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Wisdom teeth – what's so wise about them? Mine came in like they were trying to take over the neighborhood. It's like my mouth suddenly decided, "You know what we need? More teeth, right in the back, where no one can see them." And then there's the extraction process. They tell you it's a simple procedure, like they're just plucking daisies. But in reality, it's more like they're trying to remove a stubborn tree root from your face. "Timber!"
I asked the dentist if I could keep my wisdom teeth as a souvenir. He looked at me like I suggested turning them into a necklace. "No, thanks. I'm good without a molar necklace, but I appreciate the offer."
And the best part? They call them "wisdom" teeth, but I felt no wiser after having them removed. If anything, I felt like I lost a few IQ points along with the molars.
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You ever notice how our teeth are like the divas of our bodies? Always demanding attention, throwing tantrums in the form of cavities. I recently had a dental checkup, and my dentist gave me that disappointed look. You know the one - it's like they're judging you for not flossing enough, as if I'm supposed to be best friends with a tiny piece of string. And then there's the dental hygienist, armed with that metal hook thing. I swear, it's like they're on an archaeological dig in my mouth. "Oh, what's this? A popcorn kernel from 2015. Let's excavate!"
But the real drama starts when you have a toothache. It's like a soap opera in your mouth. One tooth is like, "I can't believe you ate ice cream without giving me any love!" And the neighboring tooth is like, "You're always hogging the spotlight! I'm in pain too!"
And then there's the tooth fairy. A fairy who pays you for your body parts. If I tried that, I'd be arrested. "Officer, I was just collecting lost items under people's pillows!
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Let's talk about the tooth fairy economy. As a kid, losing a tooth was like hitting the jackpot. You'd tuck that little enamel treasure under your pillow, and in the morning, you'd find a shiny coin or a bill. It was like magic. But as an adult, I've come to realize that the tooth fairy operates on a questionable economic system. What's the going rate for a tooth these days? It's like tooth inflation – back in my day, a quarter was a big deal, but now kids are probably getting dental cryptocurrency.
And what does the tooth fairy do with all those teeth? Is there a tooth fairy tooth castle somewhere, made entirely of molars and incisors? I like to imagine a tooth fairy stock exchange where they trade teeth like commodities.
And imagine if the tooth fairy went on vacation. "Sorry, kids, the tooth fairy is out of the office this week. You'll have to settle for parental compensation for your lost incisors.
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Can we talk about toothpaste for a moment? Why are there so many options? Minty freshness, cool mint, extra minty, arctic blast – it's like they're training us for a polar expedition. And don't get me started on the whole debate between squeezing the toothpaste from the middle or the end. There are two kinds of people in this world: those who believe in order and harmony and squeeze from the bottom, and chaos agents who just squeeze from the middle. You know who you are. You're the reason there's toothpaste on the ceiling.
And then there's the eternal struggle of trying not to gag while brushing your tongue. It's a delicate dance between fresh breath and suppressing your gag reflex. One wrong move, and you're standing there like you just tried to eat a cactus.
Toothpaste commercials make it seem so glamorous – models brushing their teeth with a sparkle in their eye. If I brushed my teeth like that, I'd look like I'm having an existential crisis in front of the bathroom mirror.
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