When I was a boy, I got absolutely no joy out of this little lie, which hung, suitably framed, in the cramped office of Dr. Failor, a man we couldn't help but dub Dr. Failure, out of spite, I suppose, the same species of spite this graffiti artist in knickers is feeling. I thought hanging this picture on the wall of his dentist waiting room was a bitter joke. It wasn't funny. It was the plain truth because I was--and still am--one of those poor souls blessed with a double whammy: teeth so soft they seemed to shop for cavaties, plus zero tolerance for pain, especially that inflicted orally by Dr. Failure.
That picture was not funny because I knew that when I'd emerge from Failure's torture chamber, I would be that kid, sans headband, scarred for life. That pup gets it. There's more sympathy on his mug than the kid is likely to get from anyone for the rest of the day or week, which is why, I figured, people called 'em man's best friend. "So there, you a_ _hole," that mutt is saying. Look at him. You can read his lips. Pardon his French. He knows darn well the whole setup is not funny at all.
This morning, barring a blizzard, I've got an appointment with a madman who's spent his entire working life in a chamber of horrors. He's going to pull a tooth of mine, somewhere so far back that the dark hole it leaves behind won't make me look like some grinning asylum escapee. All night long, my overactive imagination has been exploding with horrors. You know, like this. . .
You guessed it--that fancy necklace ain't pearl. Think the worst.
I'm serious. All night long it's been nightmares.
. . .and this. . .
So this may be it for me. No more stuff from the basement. I may never return.
On the other hand, I may just take my revenge.
Note the tense. Note it carefully. Wish me luck.