You know that moment when a guy has his hands all up in your grill and you suddenly get like a Sixth Sense feeling that he has definitely yelled WOOOOOO! with his shirt off somewhere in Mexico and/or Miami Beach? And then you just know that he has, within the last three days, told someone that they are “money and don’t even know it”? And you are suddenly struck by an eerie vision that if you flipped down the visor on the driver’s side of his Dodge Viper, you would find one of those pocket CD sleeve things full of Jock Jams?
Yup, your dentist is a douche.
Once you have the revelation, it seems so OBVIOUS. How could you have missed the tuft of chest hair peeking out from the deep-V of his scrubs?
And what about the tune he was whistling when he walked in? Yes. You hear it now. It was not a real song at all, but the “doot-doot-doot-dee-doot” jingle at the end of a T-Mobile commercial.
And, then there is the way he tells you every little thing he is going to do and asks your consent like you are starring in a sex ed skit for your dorm:
I’m going to lower the chair now. Is that okay?
Is it okay if I raise you back up?
How are you doing?
Does that feel okay?
But, I have news for you. It turns out that d-bags make pretty good dentists. They make sure to get you nice and numb, and then they’re in and out before you even know it. Just like spring break in South Padre.
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