We’re all prejudice towards at least one group of people. It may be Mexicans, gays, clowns, cripples, and/or cat-lovers. And, Journal, don’t bat your eyelashes at me and say ‘But I love everybody,’ because it’s bullshit, and you know it. If you’ve made it this far in life without rolling your eyes, huffing an exasperated sigh, and making the general statement, “I can’t stand [foreign customer service representatives/fast food cashiers/Walmart shoppers/Kardashians],” then I’ll stop choosing to be gay. It’s only fair as we’ll both be claiming something that is not true.
Before the outrage commences, please note that there are two categories of prejudice: prejudice against people who can’t change who they are (geriatrics, gays, people of a different race/ethnicity), and people who can (Christians, men with hair buns, bronies). I, in this missive, am addressing the latter. I completely agree that ridiculing and oppressing people who can’t change who they are is as ignorant and futile as demanding cats to stop scratching the arms of my new chair. This is why I reserve all of my discriminatory remarks for the latter type because I believe that, under the assumption that we’re all driven to be liked and appreciated, doing so helps these degenerates strive to be better people. After all, social media has proven that vying for the approval and appreciation of another is the new meaning of life.
I don’t mind announcing my prejudices because they’re not my fault. Like you, I acquired this mentality through family interaction, enduring negative experiences, and surrounding myself with snobbish peers, and no amount of self-righteous Facebook posts are capable of deprogramming a bigoted brain (so please stop; we really don’t care if you got mad watching that video of the fast food employee who doused a seemingly homeless man with a cup of water after luring it to the drive through window with a burger even though this seemingly homeless man could very well have been the richest man in town and just fashionably and hygienically challenged – who’s prejudice now).
My personal prejudices are the result of either arrogance (mommy bloggers, poor people, country music lovers, political pundits, and midgets) or fear (religious zealots, dentists, and midgets). However, today I want to address the latter, specifically dentists. Some people are racist, some are sexist; I’m dentist…ist.
I don’t discriminate in my hatred for dentists. It’s not like they were born that way. They chose to be dentists, and dentists choose to terrify me. Well, they don’t terrify me as much as what they do to me that terrifies me. And I’m not alone. When I share this fear of mine in conversation, the beneficiary of my attention often interrupts me with, “Me, too!” And after reminding them that our discussion isn’t about them, I go on to explain that whenever someone inserts something into my mouth that I can’t swallow, I react with a level of stress that only kidnapped, cross-dressing Taiwanese prostitutes lost in northern Alabama can understand. As a matter of fact, I am probably one of the few Americans capable of striking “Piss Yourself While Having Stress-Induced Seizure From Dental Procedure” from their bucket list.
I’m unaware of the origin of this, but unlike most I mentioned above, treatment is available for dentistism. I’ve learned that a few options for remedying dentistism are positive reinforcement (fuck that), cognitive behavioral therapy (and that), peer support (you’ve got to be kidding me), and/or pharmacology (fu…oh wait; now we’re talking). I still hate them, but because JeBuddhAllahGodRatan threw the formula for a popular oral sedative across the Helleavens and onto Dr. David Sheehan in 1969, I can finally tolerate a visit to a dentist’s office without having to wearing a diaper.
Unfortunately, the latter treatment option comes with side effects. Although the sedative allows me to peacefully sleep during the procedure, it prevents the recollection of an entire day of impaired judgement I call a black-out high (where I appear to be normal but am high as fuck and will not remember any of it later). Previous black-out highs have resulted in the purchase of that horrible 2005 dramedy, The Family Stone; an irate letter to my neighbor written in the voice of an angry six-year-old cavegirl; and a mountain of Little Debbie snack cakes piled on my coffee table.
You may be wondering why I am rambling about prejudice and drugs. Or maybe you are thinking that what I experience is a common phobia. In response to the latter, I say, “Nope. I hate dentists. The fear is just a branch of my prejudice.” To the former, I say, “I am writing this so as to explain my behavior on Tuesday, October 27, 2015 as it was on this day that I was scheduled for a dentist appointment at 8:00 am to replace an old filling.”
Apparently, during my most recent swagger down memoryless lane, I had delusions of being a profoundly clever, and philosophical writer, comparable to Mark Twain or William Faulker. To prove this supposed genius, I posted absurd thoughts to Facebook, and I have absolutely no memory of doing so.
To my horror, this didn’t stop with one post. I evidently posted whatever grandiose idea that waded into my hazy head, failing to heed my best friend’s advice to “Step. Away. From. The. Facebook.”
Some of those that didn’t know my circumstance became concerned. I am grateful Mom was able to explain.
Noticing the literary suicide happening on my feed, Mom saved what little reputation I had left of being a reputable writer of tasteless dick jokes and raunchy articles about gay sex by transporting me to one of my favorite places in the world, Muddy’s Bake Shop, where she let me eat my fill of cupcakes and cookies while taking candid pictures.When I “came to” that night, the mystery of my day continued to reveal itself to me. I discovered that I promised to read a friend’s script, looked at a potential house to buy, got a haircut, and texted random shit to friends. For example: It may take some time for people to take me seriously as a writer again (if they ever did in the first place as it’s pretty hard to hang with aspiring lit fic writers and poets if you’ve told the world about that one time you farted during sex). Until then, I will hide in shame in the company of my five cats, hoping the world isn’t judging me as harshly as I am judging them.