Denture wish your teethies were wooden like mine?

This morning I was half expecting to rub my peepers wearily, put my piggy slippers on the wrong feet, take my breath of ten arses and schlep downstairs to find my disgruntled wee billabong's porky pinkies a-blur, tapping furiously on my laptop in the grip of an eBay bidding war with GummyBear2011 and Molardisco31 during the nail-biting last few seconds of the auction for Queen Elizabeth I's mangy wooden teeth.

You see, my grumpy dumpling has decided that frankly, teeth are shit. Their stabby little ways that wake you at 3am and cause you to pull your ears like you're trying to bag a prize moo cow at the cattle market and jab yourself repeatedly in the mouth with your stumpy little paw is uncalled for and that, on the whole, they are hugely overrated and smeggy wee meanies.


Like a teeny weeny werewolf he began his howling today, nice and early as usual, at around dawn. Once I had located my mobile phone and used it's amazingly feckless light to guide me to the nearest upturned plug to stand on and silently yelped into an impression of Edvard Munch's 'Scream' combined with a spitty monolgue of rasa-frasa Mutleyness, I then stumbled, reeling from the blind agony into the corner of a table, which had been dragged strategically into place during the night for me to walk into by our 'hilarious' resident poltergeist, Fozzie Bear (I just KNOW it wasn't there before. Ghoulies eh? They just busy themselves in the afterlife by pulling the chair out from under you and closing patio doors just before you're about to walk through them. Makes you think twice about Casper now doesn't it? Is he really a friendly ghost or is he just a desk shifting COCK?), I stumbled like a drunken hunchback into my little pat-a-cake's room to console him.

A face not disimilar to that of Chucky greeted me. His look said: "You stupid hamster hat. What the friggin' bejesus are these hard sticks that keep coming out of my gums? Did YOU put them there? If you did I am SO telling Santa on you. Naughty list for Mummy methinks. Followed by a quick call to Childline to tell them just how much of a stinker you are. Now, get me some of that pink sweet stuff that runs down my face and makes me stickier than a gecko's anus, Cowpat or something I think it's called, you know, the stuff that counteracts your evil. And be quick about it. Right then, you may cuddle me now."

I'm starting to think he's right though, I mean what IS the pigging point? Toothy pegs spend most of their lifespan giving you endless amounts of grief, being wonky and making you look like you've eaten a graveyard for tea whilst yellowing over time so that you end up with the appearance of someone who gargles daily with wee.

They break, they chip, they get holes in, they hide pieces of pork chop and apple between them so you have to either suffer disproportionate amounts of agony or pull varying degrees of gurn whilst you fish about in your gob like some sort of half-baked crumb foraging cretin.


You wouldn't put up with that kind of tomfoolery from say, a pair of shoes now would you?

"Oh no! Look! My Jimmy Choo has a hole in, never mind I'll wear it any...oh and the heel has broken off too now, but hey it's still a damn good shoe I'll just...oh shitbags, there's a piece of pork chop wedged in the toe! Damn you shoe, damn you to hell!" *hurls across room and thwacks unsuspecting pooch in the mush, knocking out her two front teeth which coincidentally forges a new career for her as Shane MacGowan's stand-in, which would be dandy except she can't handle the whiskey and smack and has to go to woofty rehab and spend months drying out, finding herself and wishing it would just all go back to the days before fame, when she could lick her own bumhole in private and before anyone ever threw that bloody shoe.*


What my wee onion chutney doesn't know and what I daren't tell him for fear he reprogrammes his Count 'n' Crunch Cookie Monster to Wedgie 'n' Chinese Burn, is that just as you've nursed and cultivated those gum botherers into a beautiful garden of perfect lickle pegs, the chuffing things FALL OUT. And you have to start all over again. Ok, so it's less painful the second time around but I don't think I'd be able to get that far into the explanation before the Cookie Monster has hold of my undercrackers and is hoisting them up to somewhere near my earlobes.


And heaven forbid if you aren't blessed with a perfectly straight set of pearlies to flash and grind at us poor unwashed hillbillies with tusks like Ken Dodd? Then of course there are braces, which are not only excruciatingly painful but also bless you with the unnecessary ability to stick to the fridge door like a honking great magnet every time you creep into the kitchen to eat away your sadness with half a ton of chocolate covered lard.

Oh and as, according to myth and legend  (read: bugger all to do with myth and legend and something I actually just made up), Orthodontists were put here on earth by Beelzebub to carry out acts of pure evil, they're usually fitted in those delicate angsty teen years when you need every ounce of confidence you can muster and to not get called Grater Face by the boy you fancy *shivers at recollection of childhood taunts and resolves to take up smoking, tsjuz up my hair, apply dickloads of make-up, squeeze into a little leather number and get my tiny taut little ass to the nearest fairground where I will break into song and have Danny Zuko chase me round the helter skelter...oh no, hang on, that's not me is it, that's Sandy from Grease. Grater Face it is then. Bum*

Then, just when you're starting to get a bit past it and crusty and could really do without every thing seizing up and sagging and crumbling, they fall out AGAIN. Yes, you may ask if this is some sort of sick joke my little puffer fish but no, 'fraid not, If there is a God, s/he could do with going back to the drawing board on the old 'mouth', for if this were say, The Dragons' Den and I was say, Theo Paphitis, I'd so be 'out'. Your invention SUCKS. Now off you pop, down the stairs to talk to the funny wonky eyed guy about where you think it all went wrong and how you're going to have to beg JML Direct to flog your crappy pie-hole and pearlie-whites combo as a freebie alongside cactus shaped bot scratchers and sunglasses for gerbils.

Thing is though my itty bitty mcscrum, the fogies might just be on to something. They don't just sit around waiting for the little beggars to start their monkeyshines all over again and grow back, hell no! They just put fake ones in. That's right button butt, they get some fancy bloke (probably Neil Buchanan from Art Attack I'm guessing) to get some Play-doh, squidge it into the shape of something vaguely resembling a gnasher, bake it in his À La Carte Kitchen until rock hard (I believe this takes around 30 years as oddly, light bulbs don't cook stuff as well as you'd imagine) and stick it in their gob. And they get to take them out whenever they please which makes for an awesome if slightly revolting party piece. ACE.

If the fogies aren't right then maybe the morbidly obese are? They go and get themselves gastric bands which means they can no longer swallow small farm animals whole as their newly shrunken tums simply won't allow it. Therefore, instead of chewing their food, they just purée it, that's right just like your Mummywum did for you when you was like well teeny Boo, and then they neck it. NO CHEWING NECESSARY = NO TEETH REQUIRED. Get the feck in.

I am a somewhat hesitant to book you in for weight-loss surgery however kitten ears as, you know, it just seems a little drastic when it's sole purpose would be to avoid masticating.

Sadly I can't see a way around it I'm afraid my cheesy potato puff - until Watchdog hunts God down and smacks his / her bum hard for shamelessly peddling a knowingly defective product and forces a redesign, you're stuck with them there choppers. Please don't bite me. I'll go and fetch you some Cowpat and get the pooch to sing you back to sleep with her uncanny Shane McGowan impression and version of Fairytale of New York...sweet (the sugar-free non-decaying kind) dreams my mini nipper snapper, sweet dreams.