The Sonicare Barrier

In the never-ending battle against plaque and gingivitis, my dentist told me to get a Sonicare toothbrush, which apparently uses the same principle to clean your teeth as those gizmos that use sound waves to clean your jewelry. Although I don't have any gold in my mouth, having opted for the Russian-roulette quality of Mercury, it's good to know that if I ever do, my Sonicare toothbrush will make it as shiny as Fitty Cent's grill.

EXHIBIT "A"

Anyway, I try this toothbrush. While my mouth has that clean, tingly feeling, the unit is a pain in the ass to use. For one thing, toothpaste goes flying everywhere. The only better way to ensure that every surface of my bathroom and person is covered with Colgate would be to apply a couple of tubes to my dog and then tickle her.

And then there's the timer. The ever-helpful Sonicare people have built into the unit a handy two-minute timer to make absolutely certain that every surface of my bathroom and person gets a good thick coat.

Because the timer also represents some ideal of brushing effectiveness, once I turn the damn thing on, duty forbids me to turn it off myself. If I do, the Tooth Fairy might come over and bitch-slap me. So I let it rip, but when it turns itself off I'm so surprised I usually drop it -- which is good, in a way, just in case I missed a spot on my bathroom or person.

But I finally figured out how to solve all my problems with the Sonicare: don't turn it on. The added bonus is that I get to feel like Al Gore, knowing that the unit's lack of power consumption may not save a tree, but it's good for a small weed, at least.

There is one small drawback, however, but I've solved that one, too: right before I brush, I wash down a handful of amphetamines with several cups of coffee and I'm good to go.