Dr. Jacobson,

I am seething with rage as I write you this letter. The two things I care about most in this world are my wife’s teeth (the only part of her that I find more attractive than her brain) and my 2009 Yamaha Waverunner with a sexy Lola Bunny airbrushed onto the side. And to find out that while I was busy with one, you were mocking the other, makes me so mad that I could waterboard you with the stream that shoots out from the back on my jet ski when it’s in use, even though this function performs the vital task of cooling down the machine’s motor so it doesn’t overheat. And risking potential damage to my personal watercraft is not something I take lightly.

When I first met my wife, she had average-sized teeth. It was a major hurdle in our relationship. I kept thinking, “If we’re ever in a situation where a casino catches me cheating,” which is bound to happen eventually given how often I do it, “and we get tied up in the basement, how are those teeth going to chew through our restraints so we can make it to safety?”

In spite of this, I still loved her deeply. So much so that I felt comfortable enough to pop the question; would she let my college roommate replace her teeth with the smooth white rocks I found in the river? (I once saw him spin a basketball on his finger for like 45 seconds, so clearly he had steady enough hands for the job.) She happily agreed, as her new stronger teeth would allow her to fulfill her dream of opening a souvenir shop at the beach where the sign is a surfboard with a big bite taken out of it.

I first realized large teeth were important to me, even horny-inducing, when I returned home from being stranded at sea for eleven years. The captain of my booze cruise refused to turn our 1977-era Grateful Dead music down and it angered the captain of another booze cruise, who was playing 1990-era Grateful Dead. They got into an argument and ended up ramming their ships into each other. Every party animal on each ship was killed, except for me because I fashioned my Blue Hurricane flavored Four Loko can into a snorkel. (This is why I got into jet skis: to conquer the ocean in the most badass way possible.)

Eventually, a shipping vessel transporting arcade games rescued me, and I spent my voyage back to land playing Ms. Pac-Man. It had been over a decade since I had a romantic encounter, and watching that yellow monstrosity chomp down those Pac-Dots filled me with an erotic thrill unequal to anything I’d ever experienced. I knew that marrying a woman with freakishly large teeth was the closest I would ever come to fucking Ms. Pac-Man, so that’s exactly what I did. Oh, and I guess my mother had pretty large teeth, too. (She worked in a restaurant as the person who chewed up the ice cubes to convert them into crushed ice and her teeth developed thick calluses.) But I don’t think that has anything to do with anything.

When I received the text from my wife saying that you took one look at her beautiful food grinders and said, “Are these rocks in your mouth? Who put these in there?” I wanted to rip the U.S. Coast Guard-approved type III personal flotation device off my back and shove it down your throat. And buddy, if I wasn’t filming myself doing jet ski tricks on an obstacle course so I could show the video at my forty-year high school reunion next month, I would have done just that.

Upon learning that you talked my wife into replacing her giant rock teeth with normal-sized veneers, the only thing that could calm me down was locking my phone in the ingenious watertight storage compartment of my Waverunner and driving my pride and joy over to the Statue of Liberty. As I gazed upon the beauty of that monument, I thought about what it means to be free. To be an American. I suggest you do the same, Doctor, because being American means being cool and honest, not filling my wife’s head with lies like, “Rocks don’t make for good teeth.”

The fact of the matter is, you stole something I loved, so now I’ve done the same thing to you. When you come into work Monday morning, don’t be surprised if you’re hygienist isn’t in. I’ve recently provided him with $50,000 to begin production on his screenplay, “Dr. Teeth,” in which a dentist can hear teeth talk (and you have GOT TO hear what some of these wisecracking bones have to say). I have a friend of a friend who has a mutual friend of the grandmother on “Chrisley Knows Best,” and I’m currently drafting up an email asking if she’d be interested in voicing a tonsil stone.

Checkmate, Dr. Jacobson.

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