Not all that long ago, columnist Clay Jenkinson wrote that two of the most dreaded words in the English language are "root canal."Were Ia smart man, Iwould have taken the sage advice he offered in that column, and taken my weary teeth in for a much-needed checkup. Thereby avoiding ever having to write a column about my own root canal.

Instead, I spent most of my time trying to come up with word pairings I dreaded more. These include:

n Cannibal cyborgs.

n Smart phones.

n Skateboarding rats.

n Sudden unemployment.

So, as you can imagine, Ididn't make it to the dentist at that time. And about a month ago, Iwas sitting at home, watching a piece that had been filmed about me for KFYR, pondering how fat my fingers look close-up on digital TV, and snap, crackle and pop Ibroke my tooth on a delicious submarine sandwich.

Even at your proudest moment, life will find a way to bring you back to Earth. Lesson learned, universe.

So I finally went to the dentist, only to find out that the wear and tear of a lifetime love affair with Coca-Cola and Mountain Dew had worn down this particular molar of mine to the point that it couldn't stand up to layer upon layer of meat, cheese, tomatoes, lettuce and condiments on a hoagie.

As I sat in the chair, waiting for the procedure to start, I was understandably nervous. I'd never even had a cavity before in my life, so I didn't know what to expect, so my brain was swirling with what was about to happen. Would they have to pop my jaw out of place to get in there?That seems uncomfortable. When they use the word "root,"just how rooty are they going to get? Do they just keep drilling until they hit my chin?

If you've been to a dentist, you know that the most daunting task that lies ahead of you is the challenge of opening your mouth as wide as it will go, so that a person you may not even be on the friendliest of terms with can shove his or her entire fist between your teeth.

Ihave a thin skin. Icare a lot what people think of me. So my dentist didn't have to worry about me not following his instructions. Open wider?No problem. Hold really still while you X-ray the side of my face?You don't have to tell me twice. Try to move my numb tongue out of the way of the drill? You betcha.

As Ireclined in that chair, listening to the terrible racket of drills reverberating inside my skull, but not really feeling any of it thanks to some glorious numbing agents, Ispent most of my time chastising myself for never having learned sign language.

My dentist and his assistant would ask me questions such as, "Are you doing OK?"or "Why are you making that face?" and the only answer I could ever offer was an unintelligible "Mah-hemm-ahh-bleh-sah-waaa-waaa."

The damage I had done to my poor tooth was considerable enough that my dentist had to break the procedure into two parts, like a Quentin Tarantino epic, with the concluding half of "Drill Bill" coming next week.

So Iwas sent on my way, half of my mouth drooping and unfeeling, slurring words and wishing I'd just gone to the dentist when Iread Clay's words, rather than making another stupid list.

Oh! "Submarine sandwich." I can add that one, now.

(Columnist Kelly Hagen and his traitorous tooth can be reached at 250-8259 or kelly.hagen@bismarcktribune.com.)