I don't have much time to blog today because chances are while you read this I will be at the dentist with The Chosen One and Lil' Buddy. It's check-up time for them and I look forward to it like I look forward to American Idol's Sanjaya singing "Overjoyed"--and by "look forward to" I mean "vomit," and by "Sanjaya" I mean "Sanjaya." Actually, that barely makes sense, but whatever, you get the picture: I hate taking my sons to the dentist.

In fact, I bet right now, Lil' Buddy is flailing wildly in his chair telling the dental hygienist to screw herself in only the way a three-year-old can. Little does he know that that dental hygienist, in the broad scheme of things, couldn't care less that he is "not her friend." But he'll keep on saying it anyway as the drool and tears collect on his expensive shirt that I know I should have dressed him in for the dentist. Damn it! Meanwhile, The Chosen One will be off in the corner of the exam room trying to find a happy place and storing all his fear and anger so he can use it against me when he turns seventeen and tells me that he lives to be a dancer.

Then there's me: trying to put on a brave face, being the patient father, and doing my best to laugh everything off and not dwell on the fact that the hot dental hygienist thinks I'm a better-that-average-dressed moron with impossible children who still suck their thumbs on occasion and NEVER EVER floss.

So, yeah, going to the pediatric dentist sucks. And that's where I am right now. So send me good thoughts, won't you? Or not. I don't care. It's not like I'd be able to hear them over the din of cries, shouts, and sobs anyway.

This post is dedicated to Ann Coulter's gynecologist.