Just Say "No" to Ribs

By Kevin Gibson
May 11, 2007

I’ve never been a fan of going to the dentist. And let’s face it, how many times have you heard anyone say, “Hey, I’ve got the day off, the weather’s great and I’ve got some extra money saved up – I think I’ll go have a root canal!”? Exactly. It’s pretty much a universal knowledge that if you’re going to see a professional about your teeth, you’re probably not in for a good time.

Well, here’s my story: I was at Buffalo Wild Wings in the Highlands Dec. 3 of last year, and for some idiotic reason I decided to try a new menu item – ribs. Now, B-Dubs (as it is affectionately called by regulars) is not known for its food quality. It sells atmosphere and entertainment so that you won’t pay attention to the crap you’re putting in your mouth. But what my girlfriend and I got in that basket of ribs was even below their previously low standards.

Three tiny little meat-like things that wouldn’t have satisfied a sparrow stared up at us from the basket o’ ribs and other appetizers our waiter brought. I shrugged and dug into one, and on the second bite, WHAM! I bit into a bone that was situated where no bone should ever be. 

In general, ribs aren’t complicated – there is a bone, and there is meat. They are joined, but decidedly separate. Until that day, I had never eaten a piece of rib meat with indiscriminant bone placement. What kind of animal has random bones floating around in its muscles? This thing I was eating – was it even from planet earth?

Well, I broke a rear molar clean in two when I bit down on that damn thing. It hurt like a mother, oh yes it did, and for a moment the pain was so intense that I thought I saw Gene Hackman laughing at me at the next table. (Turns out it was just someone’s mom on a bender.)

But the funny part of this scenario was that I had just changed jobs and my new dental insurance would not kick in for 90 days. No kidding. This could only happen to me.

Well, needless to say, I needed a crown on that broken tooth. But my dentist informed me that, due to the severity of the  break, I would first need something called a “crown reduction.” I didn’t think much of it, just made the appointment with the periodontist my dentist suggested and showed up for my appointment.

What I didn’t realize was that “periodontist” is greek for “he who mercilessly butchers rib-eating idiots.” Turns out, I was in for about an hour and a half of outpatient surgery on my gums at the hands of a knife-wielding maniac. (Although, I will admit that he was a very professional and articulate maniac.) I mean, this guy tore at my gums with scissors, metal hooks, knives – basically everything you would need to start a proper torture chamber.

Pretty soon I was seeing blood all over his hands and on his instruments of destruction, and naturally there was no hiding the fact this was MY blood, not his. And I wasn’t even scared until the second round of shots. To start off, he gave me one of those long, lingering shots with a needle the size of a fence post, worked on me briefly … then gave me like FIVE more shots with this freaking novacaine sword. I knew this could NOT be a good sign.

Well, he tore into me for what seemed like an eternity. All the while, some crappy radio station played easy-listening hits, as if to further the torture and drive me mad. I imagined him grinning down at me and cackling, “Oh, it’s not enough that we will stab you repeatedly in the gums – we also have CARLY SIMON to taunt you! BWAAAAA-ha ha ha ha ha ha!!”

And every few minutes he would stop and say, “OK, take a break and swallow.” Mmmm, blood. Tasty. And he would ask me things like, “You doing OK?” I wanted to say, “What do you think, Dr. Frankenstein? You just put a goddamned meat hook in my mouth.” But what can you do? When you’re in the chair, they’ve gotcha.

On several occasions he told me, “Relax your tongue.” At one of the “breaks,” I told him, “Look, man, if you tell me to relax my tongue, that only makes me aware of my tongue, and if I’m actively thinking about my tongue, it is inherently not relaxed. The two things are mutually exclusive. Do you understand?”

“Well,” he said, “I’m still going to tell you that.”

So I stuck my tongue out at him. I think that angered him, because at that point he took a long break and said, “The good news is, I think we’re probably more than halfway done.” At that moment I had a fantasy about myself running like the wind across Herr Lane, my bloody bib flapping in the breeze and blood streaming from my mouth. I nearly wept. Halfway????

A few minutes later, he dived back in with his tools of death, and to add insult to injury, after about 10 minutes the radio station from hell started playing “Best of My Love” by the Eagles. I desperately wanted to kick someone in the stomach. Dr. Frankenstein took another break halfway through the song and said, “You doing OK?”

I said, “No, and you know why?”

“Why?”

“Because I freaking HATE Don Henley.”

That made him laugh, but it didn’t make him ease up any. At one point, he had my gums torn so far away from my tooth that he was sticking gauze down INSIDE my gums. I didn’t even know that was physically possible. And the gauze was needed because there was probably a miniature blood moat circling my broken tooth. At least it will be safe from the attacking armies of plaque. Can plaque swim?

When he finally was done, he said, “OK, let’s close it up.” So I closed my mouth. “No,” he said, “I mean, we’re going to close up the incisions.” Yeah, that’s right. So the bastard pulls out a needle and thread and starts SEWING my gums back together. Are you kidding me? Are you … freaking … KIDDING ME?

No joke, he stood right there and whistled “Boys of Summer” (sadistic bastard!) while sewing up my face like Betsy-Goddamned-Ross sewing a flag. (OK, maybe it wasn’t “Boys of Summer,” but he did whistle.)

When he finally finished his torturous ritual, he offered me some Advil (gee, thanks) and told me he’d see me again in two weeks. I told him, “No offense, but if I NEVER see you again after that, it will be OK with me.”

The moral to the story? There is none. Just don’t eat crappy C-grade rib meat from a crappy chain restaurant, because you’ll just end up breaking a tooth and having your face sewn up by Dr. Frankenstein to the tune of “Hotel California.”

Now shut up and pass me a Lortab.

E-mail me at kgramone@aol.com. And avoid the ribs.