A few years back I got tired of paying for my dentists' new car every year and decided that dentures were the answer. Years of neglect, motorcycle crashes, cowboy crashes and hitting fists with my teeth had taken their toll. Caps would no longer stay in place and the thought of one more root canal caused my testicles to retract to where my tonsils once resided.
Appointments were made, pictures taken, referrals made, appointments made and at last I found myself reclining in a chair doing some really, really, really good drugs. All of the teeth were removed at once and the gums were then sewn closed and I awoke at home, drooling on myself with my wife asking if I was ready for my strained carrots. At that point, to stay in character, I soiled my diaper. Who's laughing now, Barb?
The following day the drugs wore off and I began to whine. Barb left early for her job at the prison and I sat pouting. And then my tongue found a thread. Now, I have actually seen the trick where a woman ties a cherry stem into a knot with her tongue and was impressed. Not any longer. Almost of its' own accord my tongue quickly learned to untie a surgeons knot. This in turn quickly led to a feeling as if I had one of those curly little hairs stuck in my mouth.
Midday found me standing in front of the bathroom mirror trying to shine a flashlight in my mouth with one hand while the hand that held the scissors tried to clip all the dangling threads. This led eventually to blood on the guest towels, which in turn led, after Barb returned from work, to knots on my head.
Three weeks and several cases of strained carrots later my mouth was healed and it was time for the fitting of dentures. Being the frugal sort, I went to a place called "de Sades' Dentures in a Day". For a mere $300 you wait in a tiny room full of old people until it is your turn, then a cute young thing escorts you to a "fitting room". You get to pick out the color of teeth you want so I chose the ones prestained with nicotine and coffee knowing they would bring out the color of my eyes.
Now the cute young thing smiled and stuck her gloved finger down my throat. Holding back my gag reflex caused my eyes to water and my nose to run. After exploring my rectal cavity from the top side, she chose a plate the size of a Frisbee, slathered it with blue goop and stuffed it in my mouth. I gagged! The Frisbee ejected from my mouth and blue goop covered the cute young thing. She stopped smiling. She also went for help.
Help was a guy with hands the size of a catchers mitt. She slathered goop as he cracked his knuckles and moved to stand behind me. On some signal that I obviously missed, she slammed the plate in my mouth and his hands clamped on the top of my head and my chin. I gagged! He held on. I gagged harder. He held on. I thrashed, snot ran and tears flowed! He held on. I puked! He held on. I swallowed and gagged again. Strained carrots are not very good the second time.
At last he released me, I gasped for breath and she deftly removed the plate. She said, “That wasn't so bad, was it?" I wanted to hit her fist but I had no teeth. I was then told to return in three hours to get my dentures and have them fitted.
The fitting went reasonably well, I only gagged a few times and then I was on my way. Outside I slipped on my helmet and mounted my Suzuki, fired it up, dropped it into gear, forgot to breathe through my nose and and gagged. I popped the clutch, dropped the bike, ripped off my helmet which tore off my glasses, spit the dentures into the grass, and BREATHED. I lay for a while in the grass, savoring the fresh mown smell. Finally, with no dignity whatsoever, I righted the bike, put the dentures in my pocket, strapped on the full face helmet and rode the short distance to Wal-Mart. An open face helmet, I reasoned, would allow me to remove the dentures if I began to gag while riding.
Later that day, cheap helmet in place I headed toward home, zipping along quite nicely, dentures in my mouth, breathing well, getting used to things. A few miles from home I encountered a road patching crew and as I eased past I caught a whiff of tar. And sneezed. The top denture flew out of my mouth and being right handed, I released the throttle to catch it. The bike immediately slowed to a danger level as I slapped the denture rather than catching it, so I let go of the handlebar with my left hand to grab for the plate.
The road crew watched in fascination as I juggled the plate between hands and rode the cruiser into the narrow gap between a dump truck and a front end loader. I captured the flying denture in my left hand just as the bike dropped off the shoulder and into the ditch. I grabbed the grip with my right hand, somehow twisting the throttle, shooting the bike straight down the ditch and into a creek. I managed to get my feet down in the water just as the bike died.
The workmen gathered on the creek bank, watching, and then one blurted out, "What the hell are you doing?”
I casually leaned over, swished the errant plate in the flowing stream, glanced back and said, "Washing my dentures".
October 16, 2007
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