Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

Monthly Archives: August 2011

Shenanigans of the Dental Variety

The dentist’s office: from the young child to the aging octogenarian, everyone despises the dentist.  There is no silver lining.  There is no light at the end of the tunnel.  There is only waiting, pain, and more waiting at the dentist’s office.


I walk in, sign the check in sheet, and take the one remaining seat in the waiting room.  It is clear to me why this is the only seat left, as it is on a love seat that already has a man on one side of it.  Not a normal, clean-cut, adult man, but a dinosaur, that’s likely a veteran of the First World War.  And akin to WWI the chemical warfare coming out of this man’s butthole is incredibly lethal.  Like socks cooking in a giant crock-pot of baked beans and sulfur.  I don’t know why he is here, and to be honest, I’m surprised he has teeth left to be cleaned.  Begrudgingly, I settle in and realize I’m probably going to need another shower today.  And by another shower I mean another Fe-breeze misting of myself.


Alright, I’ll read some of these magazines to pass the time and distract me from the smelly war hero sitting next to me.  A quick shuffle through of the collection reveals nothing except Highlights, Glamour, and Cosmopolitan.  So I can either pretend to be a child, learn about my sexual bucket list, or read eighty-five ways to please my man.  After skimming all three it seems odd to find this collection of magazines that all seem to shed such a negative light on the use of teeth.


Finally, I get called into the office and have a seat in the future chair. The hygienist puts a bib on me and I realize that the only times I wear bibs are either really good or really bad.  The dentist’s office being the horrible end of the spectrum, with a lobster dinner is on the opposite, mouth-orgasm end of the spectrum.   In one scenario hard, pointy objects get jammed into my mouth, while on the contrary I’m packing my face hole with soft buttery goodness.


After re-reading, I realize Sigmund Freud would tear me apart had that last sentence come out of my mouth in a therapy session with him.  Especially if I were eating a banana flavored popsicle at the time.


The opening act of the cleaning is nothing but a guilt trip.  It is usually a long-winded diatribe from the hygienist about how awful I am at tooth upkeep, always including the ever-so-earnest lecture on flossing that I predictably ignore.  These speeches always remind me of tear-fueled rants from ex-girlfriends that included, “If you can’t take care of your teeth, how could you ever take care of a child!”  Fortunately, those tirades were never followed up with, “Because I’m preggers, Justin.  And I am keeping it!”


Eventually the hygienist gets to the long and thankless chore of excavating layer after layer of plaque from my teeth.  The dental hygienist has become a paleontologist, searching through level after level of dirt looking for the bones that are my teeth.  When all of my teeth have resurfaced, she informs me I have one cavity.  Like clockwork; they always find at least one cavity with me.  Well, no, it’s not like clockwork. It’s more like an apathetic individual that never learns his lesson.  The dentist comes in and gives it a second glance.  They say they can fix it right now, so I give them the go ahead and she takes out the drill and starts grinding (not sexually, mind you) on that molar.


I have this fear, that I know is totally irrational, that every time that drill comes out I worry that it’s going to hit a nerve in my tooth, I’m going to scream, the hygienist will be startled, and the drill tip is going to hit me square in the pupil.   Every time I’m there I think, “It’s happening today.  Oh, yep, definitely today.  Like ninety percent chance at least.”  It never happens, but I assure you it will someday.  And all the “I’m sorrys” in the world aren’t going to put my pupil back in place.  I’m sorry, that’s just the way it’s going to go.


The dentist returns, makes uncomfortable small talk, and checks out the hygienist’s work. He notes that I’ve been grinding my teeth a lot, most likely at night, and asks if I have any stress in my life that could be causing this.  I lean in close to him and disclose, “Between you and me, Doc.  Grinding my teeth is the only thing keeping me from punching my wife in her stupid face everyday, you dig?”  He nods.  Just a little too understandingly I should add.


His last question for me is if I have any other pain in my teeth.  I tell him I’ve had a little pang for a while, “but that pain goes away after I start drinking,” I add.  “Come to think of it, all the pain in my life goes away after I start drinking.”  He shakes his head and walk out of the room, clearly saddened.


On the way out the receptionist meets me.  For whatever reason, the receptionist at my dentist has this attitude that she is better than everyone else.  Just because you schedule appointments for the four people in this office doesn’t make you better than me, Rachel!   Her job is to be nice.  Perhaps I should tell her about the opportunities to be a galley-slave, human sacrifice, or other jobs where nobody cares if you’re being a sassy-pants.


I look at the schedule for a second.  Yeah, I’m not going to know what I’m doing in six days let alone six months.  I’ll call you back, Rachel.

About these ads

My ‘Right Guard XTREME®’ Weight Loss Plan

I am going to get fucking ripped.  There, I said it.  Fucking ripped.  Day one of school next year, “Oh, Justin, what did you do on your summer vacation?”  Then they’ll look at my body and figure out how I spent it.


There will be no time to rest for this Adonis this summer.  When I’m not straight-gunning my lats, my delts, or my quads I’ll be loading up on my powders and gels.  I start the morning with big bowl of Special K and Muscle Milk.  Then I get on some No-Xplode and ten cigarettes to give me the rush I need to get through my aerobic workout of Indian Squats, Mexican Pick Actions, Gestapo Marches, and Chinese Rice Runners.  Not the most politically correct workout, but I’m here to get jacked, not worry about offending people.  I cap off the workout with a shit-ton of whey protein.  What is whey protein your scrawny little bitch-ass asks?  I don’t know, but I’ll keep cramming it down my face hole as long it gets me built like a fucking silverback gorilla.


I’m gonna ripped, like straight raw.  Like sushi or content on premium channels, I’m about to be raw.   Steroids? Absolutely, pump them in.  Mix and match here, because there is no recipe in place to create the perfect body yet.  No recipe until now.  If some steroids are good, more is better right?  Fuck I can deal with the mood swings; I’m cool as a fucking cucumber.  And if you EVER say I’m NOT AS COOL AS A FUCKING CUCUMBER I will STAB you in THE FACE with a SCREWDRIVER UNTIL YOU ARE FUCKING COLD AND DEAD, YOU HEAR ME?!  See what I mean?  If everyone just stays cool I’ll have no need to fly off the handle like that.


I don’t stop at just the gym.  Yeah, the gym is great.  Filled with slutty girls with body issues and TVs in every direction; it is my El Dorado.  I get my sweat on and I always wipe off the machines so I don’t give anyone my ringworm.  I don’t stop and the gym, oh-no.   The gym is only open ten hours a day, not nearly enough for me to use up all the energy I have from all the cocaine I’m constantly ingesting, so I had to get my own home gym started at my house.  I got my P90x bar in one room, but I call it my P90sex bar from all the pussy I be gettin’ since I started going at that.   I’ve got a shake weight, because I’m always looking to get better at masturbating.  I’ve even got a yoga tape, since my dentist thinks my teeth grinding is from too much stress (fooled that scrawny bitch-ass).


It’s not enough to work out.  I’m trying to lose weight too.  The look I’m trying to cultivate is that of a really buff starving child.  When I can’t suppress my appetite with cigarettes, I look for Indian food.  Indian food stays in my body for no more than forty minutes as I almost immediately poop it all out once I eat it.  This process also gives my digestive track and cornhole quite the workout without the empty calories.  I’m basically a bulimic, but without the character arc on Degrassi or a Lifetime original movie.


To avoid being tempted by other foods, I’ve decided to let all the existing food in my refrigerator go bad.  This way, whenever I am hankering for a snack one look in my fridge suppresses my appetite.  One look at a gallon of milk that has congealed into a complete solid and suddenly everything else no matter what it is looks revolting.


Come September, I’ll be going back to school looking like I just emerged from a South African prison, where there was no food and all I did was workout and defend myself from being raped.  Women love that look.


Wow, looking back on this it seems like a lot of work. After all it is summer and all I want to do is sleep in and watch Maury.  Perhaps, I’ll just stick to my liquid cleanse diet that features alcohol and Easy Cheese exclusively.

%d bloggers like this: