T-Bone's spa therapy

I've never had a professional massage. I'm not shitting you; I shit you not. There are some people out there who get a massage every week, you know? Hell, you can get a massage at the airport, for christ's sake. But I'm just not a self-pamperin' sort of guy. Except ...

Every 6 months, I schedule an appointment and go to a local place for my own little special therapy. I get to sit in a comfy chair, put some shades on, kick back, watch a little TV on the ceiling, and let someone else take care of me for a while. And where is this magical haven, you ask? Why, it's my dental hygienist's office!

Seriously, for me, getting my teeth cleaned is the closest I get to a sort of man-spa session. And if you think carefully about it, the comparison is apt. In addition to the chair, and the sunglasses, and the comforting elevator music, you're also getting your teeth cleaned. When I leave that office, my smile is looking like a million bucks, and it stays that way until I eat a burrito or something like that and get a bunch of chicken shreds caught in my teeth. But even then, I know that in another 6 months, the dental hygienist is going to pull those shreds out.

What about the discomfort, you also ask? Ah, let's face it: it's not that bad. OK, getting the mini-water jet on an exposed nerve is bad, and I guess I don't like that thing that makes the high-pitched whine. And spit sinks. Why did they ever do away with spit sinks? They had 'em when I was a kid; and back then, going to the dentist for me was like spending the day at an amusement park. Suction sucks! If I can find a dentist around here who still has a spit sink, I'll be happier than a pig in pig heaven.

So there you have it. That's how I roll. I bet most of you Mad City fans never saw this one coming.