I experienced one of the great joys in life when at the biggest party of the summer, the world-renowned Chicken Day, I got all spiffed up and ready to do the town, meticulously picking out my fanciest outfit like I was D’Angelo Barksdale, fastidiously combing my hair and beard, and even putting on underwear, when two seconds after I arrived my fuckin cursed front tooth betrayed me again and snapped off. I hadn’t even made the rounds to say wuddup to prove I at least showed up with the goddamn thing intact. Talk about bad timing.
Talk about worse. Wouldn’t you know it, but who the fuck of all people in the known universe shows up but some chick I hadn’t seen in like ten years—and right when I look like a fuckin Jack-o-lantern. Oh sweet. Now instead of us each silently playing the “Who’s aged worse?” game in our heads, I can look like a meth dealer.
Because few things in life look stupider than a big gap-toothed smile plastered on your face. It’s hideous. People say it looks cute on six year-olds. I got news for ya. It doesn’t. It makes them look like mini crackheads.
Ironically enough I was about six years of age myself when I first cracked the fuckin thing, and it’s been cursed with a Seven-Year Itch for dislodging ever since, and not always at opportune times.
As my dad liked to constantly point out throughout my childhood, I barely had my “big” front teeth for a month when a monkeyshines-related folly resulted in my crying ass going to the dentist. Flash forward to eighth grade and a playful jousting match with wiffle ball bats with my neighbor got turned up a notch when he grabbed an aluminum bat and accidentally pool-cued the fucker right out of my mouth. In college it was Italian bread. In my late twenties, almost the exact same scenario as this latest one with my arch nemesis, corn on the cob. What’s it gonna be next time? It’s not gonna matter.
Thanks to the wonders of modern dentistry, my front tooth just keeps popping back into my mouth like a Wack-a-Mole game. It’s funny though how literally every single time I’ve opted to get a cheap-ass filling, the dentist invariably tries to sell me on getting a much more expensive crown in a manner not unlike a used car salesman. Each time their argument gets weaker than my tooth. It’s always the same shit: crowns last up to five years and fillings break easily. Really? Every filling I’ve ever had has lasted me over five years and they’re covered by my insurance. Crowns don’t guarantee me any more longevity and are like five times the cost. Decision over.
And it’s ending shortly. I’ve been walking around looking like Leon Spinks for two weeks, but my dentist appointment’s coming up. Hello new tooth, and goodbye to the homeless guy look. That makes it tooth: five, and the evil forces out to destroy it: zero.
Even still, I can’t help but wonder what cruel twist of fate or dastardly ear or corn my valiant yet cursed incisor could come up against next? Only time will tell…