Building A Better Dentist Office

In furthering my new career as an office designer, I am branching out from Doctor Office Waiting Lounges to Dentist Offices. This is, at present, a brainstorming session, not something that I've had in the works. I've been commissioned, you see, to get to the root of the problem with dentists.

First of all, no dentist should be allowed to hang out a shingle unless he has a giant tank of nitrous oxide out back. One the size of a propane tank should be sufficient. Seriously. Any procedure is bearable with my best friend Nitrous.

Secondly, the grinding/jabbing/yanking arena should have walls. At least three of them. No patient should be able to see or hear the procedure going on next door. It doesn't matter if it's Toddler Trey having his baby teeth cleaned, or Septuagenarian Hortense having incisor implants, or Meth-Head Mike enduring the Dremeling of decay from his picket-fence stubs--nobody wants to bear witness to the drool and tears of the orally challenged, or smell hot enamel as it sprays into the office atmosphere.

Thirdly, a selection of music, with hygienic headphones, must be provided to each patient. Nothing takes the mind off a root canal like listening to Alabama's 1982 album, Mountain Music.

Oh, play me some mountain music,
Like grandma and grandpa used to play.
Then I'll float on down the river
To a Cajun hideaway.

Swim across the river, just to prove that I'm a man.
Spend the day bein' lazy, just bein' nature's friend.
Climb a long tall hick'ry. Bend it over, skinnin' cats.
Playin' baseball with chert rocks, usin' sawmill slabs for bats.

Fourthly, the dentist and accomplices must chew gum or consume Tic-Tacs prior to leaning over the patient.

Fifthly, nobody should ever, ever hear a scream from the inner sanctum while waiting to be called back.

Sixthly, the indoor canister of dreamy Nitrous should not be housed in a giant clown cover. For real. If you think kids are skittish about visiting the dentist, picture them visiting the dentist where a giant clown guards the path to the inner sanctum.

Seventhly, if a spouse or significant other accompanies the patient for moral support, the S/SO should never be allowed to say afterward, "Oh. You thought that was spit they were sucking out? It was blood. You had a big pool of blood in your mouth."

Eighthly, it is customary for the dentist to provide a prescription for twenty vicodin for the patient after each office visit. With the prices patients pay, it's the proper thing to do. Even fake vicodin, red-headed stepchild hydrocodone, is acceptable.

Ninthly, a bruised or misshapen face the next day is NOT acceptable, and is not within the realm of acceptable dentisting. Any marring of the face shall carry a penalty of forty extra vicodin. For pain and suffering. Criminy! It's not the dark ages. A patient may as well tie a rag around his head and jaw, and chew cloves until the pain goes away, as pay for facial disfigurement.


Just so you know, these are all personal experiences at the dentist that have rankled Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's nerves. Except the propane tank of nitrous oxide. That's just a pipe dream.