I think it’s safe to say that the most consistent relationship I’ve had in my life has been with my dentist. “Come back in a week,” “open wide,” and “watch the teeth” are all uttered in the most caring and sincere tone. But in the end, even he’s screwing someone behind my back–my insurance company. Every visit to my dear old dentist starts with being left sitting in a waiting room until out of the harem of dental assistants comes a call for me to enter the medieval torture chamber. There I’m left to stare at a scenic lake from some obscure midwest state along with charts of dental diseases, which are there to either make you feel better about not having three teeth fused together or to serve as a learning tool for the dentist, both very reassuring scenarios. Finally, the dentist appears, saving all the small talk and chit-chat until he has his fingers securely lodged in my mouth. It is then that cavities are discovered, gum disease fought, and root canals performed. This man is a modern-day Columbus, making discoveries and fighting battles, all for a noble cause. Only instead of reporting his monumental, ground-breaking discoveries back to Spain, this brave crusader just reports some fake findings to the kingdom of Blue Cross. At least I know he loves me for who I am–an insured client.