The Sirolux Conspiracy

What started out rather pleasantly has now ended in what I can only describe as the recognition of an awful, awful conspiracy.

You see, I had never walked into that room before. And the man before me was a stranger. Resplendent in perfect white, with an even whiter smile.

He had a lovely head of golden, flowing hair. Not curly, but golden as one would expect.

The room itself was spotless. It was as though a beautiful, rotund cherub had been eating bags of white marshmallows and passed a bought of musical wind. A lovely, clean, pure smell.

But in spite of all of this pleasantness, I was a nervous man. And the shining man before me knew it all too well. But before I could open my mouth to plea, he motioned me to it. A big chunk of machinery at the other end of the room.

It needed no introduction. I had seen it before. The Sirolux 3000. The Weapon of Dental Reconstruction. The Dunking Chair of Dentists.

I was at the dentist. And the Sirolux 3000 would be the home of my lifeless, limpless, carcass for the next 36 minutes.

The only nice bit of the Sirolux 3000 is the liquid motion at which it lowers you into an horizontal position before the dentist begins prodding and poking about.

It was at this point I thought of calling him “Tooth Fairy”. I mean, he did look rather angelic in appearance. But I thought the better of it when he proceeded to put both of his hands in my mouth. They were much bigger than I had originally thought.

And it was whilst I was being lowered into my dental coma by the Sirolux 3000, that I began recognising signs of international conspiracy.

It’s not that I don’t like dentists, (or electronic chairs, for that matter). It’s just that I kind of feel, well, hard done by these men in white.

I mean, you spend some significant part of your life, every morning, every night, rinsing, flossing, brushing, and spitting. All in the name of clean teeth. Only to have to make the painful, fearful, sweaty, nervous trip to the dentist on regular occasions and sit on his Sirolux.

What on earth for? Had they forgotten to tell us something? Could they not just write some instructions down? Are they keeping it secret how to really keep your teeth clean?

Do you see? The preventative measures aren't helping.

So this is my theory. I think it is all part of a cruel, dental plot. The Dentum Illuminati. Like the mafia, but for dentists, who ensure that toothpastes and toothbrushes don’t actually help your teeth… they make them worse.

I mean, think about it: if someone would invent a really good toothbrush, the dentist would be out of a job. See what I’m saying?

So, as the Sirolux 3000 and dentist began shaking and spinning and drilling about, he mentions to me that I should go and “see his friend”, the Gum Specialist.

Say what? I have to go to a gum specialist?

“But aren’t you a dentist?” I mumble with an impressive amount of diction, considering his hands are still in my mouth.

“Oh yes, but my specialism is teeth, not gums, you see.” he gently replies.

Well blow me down and dump a can of fluoride in my mouth. Which is exactly what he did.

Call me provincial, but isn’t this gum / dentist thing also just a little bit… well… silly? I mean, whilst you’re studying to become a dentist, you’re in the general mouth region, aren’t you? Would it kill you to read up a bit on the things that hold the teeth in? Why not make the effort to look but ten degrees lower and consider the gums, too? It’s like learning how to drink and enjoy wine, but having no actual idea how to get the bottle open. Quick. Call the Cork Specialist.

And again I smell a conspiracy.

But Tooth Fairy was adamant. To the Gum Doctor I must go.

So anyway. I now have to pay Tooth Fairy and Gummy Bear protection money.

And every morning, every night, I look at my toothbrush and toothpaste. Yes, it does say on the tube that it is 99% effective in preventing any tooth problems. Which of course also implies that it is 1% pretty bloody ineffective.