I was recently gifted an electric toothbrush for Christmas. Not because, as you may suppose, the giver simply thought I had appalling oral hygiene, or is some sort of crazy uncle who gives you dubious and probably stolen gifts, but because I actually asked for it.
Now, little do we realize what a bewildering array of electric toothbrushes there are out there today. I always thought the idea of an electric brush was for those who were simply too lazy to move their arms three times a day, but having become old and grumpy and caring a little more about my mandibles, I decided to get in on the action. Having used it a good few times by now, it'd be rude not to talk about electirc toothbrushes.
Oh god yes, I'm actually blogging about toothbrushes.
I have an Oral B. I don't know what kind it is, but it is an Oral B. It whirls. It is shiny and new and white and clean and hums a gentle song of destruction in my hand. It is a weapon in the war on dentistry. Without me, my toothbrush is nothing. Without my toothbrush, I am nothing. I will give my toothbrush a girl's name.*
So, the first problem you notice with an electric toothbrush (Charlene) is that she sounds a little bit like a dentist drill, and she comes with an instruction manual. Apart from the psychological horror of actually putting a violent spinning electrical object in your mouth, instruction manual's usually only mean that you have to put it together yourself, or that something could go horribly wrong. The difference between a broken radio and a broken electric toothbursh is primarily the fact that you happen to be chewing down on one of them and really don't want it to explode and take off your lower jaw, but whatever.
Anyway, me and Charlene were in the bathroom, getting a little fresh. I began to oil her up with some mint-flavoured gunge, working it onto the bristles. I then began to gently caress her buttons. She was turned on.
Immediately, toothpaste when flying in all directions, like an idiot throwing a tomato into an open blender. It sprayed all across my face, up the walls and onto the ceiling. Clearly she was a feisty piece of work, absolutely humming and ready to go. She was a wild thing and needed taming. I would do it. I had to gently bring her back down, re-apply the paste, and then slip her into my mouth before pressing anymore buttons. So, staring at my quivering and exicted reflection in the bathroom mirror, I was ready to go.
For anyone who has not brushed their teeth with an electric toothbrush before, you never forget your first time. Charlene bucked violently in my hands. The brush hummed to life, and the immediate sensation was like having my teeth sandblasted by particularly careless workmen. Anyway, the motion was good. We went back and forth for some time, intimately exploring every inch of my mouth. Finally I could take no more. I felt a tightening in my jaw, took a few deep and frantic breaths, and then pulled Charlene out. She slowly turned down, utterly spent.
Then I began to violently spit huge amounts of blood into the sink.
The thing about electric toothbrushes is that they are more like the S.A.S than my dearest sweetheart Charlene. They are invasive and instrusive, quickly in and out of a situation leaving nothing but carnage in their wake. They are hard and relentless. They are cold, professional, mechanical, caluclated killers. And even the names sound dangerous. A few days ago, I would have said that the Philips Sonicare X6902 or the Braun Pulsonic Wireless were types of high-yield laser-guided bombs. I was also not aware you could get a toothbrush to cost two hundred pounds.
So please, if you do ever decide to get an electric toothbrush in the future. Be mindful that they are perfectly capable of destroying you at any minute in a rotary whilrwind of carnage.
*Not only for the Full Metal Jacket reference, but because it would make the following post a little more interesting.
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