I’ll Take a Side of Ashton Kutcher With That Giant Slice of Shame

How a trip to the dentist’s office felt like an episode of Punk’d

I recently had to change dentists due to some obnoxious insurance shenanigans. Completing this task was like translating an ancient Greek scroll into modern-day Gen Z-speak. Fucking nonsense.

After dozens of calls and an endless online scavenger hunt, I found a place that accepted my new insurance and had a cool logo. In my mind, I had struck gold.

When I called to book my overdue cleaning, I was told that to see the actual dentist, I had to first undergo an assessment. There would be an appointment before my appointment.

I confidently informed them we could skip the assessment and that my time was too precious. They informed me I could find a different option.

I begrudgingly booked the assessment and was sure to make my feelings known. They were overjoyed to receive my honest feedback.

When the time came for the pre-appointment, I was greeted by a hygienist who appeared to be 14, but I trusted she was the Doogie Howser of dental hygienists.

After I got situated, she started to poke and prod rather aggressively. While she was vigorously scraping away at something with a deeply furrowed eyebrow, she asked me what kind of toothbrush I use, “electric or manual?”

“Electric manual,” I responded.

“No, is it electric or manual?” she pressed.

“It’s both. I hold it in my hand and I move my hand a lot, but the bristles rotate.”

“Okay, that would be electric,” she concluded like a sorceress.

“Neat,” I said like a dipshit.

“What brand is it?” she pestered with six hands in my mouth.

“Huh?” I mouthed, with six hands in my mouth.

“Is it Oral-B, Sonic, Quip, or generic?” she continued.

I didn’t understand her line of questioning. Did I mistakenly sign up for a new toothbrush trial? Was I unknowingly participating in an ad for a Tesla toothbrush? I tend to sign up for a lot of weird things.

Was I being punk’d? That must be it. I sat there anticipating Ashton Kutcher to pop out of the wall Kool-aid-man style, but the toothy fucker was a no-show.

I had no choice but to accept the bitter reality of being interrogated by the judgmental hygienist.

Her questions swirled around my head like my spit in the miniature dentist sink after being commanded to “swish and spit.”

She repeated her previous question.

“It’s a Sonic,” I said, sounding like Rocky Balboa after a fight with Apollo Creed.

“Do you use it every day?” The interrogation continued.

I nodded my head, fearful she’d think I was full of shit.

“Huh,” she offered.

I locked eyes with her, but she didn’t know it due to The Matrix sunglasses I was forced to wear.

Why did she sound like my parents after that time I came home four hours after curfew and told them I was nursing an injured hedgehog back to life? Totally plausible.

She withdrew her tentacles from my mouth and told me she was surprised to hear I used such a “high-quality oral hygiene tool.”

Then came the lecture about how to use my toothbrush. She showed me how to hold it against my teeth as if I had just moved here from England.

I held my head low. I’ve been at this brushing thing for a long time. I brush my teeth every single day — usually twice a day. I never say no to the fluoride treatment. I floss every other day.

What, you think your gums will be your demise? It’s not 1403. Use some Listerine, chew on a lime— you’ll be fine.

The hygienist informed me there was quite a bit of plaque and tarter buildup on my upper molars and she would have to alert the dentist.

My stomach dropped. Alert the dentist?!? What would happen next — would I be denied as a patient? Did I not make the cut, coach?

I left the dentist’s office cloaked in shame.

Six weeks of improved brushing techniques later, I got a call. It was the dentist’s office and they wanted to know when I’d be available to see the dentist. I couldn’t believe it — I’d made the cut after all!! They accepted me despite the disgusting amount of tartar on my molars.

I felt like I had just won a rubber ducky from the claw machine I paid nine dollars to play.

When the day came, I felt prepared and confident I’d have a very different experience with the actual dentist. I’d done my due diligence. I held my toothbrush the proper way. I brushed for the full two minutes. I even bought a goddamn Waterpik.

I’ll show them.

When the day arrived, the dentist greeted me how I imagined a cult leader would. Warm, smiley, and full of compliments — all to distract me from the inevitable emotional punishment.

The dentist sat me down, peered inside my mouth with gloved hands, and grilled me about my brushing techniques. With each answer she nodded, but her look of disappointment and disbelief were impossible to mask.

And then something struck her.

“How often do you change out your toothbrush head?”

“You’re supposed to do that?” I asked with the innocence of a puppy.

It was as if she’d just figured out how the Egyptians built the pyramids or why Hugh Grant cheated on Elizabeth Hurley. She almost fell out of her swivel chair, she was so excited.

“Yes!” she yelled in my face. “Every three months to be exact!”

“Ohhhhhhh,” I said, playing along — as if there was any chance in Hell I’d remember to do that.

“That’s why your molars are so tarnished!” she said with a joker-esque smile plastered on her face.

The puzzle pieces had finally come together. The mystery had been solved. I know she felt satisfied because of her smug-as-a-bug-in-a-rug grin.

I felt satisfied because I wasn’t an incompetent brusher of teeth after all. I just didn’t realize the “high-quality oral hygiene tool” needed a little tending to every once in a while.

Armed with my new toothbrush savvy, I felt confident my next appointment would be a slam dunk. Never again would I feel the piercing shame I felt the my appointments. Never again will someone need to interrogate me on my brushing habits.

Never again will I wish to see Ashton Kutcher with one reasonable exception, his unforgettable masterpiece: Dude, Where’s My Car?