The buttheadguy effect, part 1
Chris D probably hasn’t thought of me in years. And why would he? We haven’t laid eyes on each other since 1991, when we graduated from high school.
I, on the other hand, think of Chris all the time. Because he was the preadolescent nincompoop who broke my front tooth in 1984, when I was ten years old. Every time I look at my false front tooth—which, through its many incarnations over the years, has never looked quite right—I am unfondly reminded of Chris D and his dastardly deed.
And I certainly couldn’t help but think dark thoughts of Chris on the morning of April 21 2009, as I stood in front of my bathroom mirror, a false tooth in one hand and a tube of Krazy Glue in the other, preparing to do something that most people would call “really, really dumb.”
* * *
The Day of the Krazy Glue was a long time coming—25 years, in fact. For a quarter century after my tooth was broken, a series of artificial teeth (crowns) had been cemented atop the remnant of the original, broken tooth. Every few years the crown needed to be re-cemented or replaced, but the broken tooth beneath stayed pretty much the same.
Then, last December, the broken tooth suddenly caved in, so a new method of anchoring the crown had to be devised. My best option was to have the broken tooth pulled and replaced with a dental implant—a 13-millimetre titanium post that would be inserted into the root canal and screwed into my skull.
It sounds painful—and it was—but the pain was mostly monetary. You see, I am a proudly self-unemployed freelance writer, a glamorous occupation famed for its lack of a dental plan, not to mention a lack of money in general. So when my dentist told me the implant would cost $5100, my response was to immediately book a flight to the Philippines, where I could have the same work done for $1600.
And so I jetted off to Manila and had my implant implanted. Now I must wait six months for the titanium to integrate with the bone so it can support a new crown. During this period, I have a temporary false tooth—a bridge—which is cemented to the teeth on either side.
Or rather, was cemented until it recently came loose, less than a third of the way into its six-month tour of duty.
Which brings us back to the Day of the Krazy Glue.
Chris D probably hasn’t thought of me in years. And why would he? We haven’t laid eyes on each other since 1991, when we graduated from high school.
I, on the other hand, think of Chris all the time. Because he was the preadolescent nincompoop who broke my front tooth in 1984, when I was ten years old. Every time I look at my false front tooth—which, through its many incarnations over the years, has never looked quite right—I am unfondly reminded of Chris D and his dastardly deed.
And I certainly couldn’t help but think dark thoughts of Chris on the morning of April 21 2009, as I stood in front of my bathroom mirror, a false tooth in one hand and a tube of Krazy Glue in the other, preparing to do something that most people would call “really, really dumb.”
* * *
The Day of the Krazy Glue was a long time coming—25 years, in fact. For a quarter century after my tooth was broken, a series of artificial teeth (crowns) had been cemented atop the remnant of the original, broken tooth. Every few years the crown needed to be re-cemented or replaced, but the broken tooth beneath stayed pretty much the same.
Then, last December, the broken tooth suddenly caved in, so a new method of anchoring the crown had to be devised. My best option was to have the broken tooth pulled and replaced with a dental implant—a 13-millimetre titanium post that would be inserted into the root canal and screwed into my skull.
It sounds painful—and it was—but the pain was mostly monetary. You see, I am a proudly self-unemployed freelance writer, a glamorous occupation famed for its lack of a dental plan, not to mention a lack of money in general. So when my dentist told me the implant would cost $5100, my response was to immediately book a flight to the Philippines, where I could have the same work done for $1600.
And so I jetted off to Manila and had my implant implanted. Now I must wait six months for the titanium to integrate with the bone so it can support a new crown. During this period, I have a temporary false tooth—a bridge—which is cemented to the teeth on either side.
Or rather, was cemented until it recently came loose, less than a third of the way into its six-month tour of duty.
Which brings us back to the Day of the Krazy Glue.
* * *
There I was in my bathroom, practicing the motions of squeezing a tiny drop of glue on each side of the bridge and then pressing the bridge into place. Rehearsal was essential, because I would only get one shot at this. Krazy Glue sets in as few as five seconds, so I had to be fast.
And careful. If I dropped the bridge, it would instantly bond with my bathroom counter and I’d be screwed. And if I accidentally glued the bridge to my teeth out of position, I’d be screwed.
In fact, even if I did everything right, maybe I’d be screwed anyway. It was hard to ignore the warning on the tube: “If swallowed, call a poison control centre or doctor immediately.” I didn’t like the sound of that word. Poison.
God damn it, I really didn’t want to be Krazy Gluing things to my teeth like some kind of depraved wino. But my finances had been drained by my trip to the Philippines, and the dentist said a proper re-glue would cost $100-$200—significantly more than the $1.00-$2.00 I was prepared to spend.
So I marched into a drug store and found a single-use tube of Krazy Glue. It was $1.25—right on budget. I weighed my options, and my wallet, and then made a decision that would forever cement my reputation as a risk-taker.
Squeeze, squeeze, position the bridge, and… press!
Nailed it! The bridge landed exactly in position and held fast. So far, so good. To keep the bridge dry and allow the glue to set as well as possible before exposing it to my saliva, I didn’t close my mouth for about 40 minutes.
When I finally closed my mouth, I immediately became aware of a foul chemical taste. And a suddenly sore throat. Which lasted for two days. After that, everything returned to normal. As far as I know.
It’s been 13 days since the Day of the Krazy Glue, and I think I got away with it. But alas, this gluey peril is merely the latest in a series of perils that I have recently faced as a direct consequence of my face’s fateful collision with my Grade 5 desktop. Indeed, my recent dental misadventure in the Philippines was a time of great peril—peril that could never have perilized me if my tooth had never been broken.
We’ve all heard of “the butterfly effect”—the idea that a single, seemingly trivial action can have massive, unforeseeable consequences, sometimes far in the future. This principle certainly applies here, because as you shall see, the breaking of my front tooth in 1984 caused events 25 years later, on the other side of the world, that young Chris D could never have imagined. Very, very bad events.
However, I want to avoid the term “butterfly effect” here, because Chris D was definitely no butterfly. So I’ve coined a new term which focuses specifically on the massive, unforeseeable consequences of a single, seemingly trivial act of male stupidity. Dear reader, come with me to the Philippines, and explore the dark ramifications of what I call… the buttheadguy effect.
Next week: I am covered in broken glass and a young man is face-down on the asphalt in a pool of blood. Where am I? Outside a Manila dentist’s office. If you miss the gory second part of “The buttheadguy effect,” who knows what the consequences will be....
And careful. If I dropped the bridge, it would instantly bond with my bathroom counter and I’d be screwed. And if I accidentally glued the bridge to my teeth out of position, I’d be screwed.
In fact, even if I did everything right, maybe I’d be screwed anyway. It was hard to ignore the warning on the tube: “If swallowed, call a poison control centre or doctor immediately.” I didn’t like the sound of that word. Poison.
God damn it, I really didn’t want to be Krazy Gluing things to my teeth like some kind of depraved wino. But my finances had been drained by my trip to the Philippines, and the dentist said a proper re-glue would cost $100-$200—significantly more than the $1.00-$2.00 I was prepared to spend.
So I marched into a drug store and found a single-use tube of Krazy Glue. It was $1.25—right on budget. I weighed my options, and my wallet, and then made a decision that would forever cement my reputation as a risk-taker.
Squeeze, squeeze, position the bridge, and… press!
Nailed it! The bridge landed exactly in position and held fast. So far, so good. To keep the bridge dry and allow the glue to set as well as possible before exposing it to my saliva, I didn’t close my mouth for about 40 minutes.
When I finally closed my mouth, I immediately became aware of a foul chemical taste. And a suddenly sore throat. Which lasted for two days. After that, everything returned to normal. As far as I know.
It’s been 13 days since the Day of the Krazy Glue, and I think I got away with it. But alas, this gluey peril is merely the latest in a series of perils that I have recently faced as a direct consequence of my face’s fateful collision with my Grade 5 desktop. Indeed, my recent dental misadventure in the Philippines was a time of great peril—peril that could never have perilized me if my tooth had never been broken.
We’ve all heard of “the butterfly effect”—the idea that a single, seemingly trivial action can have massive, unforeseeable consequences, sometimes far in the future. This principle certainly applies here, because as you shall see, the breaking of my front tooth in 1984 caused events 25 years later, on the other side of the world, that young Chris D could never have imagined. Very, very bad events.
However, I want to avoid the term “butterfly effect” here, because Chris D was definitely no butterfly. So I’ve coined a new term which focuses specifically on the massive, unforeseeable consequences of a single, seemingly trivial act of male stupidity. Dear reader, come with me to the Philippines, and explore the dark ramifications of what I call… the buttheadguy effect.
Next week: I am covered in broken glass and a young man is face-down on the asphalt in a pool of blood. Where am I? Outside a Manila dentist’s office. If you miss the gory second part of “The buttheadguy effect,” who knows what the consequences will be....
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