And Billy likes teeth. “It started when I was a boy of about four years of age. My little mutt named Tuffy decided to bite my Uncle Philbert’s left hind quarter. It was a two’fer, got to see Tuffy’s chompers and Uncle’s dentures fell onto the floor. Ever since then I have been quite curious how teeth work. I was going to be a dentist except for all the blood and spitting. It is rather off putting.
My fifth favorite tooth story happened about a year ago last week. My third favorite costumer Len Smith (we call him Smitty) stopped by for an oil change. He was driving his crummy little Overland Four Touring car. What a joke, only 18.23 horsepower. As he approached I could tell something was wrong by the look on his wadded up face.
At first I thought he was angry with me. Maybe he thought I charged too much to fix that flat last week? No, not the tire. His clutch was slipping. When he started to complain it became apparent he had a tooth ache. Turns out one of his bicuspids was coming apart at the seams. I glanced at my tools and had a strike of brilliance (coincidentally that is what I call my 4 pound rubber mallet).
Smitty was tough to catch at first, had to get my assistant Ralph to stop pumping gasoline for old Mrs. Flemhocker to hold Smitty down.
I grabbed my trusty old brake spring pliers figuring they might do the trick. My angled grease bar and pump packing hook helped to pry out the rest that old tooth. Used my midget ignition pliers to grab all of them little stubborn pieces.
Yep, lots of blood, spitting and a fare amount of cursing. But kept I assuring Smitty I would only charge him ten cents for the extraction (which is a great deal compared to what that old lout of a dentist he’s been seeing charges).
It was nice the way he passed out for an hour. Gave us a chance to fix his clutch in peace without all that usual yammering he does about politics.”
