Sunday Roast - Sunday Telegraph
Sunday Magazine November 28 2004
GRIN & BEAR IT
A visit to the dentist isn’t high on most people’s fun-things-to-do list, Wil Anderson’s included. But if you know your options, it’s a gas, gas, gas
You probably can’t tell from my incredibly handsome photo, but I have really wonky teeth. Not only do my pegs go off in so many different directions at once that it looks like my dentist is one of the druids who built Stonehenge, but my front fangs are so big I live in constant fear that if I smile too much, I’ll be stabbed to death by Buffy.
Put it this away, even the Kamasutra has fewer angles than my mouth, my molars are mutated to the point even British people make fun of me and one of my incisors is so crooked it has just been appointed to a vacancy on the NSW Supreme Court.
My cuspids and bicuspids – not to mention my homocuspids, transcuspids and cuspids that are just experimenting – are so terrifying that I once smiled at a crocodile and it started crying. (They were only crocodile tears, but you see my point.)
That’s why I was distraught this week when I realised it was time for my six-monthly dental check-up. Whether it’s going through Customs at the airport, or going to the dentist, I live in constant fear of having my cavities checked.
Yep, forget the electric chairs, it’s the dental version of the Smoky Dawson recliner that fills my heart with fear. Every time I walk into my dentist’s reception area, it’s like a scene from Decayed Man Walking.
Seriously, is there any worse place on earth sitting in a dentist’s waiting room listening to the sound of drilling? I don’t think there’s even anyone in there; I think they have a CD with all the noises on it just to freak people out. “Hey, hang on, this drilling has been remixed by Fatboy Slim.”
(Not to mention that horrible sucking noise, which sounds like either Paris Hilton has popped in, or they’re making a cappuccino.)
Of course, it’s even worse once you get into the room and realise the drill the dentist is holding is so big you’re not sure whether he’s about to clean your teeth, or start constructing an in-ground swimming pool. Forget the dental nurse, instead it looks like he should have a council worker next to him holding one of those Stop-Slow signs.
While we’re at it, why is it that dentists feel the need to wait until your mouth is completely full with cotton wool and machinery before they decide to strike up a conversation? It’s really hard to keep your cool when you sound like a cross between Sylvester Stallone and Ozzy Osbourne.
Then they ask you to spit, but by this time your mouth is so swollen, all you can do is drool and slur. I’m starting to think the Swedish Chef from tThe Muppet Show wasn’t Swedish at all, he had just had some major dental work.
Although I must admit, the one thing I do enjoy about going to the dentist is the gas. I love that nitrous oxide. I wish I could just get a whole tank of it, strap it to my back and go to a rave.
I know a lot of people only get the gas for major operations, but I get it for everything, from getting my teeth cleaned to paying the bill. (Which let’s face it, with the price dentists charge, is till the most painful part of the process.)
In fact, I use so much gas my dentist once told me when I visited he was tempted to just fill the room with gas, and he would wear the mask.
On the upside, my ongoing fear of dentists has meant that I have taken very good care of my teeth, especially for someone who grew up in the country, where generations of systematic inbreeding meant if you had more teeth than fingers you were pretty happy.
Seriously, some of the kids I went to school, with had cavities so big if you spoke into their mouth there was an echo. Their dental photos looked like an aerial view of a golf course and their teeth had more gaping holes than an M Night Shyamalan film.
Pretty much the only part of my dental regime I am not very good at is flossing. Each time I visit the dentist he gives me the big speech about the importance of flossing, and each time I do it for about a week after my visit, and then for about a week a for the next six months, the closest I get to flossing is if I get one of those Snakes Alive lollies caught in my teeth.
Sadly, this also means that, like the kid who hasn’t studied for his exams, when my next dentist appointment comes around I try to cram about six months’ worth of maintenance into about two days, so not only do I go to the dentist with dirty teeth, but also with rope burn on my gums.
I Guess at the end of the day, visiting the dentist comes down to trust, and I’m sorry but I find it hard to trust someone who won’t even show their face on television. Why? What do they have to hide? Are they in the Dental Relocation Program?
And, more importantly, if dentists truly aren’t allowed to show their face their face on TV, how soon can we get Daryl Somers a dentistry degree?
Wil Anderson is the host of The Brekkie Showon Triple J with Adam Spencer, as well as co-host of The Glass House on ABC TV
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