“And, mind you, today does not count!” my dentist said, with a wicked laugh, while I lay, my mouth open, dying to tell her I did floss once last month. But she had me pinned down like Gulliver in Lilliput by the force of her dental LED light, an aspirator, a pick axe, a hose, a mouth vacuum, a brushing head and reams of dental floss.
I hate floss. All the dental floss on earth needs immediate recycling as follows:
As total Colgate ribbons to hold up Donald Trump’s Hair before Trumpgate;
as waxed hand loom saris redolent of raspberry mint gum;
as mummyfying thread to glide ISIS members (and their members) into Egypt’s valley of the kings;
as parachutes to blow helicopter parents out of reach;
as sails for cruise boats aiming for the Arctic.
At the very least, floss needs a decent burial as well as an epitaph on a marble headstone, preferably filled in gold by a dentist:
“Buried here is floss. It’s cutting edge is gross.
Among the things humans must lack, Is a fishline for plaque.”
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