Day 118
Following the deployment of several cans of horribly smelling medicinal spray and continual practice of the Internet acquired exercise program, my back is on the mend.
Rather than being filled with joy and delight at my impending recovery, the current Mrs. Snowman sees it as a perfect opportunity to send me off to get a 10,000 mile medical service.
The first of which on her checklist is the dentist.
It’s been a while since I last visited such a person, in fact it was so long ago they were wearing top hats and arrived for work on horseback. As such my teeth are not in the most pristine condition.
In a certain light, I have a smile like a car accident.
The main reason for this is that I’m terrified of dentists. Before I get deluged by reassuring letters from orthodontists, I fully appreciate this is an unwarranted and irrational phobia.
The last time I went, I was expecting a quick check-up, a pat on the head from an attractive assistant and a little sticker telling me what a brave boy I was. Of course, none of this happened, not least because I was thirty-four years old at the time.
I remember sitting in a chair that was levered back like an electrocution bench and a white coated gentleman prodding around my mouth with a couple of metal prongs that looked like something from the Spanish Inquisition.
I also remember thinking that if he asked me in a German accent “Iz it safe?” I was in the perfect position to kick him squarely in the balls and run like fuck for the exit.
After making some very worrying ‘tutting’ noises and shaking his head in resignation he said in a very matter-of-fact voice “…well that little devil’s coming out”.
It’s was quite difficult to say, “No it’s fucking not!” with a miniature wing mirror shoved against the inside of my cheek.
Before I could protest further, he said, “…you might feel a little scratch” and, with lightening efficiency, stuck a hypodermic needle in my gum. Any further remonstrations were academic as within two minutes my mouth felt like it had swollen to the size of a watermelon.
“All ok?” he cheerfully asked.
I tried to say, “Oh, fucking tremendous; I’m having a wonderful time” but it I’d lost the ability of coherent speech.
“Mummmph fottterrr grrrrph, eue bathtard” was closer to what came out, accompanied by a little dribble of saliva that was wiped away by the nurse.
Presumably this was the correct medical response as he nodded an understanding and got immediately to work
To be fair, I didn’t feel a thing during the procedure although the cracking sound when the offending tooth was finally extracted nearly made my eyeballs pop out of my head.
He handed me a plastic cup full of what looked like a blue-coloured vodka cocktail and told me to rinse my mouth. I quickly found out it wasn’t alcoholic when I swallowed some rather than spitting it out.
What made the experience worse was that I had to pay him a very large amount of money for this torture before I left the surgery.
And Mrs. Snowman expects me go through it again.
I intend to assure her I’ll make the appointment, drive to the pub, paint my teeth with a small tin of white emulsion and tell her I don’t need to go again for another couple of years.
Even with this shock to my system I still managed to play a couple of tournaments today. The first was a $1.10 event that saw me last for just over an hour until I had a stab at bluffing a huge pot with two Aces on the board. My timing was a little out when my opponent showed quads.
Undeterred, I entered a freeroll event and managed to successfully bluff a couple of hands before my chip stack dwindled to nothing when I got a fraction too bold and went all-in with two pair (Kings over Nines). I guess being beaten by the flush was inevitable. Tomorrow I shall try again and only play the board when I actually hit something…probably the laptop screen.
Later in the evening while I was stretched out on the sofa, Mrs. Snowman seemed to be taking a more than passing interest in how I was watching the television. Not content with threatening me with the dentist, she announced that I was “squinting” and should get my eyes tested as well.
I didn’t think it would be sensible for me to point out that it wasn’t a squint, I was simply trying to focus on an area in the background of the programme being shown on the screen.
It was a news item on beach pollution and I thought one of the sunbathers had her tits hanging out.
If an optician had those on their eye chart instead of letters, I’d be queuing overnight to get an appointment.
Starting bank: $0
Current bank: $1.08
Rather than being filled with joy and delight at my impending recovery, the current Mrs. Snowman sees it as a perfect opportunity to send me off to get a 10,000 mile medical service.
The first of which on her checklist is the dentist.
It’s been a while since I last visited such a person, in fact it was so long ago they were wearing top hats and arrived for work on horseback. As such my teeth are not in the most pristine condition.
In a certain light, I have a smile like a car accident.
The main reason for this is that I’m terrified of dentists. Before I get deluged by reassuring letters from orthodontists, I fully appreciate this is an unwarranted and irrational phobia.
The last time I went, I was expecting a quick check-up, a pat on the head from an attractive assistant and a little sticker telling me what a brave boy I was. Of course, none of this happened, not least because I was thirty-four years old at the time.
I remember sitting in a chair that was levered back like an electrocution bench and a white coated gentleman prodding around my mouth with a couple of metal prongs that looked like something from the Spanish Inquisition.
I also remember thinking that if he asked me in a German accent “Iz it safe?” I was in the perfect position to kick him squarely in the balls and run like fuck for the exit.
After making some very worrying ‘tutting’ noises and shaking his head in resignation he said in a very matter-of-fact voice “…well that little devil’s coming out”.
It’s was quite difficult to say, “No it’s fucking not!” with a miniature wing mirror shoved against the inside of my cheek.
Before I could protest further, he said, “…you might feel a little scratch” and, with lightening efficiency, stuck a hypodermic needle in my gum. Any further remonstrations were academic as within two minutes my mouth felt like it had swollen to the size of a watermelon.
“All ok?” he cheerfully asked.
I tried to say, “Oh, fucking tremendous; I’m having a wonderful time” but it I’d lost the ability of coherent speech.
“Mummmph fottterrr grrrrph, eue bathtard” was closer to what came out, accompanied by a little dribble of saliva that was wiped away by the nurse.
Presumably this was the correct medical response as he nodded an understanding and got immediately to work
To be fair, I didn’t feel a thing during the procedure although the cracking sound when the offending tooth was finally extracted nearly made my eyeballs pop out of my head.
He handed me a plastic cup full of what looked like a blue-coloured vodka cocktail and told me to rinse my mouth. I quickly found out it wasn’t alcoholic when I swallowed some rather than spitting it out.
What made the experience worse was that I had to pay him a very large amount of money for this torture before I left the surgery.
And Mrs. Snowman expects me go through it again.
I intend to assure her I’ll make the appointment, drive to the pub, paint my teeth with a small tin of white emulsion and tell her I don’t need to go again for another couple of years.
Even with this shock to my system I still managed to play a couple of tournaments today. The first was a $1.10 event that saw me last for just over an hour until I had a stab at bluffing a huge pot with two Aces on the board. My timing was a little out when my opponent showed quads.
Undeterred, I entered a freeroll event and managed to successfully bluff a couple of hands before my chip stack dwindled to nothing when I got a fraction too bold and went all-in with two pair (Kings over Nines). I guess being beaten by the flush was inevitable. Tomorrow I shall try again and only play the board when I actually hit something…probably the laptop screen.
Later in the evening while I was stretched out on the sofa, Mrs. Snowman seemed to be taking a more than passing interest in how I was watching the television. Not content with threatening me with the dentist, she announced that I was “squinting” and should get my eyes tested as well.
I didn’t think it would be sensible for me to point out that it wasn’t a squint, I was simply trying to focus on an area in the background of the programme being shown on the screen.
It was a news item on beach pollution and I thought one of the sunbathers had her tits hanging out.
If an optician had those on their eye chart instead of letters, I’d be queuing overnight to get an appointment.
Starting bank: $0
Current bank: $1.08