooth that's wedged in there until the real one's ready in TWO FUCKING WEEKS. There goes my weekend caramel party.

I told the spawn about my new gold tooth that they're making, and Mr. Z asked if he could have one. I told him that when I die, he and Miss O can yank it out of my head and go halvesies on it. They were disturbingly jacked about it. I'm definitely hiding the pliers and sleeping with one eye open tonight.

And I'll leave you with my bedtime conversation with Miss O tonight:

MISS O: Hey Dad, I'll bet baby chicks have a hard time going to sleep at night.

ME: Huh, why's that?

MISS O: Because their daddy tells them not to make a peep! [pause] But they have to because they're baby chicks! Get it?!

ME: That's a great one! Did you make that up?

MISS O: Yep. Oh, and guess what?

ME: What?

MISS O: My butt-crack is tickling my butt.

ME: You should've closed with the baby chick joke. Goodnight.