Every six months, I go to the dentist.
Well, not the dentist. A dentist.
My mouth is such a horror, they either commit suicide to avoid seeing me again or refer me to one of their colleagues.
Not-well-liked colleagues.
Still, every now and then, one tries to prove themselves, and only when I’m in the chair do they realize their mistake.
“Oh my God,” says the latest brave soul. “That’s… awful!”
He then commanded me to take down my pants and bend over.
Instead of doing a routine cleaning, I got a colonoscopy.
(Don’t ask me where the lollipop went.)