My Visit to Blow Job City

So last friday night, I saw a few comedians say some funny things.  Overall it was pretty okay, but there was one phrase that really stuck with me: "Blow Job City."  Now if you're a boy, I'd say that sounds pretty special.  Now the context of the joke I don't quite remember.  Nor does it matter, really.  The beauty is in the concept itself.  It's funny, vulgar, and actually quite layered.  At first, it seems like a city with a very specific nomenclature.  But when you really think it over, it could mean several different things.  Perhaps it's a city known for it's toothless whores, and it's not really the town's real name but a sort of colloquial nickname, like "City of Lights," or "City of Dogs," or "Children of Men."  Or maybe that is the real title of the city and it's formally known as the capital of blow jobs, where it is mandated that each resident, upon reaching the age of consent, receives one.  Or maybe the city is just a mythical wondrous place, like Valhalla or Mount Olympus or Jurassic Park.

Needless to say, I experienced something today that made me rethink the location of Blow Job City.  Today, much like every monday, I go to the dentist.  Why? My teeth have a weak constitution.  No backbone, no integrity.  They're like the Ollie North of my face.  So, at my weekly meeting with the dentist, I received an adjustment on a crown (it had been leaking cement, who knew that was a thing?).  Then I received the beginnings of another crown.  Both of these procedures took in the neighborhood of two hours.  Two hours in that chair, my mouth agape, the left side of my face numb from my adams apple to my eye, and that tease of a white light shining (am I dying? If I do die do I have to haunt the dentist office?  Would I have to smell that stale cold metal for eternity?)  At the end of it all, after the last few impressions of the inside of my mouth were taken, I was able to sit up.  I was given a cup of mouthwash for rinsing and a tissue for the white flecks of cement that had stuck to my chin and lips.  

Like a shelf of books trapping me in an earthquake, it hit me.  This is Blow Job City.  The dentist's office, or DDS City.  Just like the theory that Gotham is Metropolis at night, BJC is just the DDS' darker, more Tim Burton-y brother.  In DDS City, there is a Superman (the dentist) with whom rests your fate.  You believe in him and hope that he will be there when it counts.  In BJC, there is no Superman, but a dark, troubled vigilante who wears a bat suit and tries to stop the criminal powers that be from ruling the city with iron dicks.  In BJC, it is mandated that everyone give blow jobs, not receive them.  It's not paradise, but hell on earth.  Neither city is a good place to be.  No sir.  In both, your mouths stays open for hours at a time while someone else has their run of the place, clinking your teeth and playing your uvula like it's a tambourine.  The residents of both have sore mouths and locked jaws, sticky faces and a compulsive need for chapstick.  If they ever escape from either DDSC or BJC, they still have sensitive gums and a combined sense of relief and shame.  Even if you escape, you still know that it was your fault you ended up there; you were in some way neglectful.

So there it is, folks. I've cracked the code, or solved the case, or been a gumshoe and then iced it and cracked it off.  There is no mystery behind the dentist.  Not anymore.  Now when I go, I will expect that bittersweet feeling.  I will expect to feel exhausted, and hungry, and in need of a shower.

Tune in next week, when I will discuss the many film ideas being bandied about in my domestic world.  Among them are the following titles: Scream Play, Diagnoses Merger, P and P3 (which are the prequel and the sequel to P2, respectively).

Until then, have a week.

-Mrs. God

p.s. I promise I won't be as blue next time.  Sorry if that term is too in for you, but "blue" means "dirty," as in "he told blue jokes," or "that dress is the color of the blue around an asshole"...now I'm done being blue.