I was once the proud owner of two well proportioned and, dare I say, attractive front teeth. I spent my life oblivious to this dental factoid; had I known, I would have spent more time smiling, grimacing, and checking my gum ridge for food bits in public windows, but as the old addage goes, “you never know what you’ve got, ‘till it’s been torn from your gums.” Turns out, those teeth were my little bit of Paul Newman. You see, we all have a little bit of Paul Newman, unfortunately we also all have a little bit of Seinfeld’s “Newman” (well, all of us except Paul Newman; he’s 100% Paul Newman; you know, with a ratio like that he could afford to donate a percentage or two the cause; dam pretty-hog!). Anyway, those of us with a ten percent or lower P. Newman share need to preserve those few features we have that are actually attractive, in order that they may distract from our S. Newman features, and render our S. Newman share unnoticeable, or at least tolerable. Let’s just say, that my P. Newman share is falling and it’s falling fast and that dang S. Newman share is reaching digits I’d rather not mention or spend the prodigious time it would take in which to count.But I’m getting ahead of myself; let me paint a picture for you, or, better yet– since this is a “magazine” and not an art class, describe the history of this debacle in words.

It all started one hot summer’s day last year in Vermont (the Vermont part is true, but unimportant to the story). I woke up, and, as is my custom after two or ten cups of coffee, I went to shower, shave, and twosy. After the twosy and a good hand wash, I was going to brush my teeth, and that’s when I saw it. One of my front teeth had a slight triangular indentation at its base near the middle, where a straight edge had once been. I assumed at first that I was still a bit high from the medicinal helium balloons I had been sucking on the night before, but as I removed sleepy gook from my eyes and condensation from the mirror, I noticed my pulse was as normal as somebody who knows nothing about measuring pulses can ascertain, and, sadder still, the small chip in my tooth remained. I was upset for a couple minutes and even considered taking off on a rampage mission while equipped with sinister dental devices that could be used to chip the front teeth of the word’s populace, thereby leveling the playing field, or at the very least tracking down Paul Newman, so that I could chip his teeth; but due to some extenuating circumstances, my internet access was down and the thought of finding Mr. Newman, or locating a world map without the internet was taxing enough for me to contemplate more sane reactions (all untrue, but still more important than “Vermont”).

As it turned out, and as is normally the case, my actual course of action was to do nothing and hope my lost portion of tooth would just magically reappear in the same manner it seemingly had disappeared: a plan I’ve often implemented, but as you’ve likely guessed, never celebrated. Well, this was a special implementation, because this time doing nothing didn’t just fail to make things better, it actually made things worse. I didn’t notice at first, but as months flew by, I slowly lost more and more of that front tooth, until nearly a year later I was thinking about going for that sexy Madonna-esq gap tooth thang, but was approaching more of a trailer trash My Name is Earl background extra thang. Having in point of fact made a “living” as a background extra on shows classier than My Name is Earl, I decided it would be a good career move to reverse my tooth’s course of action before it was too late, in order to prevent unfortunate side effects like dating women actually named “Bambi”, or carrying around a plastic soda bottle filled with booze I made in a bathtub.

The answer, as it turned out, was delivered to me by a man who had received a license in dentistry. That’s right, I eventually broke down and went to see a person who knows something about teeth. He (and a rather sweet nurse) explained to me that I was grinding my teeth at night, which clarified my white trash look. They also explained that my chipped tooth could be “reshaped” and that my other front tooth could be ground down to the new “reshaped” size. They also recommended a $500.00 nighttime mouth guard that would prevent chipping in the future, which I could purchase with money that I didn’t have (also known as “credit card” or “pound of flesh”). Well, when you’re sitting there imagining your teeth being “reshaped” over and over again until they resemble gums, you buy the $500.00 mouth guard. Maybe I’ll be able to use it as collateral for whatever people get collateral for… someday.So, here I am: front teeth a bit shorter, P. Newman rating down the tubes, proud owner of a ridiculously expensive piece of mouth plastic, typing these words for readers who are loyal enough to follow the ramblings of tangents wrought from tangents.

What’s the point? I could write some crap about appreciating the little you have, because it can be ripped from your clutches (or gums) before you know it, but I already wrote that a couple of paragraphs ago, and it was already stupid back then. The real point is, if you’re ever in need of a mouth guard that has been fitted to the exact dimensions of my mouth, I’ll rent you one for a reasonable price… say, six bucks an hour. Oh yeah, and don’t grind your teeth… it makes you ugly.

‘Till next time… *CHOMP*!