The gas, please, at once

At the dentist, waiting to get an "onlay."

The hygienist, they told me at the front desk, sings awesome.

Far out. Something to talk about after she applies this mouth-numbing goo before the 100-foot needle(s) go in my (gums) eye.

"Singer, eh?"

"Yea."

"Where do you sing?"

"Oh, just pop stuff."

"No. Where?"

"Oh, just around the house, a capella."

"Sing me something. Come on, man."

"Ha! Ha."

"How about this one? (sings) 'Don't it always seem to go/That you don't know what you've got 'til its gone/They paved paradise/And put up a parking lot.'"

("Big Yellow Taxi," Joni Mitchell, 1970)

"I don't know that song."

"Ok, here's another: (sings) 'Busted flat in Baton Rouge/Waitin' for a train/I was feelin' 'bout as faded as my jeans/Bobby flagged a diesel down/Just before it rained/Took us all the way to New Orleans.'"

("Me and Bobby McGee," Janis Joplin, 1971)

"I don't know that song."

"So what do you sing?"

"Oh, just pop stuff."

"Who?"

"Britney, Jessica Simpson, Miley Cyrus."

Things get hazy after that. I know I screamed.