The Fayetteville Observer, N.C., Bill Kir column: Thursday was rough on ol' Bill

Thursday was rough on ol' Bill.

Met with my physician.

"You need to try the South Beach diet," he said.

Which is a doctor's polite way of saying, Bill, you're a pig and need to shed some pounds.

You don't need, he reminded me, to be eating pasta and rice and bread or soft drinks or beer.

"Don't eat rice," I said.

Or pasta or bread, he said, or soft drinks or beer.

"Don't eat much pasta," I said.

Or bread or soft drinks, he said, or beer.

"Don't partake of a lot of bread," I said.

Or soft drinks, he said, or beer.

"Just drink those little miniature Cokes," I said, "and they only have 100 calories."

No matter, he said ... or beer.

"But I drink light beer," I said, "and lots of it."

No beer, he said.

"Excuse me, Marcus Welby," I'm thinking. "Chris's Open Hearth Steak House would be forced into bankruptcy without me."

And the Gray's Creek Woman's Club Annual Country Buffet and Bazaar is this Thursday, not to mention the March of Dimes Signature Chefs' Auction.

"Let's take some blood!" he suggested.

So we did.

Three stabs all in a row.

The last one felt like a railroad spike.

An hour later, and I was at the dentist's office, where Cavity Man showed up with a bronze tan that accented his teeth that looked like Steinway & Sons piano keys.

My upper right molar has ached for a week. He's been in Hawaii on vacation ... for a week.

"Hmmm ... " he said. "Well, we can pull it or you can live with the pain."

I asked if I could see his certificate of professional dentistry, and I was wondering to myself if he was one of those International Folk Festival craft vendors who was last week selling those tooth-necklaces at Festival Park.

"Listen up," I said, "I'm 60 years old and still reasonably good-looking, and just for the record, remain suspiciously attractive to neurotic women with stalker ex-boyfriends who just can't get over 'em. Or ex-husbands serving time. I don't want to be walking around with a missing tooth."

Cavity Man acknowledged my 60 years, but he neglected to mention anything about my self-proclaimed good looks or my propensity to meet women who are direct descendants of the "Lifetime" television movie network sound stage.

He said I likely grind my teeth when I sleep, which places pressure on the molar, and then he suggested a night guard.

"How much is a night guard?" I wanted to know.

I fainted.

"It's just rubber!" I said.

He reminded me, too, that dental insurance doesn't cover a night guard.

My tooth, and my debit card, throbbed. I didn't smile and recalled how I had been admiring the fancy car in the parking lot ... the one he drives.

He's sending me to an endodontist, and he was grinning at that little deliriously, depressing ditty of data, too.

So help me, I'm thinking about finding a Pabst Blue Ribbon-drinking, chain-smoking neurotic woman with a gravely voice, picking up about six mangy feral cats, buying an old faded red-colored pickup and parking it in the front yard next to my city Waste Management garbage bin.