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The Dentist Adventure

Lemon Cohen



Part of the reason I went flatting, thus escaping my parents’ baroque mansion in Kelburn, was so that I could live my own life by my own rules. Flatting has given me many freedoms: freedoms such as wearing a leather jacket inside out, not observing my own dietary needs, and going to lectures when I feel like it, instead of when they’re just on. In this relaxed life I can pursue my lifelong hobby of crafting song lyrics before getting bored and going to sell crystal meth on the streets, just like my hero 50 Cent. The flatting lifestyle has imparted wise snippets of wisdom so that despite my social recklessness I still lead a life of chastity and frugality. I only have to scrimp for a few more years before I can afford to take my pitch to the Dragons’ Den. Here’s the pitch, try picture it: shoes made out of socks, and socks made out of shoes. Let’s see what the Dragons have to say about that.

Despite this lifestyle of abandon, there is one rule I will always abide, and that is to never ever visit the fucking dentist. A person who straps you in a chair just to cut up your face and make fun of the colour of your teeth (off-white) is not just an enemy, he is a racialist with the heart of a Jew. I cherish each and all 47 of my teeth, and just because some punks think it’s funny that my gums double as a weevil plantation, it does not mean I should stop telling them to go fuck themselves because this planet is all about diversity motherfucker. I think Brannavan already did a column about dentists but that’s okay because whereas Brannavan is all about the morals, I am all about keeping the black man down. Also ‘Bran-Power’ loses comedic points because it is a pun based on ‘Brand Power’ and I don’t know why the hell making a pun on ‘Brand Power’ would ever appeal to anyone or what the hell ‘Brand Power’ has to do with anything because I never read it. While I’m bashing the Salient administration I might just add that currently Salient is being edited by a bearded hobo and I’m not sure anyone has realised this. Anyway, back to my tale of woe.
The last time I visited my lusty self upon a dentist was during Spring 1993 when I was a young gypsy child whose trusting innocence was second only to his winning smile. I was not always as I am today: once I had a face that would kindle fire in the breasts of young maidens and cause elderly gentlemen to cough up strawberries. Now it is all gone. Gone! Even the crows won’t look at me. But how could I know what my fate held in store for me as I trudged up the hill with my bucket of cherries towards the Dentist’s castle?
The Dentist was well-reputed in our village as a benefactor of charitable organisations such as Save the White Lummox: It Will Abide You! At the time all I knew of the Dentist was that he was a great fife and a caring ruler, and sometimes people went missing from his cemeteries but we put this down to the brigands. As I crossed the moat and knocked my chapped hands on the gate of the vast iron complex, I was greeted by a lean figure with pin-sized eyes.
“Good sir, I am here to sell my luscious gypsy cherries!” I pipped in my gypsy brogue.
“Heh,” said the figure with a warped smile. He was looking very closely at my beanshaped mouth. “Follow me to my chamber and we shall have a look at your teeth.”
Now I was well aware of the everpresent threat of sex offenders who might take cunning use of a dumpling like me. I grabbed my knife and shoved it into his carotid artery, causing blood to jet out of the hole in his neck. “Curse you!” he cried as I dumped the cherries over his head Home Alone style and laughed as he collapsed into a shrivelled heap and grew slowly anaemic. After that I lost interest and went to pillage his laboratory.
It was a fun day, but on my way home I tripped and chipped my tooth on a plant root, thus requiring minor surgery. Something went wrong with the operation and days later my childish face had contorted into a rendition of an opossum’s swollen butt. Such is life, but I could never escape the curse of that dentist who lay there on the stone floor caked in his own blood and spilled effluent as I ran around laughing and farting. I guess the whole thing is kind of my fault, as usual. Maybe I will write a letter to his kids, but to be safe I’ll use print that I clipped from magazine articles and sign my name as Brannavan because that will give it comic effect.