Still Foolin' 'Em by Billy Crystal

we all do, I lied. Then he pulled a chunk of lobster meat from between my molars. I’m not sure, but I think he muttered, “Schmuck” as the jazz trio played him off and he left the room.
    Then the parade of specialists began.
    First it was the cleaning expert—the hygienist. She came in looking like one of the riot police in South Korea. On some people, a large Plexiglas face mask isn’t flattering. You can’t imagine the noise the tool made as she chiseled that stuff off my bottom teeth. I don’t have tartar; I have a coral reef. That’s why dentists’ offices always have fish tanks. You could sculpt Michelangelo’s David out of my plaque. Some hygienists use a laser; mine uses jackhammers. I feel like I’m being tortured. If Dick Cheney knew about this, we never would have waterboarded Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, we would have sent him to my dentist.
    Next came the X-ray technician, because God forbid the hygienist should have to do two things. The technician, Paolo (once again, it’s L.A., don’t ask), put a heavy lead blanket over my goodie basket and sprinted out of the room. That’s comforting. I figure with sixty-plus years of X-rays, my balls have been covered with more lead than a kid’s toy from China.
    Then the dentist came back in, after looking at the X-rays, meaning that he would be charging me for a second visit. He said, “Billy, you need a root canal.”
    “Now?”
    “Oh, I don’t do them—you’ve got to see Dr. Jack Wu for that. He can fit you in, in about three weeks.” As soon as he’d said that I needed the root canal, my tooth started to hurt. Freud would have had a field day.
    “Three weeks of this kind of pain?” I asked.
    “No, not this kind of pain—tomorrow you’ll have a worse kind of pain,” he assured me. “I’ll give you these pills I got in Mexico. They may constipate you, and if they do, call Dr. Ari Weitzman.”
    Great, another referral.
    “How about my wisdom teeth?”
    “Right now, they’re fine, but if you want them extracted, Dr. Abrams does uppers and Dr. Hunter does the lowers.”
    “So what exactly do you do?” I asked.
    “Oh, I do fillings and crowns and sit by the pool you paid for.”
    I currently have six dental specialists. I’ve had more people in my mouth than a Colombian hooker during a presidential visit. My dentist farms out everything. I’m looking at the pictures on his desk and I say, “Are those your kids?”
    He says, “Technically no, I didn’t handle that. I sent my wife to Dr. Feldman.”
    But I’m lucky. I go to a very prominent dentist. My dentist is the fifth guy. You know when they say, “Four out of five dentists prefer” whatever it is they prefer? Mine’s the one who doesn’t. When people find out he’s the fifth guy, they go crazy. “He’s the fifth guy? What’s he like? You gotta get me an appointment!”
    Once you find a great dentist, never leave them. I know guys who have been divorced three times but have the same dentist. And the main reason I go to my dentist: he gives a great shot. You don’t feel anything.
    The guy I went to before always hurt me, even though he’d warn me. “You’re going to feel a little prick in your mouth.”
    “If I do, I’m going to bite it the fuck off.”
    What was a twice-a-year visit when we were younger has turned into six months of appointments with specialists. Then by the time you’re done, the six months are up and you have to start all over again.
    But I go because my teeth mean so much to me. If I have all my teeth at sixty-five, it means I won’t need a nurse to cut up my meat like Hugh Hefner’s girlfriends do.
    If I have all my teeth, it means I won’t be mistaken for a twenty-two-year-old meth addict. And most of all, if I have all my teeth, it means I won’t be the only man in the world with a horizontal vagina for a mouth.

 
    My Thirties
    The girls were both fast asleep as I rearranged their blankets and softly kissed them on their foreheads. A great