Bad to The Bone

So I’m in the chair getting oral surgery. It’s as bad as it sounds. The guy is to cut bone from behind my molar and move it to my front gums. All this and I’m wide awake. Luckily for me, they gave me an I-Pod loaded with the Beatles’ greatest hits. I could barely hear the drilling, and scraping over “Love Me Do.” I usually keep my eyes closed but I had the inclination to keep my eyes open. Deep down I wanted to watch what he did in case I was ever in a position where I had to do a bone graft. Like if civilization was wiped out and there were no oral surgeons left but someone needed a bone graft, I could step up and say “I can’t promise anything but I’ll try my best…”. Then proceed to do the perfect bone graft. I looked up but it seemed to make him uncomfortable. The last thing I need is a self-conscious surgeon in my mouth. So I closed my eyes and listened to the Beatles psychedelic phase. He actually added cow bone to my own to build the gum line. It worked fine but all of a sudden I want to go grazing and I never go home.

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