Dental Hygienist of the Month: December

Hi gang.

It's me again, Dr. Mel Silver. I hope now that Thanksgiving is over, you'll consider making an appointment with your local dentist (and if you happen to live in or near Beverly Hills, that would be yours truly.) All those pies can really erode your enamel.

Speaking of sugary pies, now it's December, and you all know what that means! Time for a new Dental Hygienist of the Month! You might be asking yourself why I'm qualified to judge this category, especially since nowadays the people in this line of work like to call themselves dental assistants. Well, it's like I always tell my son David: I'm the third best oral surgeon in Los Angeles, and I'm old school. I also call flight attendants "stewardesses." Sue me. You can't teach an old dog new tricks, and boy, am I a dog.

That brings me to the other reason I'm qualified to select the creme de la creme of the world's most able oral care specialists: I'm a TOTAL pussy hound. Unfortunately, my weakness for a barely legal, vocationally-trained woman flossing someone else's pearly whites has ruined all my marriages. And as long as I'm single, I might as well appreciate all the beauty that this glorious profession has to offer.

Enter Miss December. She's a little older than my usual choice of hygienist, but I think you can all agree with me that she has so much style and class I can overlook her cougar status. Her name is Maria, and she was on an incredibly tasteful television program called "Rock of Love Bus." So she's not only an oral master, she's also a storied entertainer. Truly a Renaissance dental hygienist. She can massage my gums anytime.

Something 4 U, and 4 Me

I'm not going to trouble myself with familiarities, because you wouldn't want to be familiar with me anyway. I'm a thug, and I'm about to hit you up with some prison poetry...okay, not really, but I've had a hard time of it since the days when I was selling U4EA to unarmed idiot teenagers in front of God and everybody, and I'm ready to share. I've been silent too long, and I'm doing life, so like I have anything better to do.

My name isn't important. I'm the kind of guy who likes to be known for his actions and reputation, rather than government name. Call me "Four" if you must call me anything. I like to be remembered for my deeds, rather than what my crack whore of a mother named me. Long ago, I once wore a big number four on my shirt to advertise my "business." This reminded me of how successful I once was at peddling a nonexistent drug to high school kids. My number "FOUR" was like a beacon for dumb kids who wanted to spend entirely too much money on invented-for-TV pseudo-ecstasy.

I still wear a number four on my shirt. Two of them, actually, as well as a handful of other numbers that identify me to the powers that be here at Pelican Bay. Once Emily Valentine stopped hanging out with the gang, I didn't have as much of a market as I thought I would. Everyone caught on to the whole "exchange an egg" thing thanks to a major story broken by Andrea Zuckerman in the West Beverly Blaze, and subsequent TV news exposés revealed that these parties were illegal and in *horrible* neighborhoods anyway. Then Emily Valentine started taking lithium and remembered her childhood ambition to be a marine biologist, and exchanged her figurative egg for a scholarship at the Cousteau Institute. With few options remaining, I elected to get into the meth game. BIG HUGE mistake.

Truly, I WISH that U4EA had caught on. The worst thing U4EA ever caused besides Emily Valentine-mediated attempted date rape is teenage regret. Seriously, Brandon just strolled home with no consequences save a mild scolding from his skanky-ass sister, and then went to sling megaburgers at the Peach Pit! He took U4EA–and without any prior preparation or knowledge of doing so–and still went to work without a complaint the next day. He was so damn spry he probably laid a bet on the Lakers while he was there, he was feeling in such good spirits. Then, however, Emily Valentine left Beverly Hills, people stopped handing out "Egg" business cards on Alvorado, and the U4EA market dried up. Apparently, people were doing "ecstasy," which I couldn't get from my competitors because I'm a gigantic loser. So I hit the internet, bought eight tons of Sudafed, and embarked on an unintentionally short career in amateur chemistry. I lit my shitty apartment on fire, attracted some police attention, and then...guess what? Somehow they found out I was a former U4EA dealer.

Thanks to "the gang" from Niner, I'm now on my third fucking strike, and doing hard time *4* LIFE. Instead of standing in an "underground club" with a shirt with a four on it, I'm making use of body orifices I didn't know I had as a mailroom smuggler in the prison "tits" trade. In case you haven't seen Oz, that's prison talk for "I'm a heroin mule," and I can swallow ten FULL condoms at a time to prove it! I tried to get in the game with the people controlling the tits business around here, but apparently their economy involves more complex and sophisticated operational techniques than simply advertising your wares with a large, extremely obvious representation on your person (ie: a giant "4" on your shirt when you are selling U4EA). I got some pot once, and tried to tap the market by writing "420" on my jumpsuit, and that earned me a robbery and forcible sodomizing. Please believe I learned my lesson there. I'd exchange any number of eggs to be back in the peaceful, relaxing confines of the underground club. There, all I had to deal with was a drunk David Silver, a guy in a rubber jumpsuit, one guy smoking crack, some random club trannies, and a bathroom worse than some chicken farm in Minnesota. In other words, PARADISE compared to cell block fucking D.

Seriously, kids, don't do drugs. Even something lame and made-up like U4EA can really come back to fuck you in the ass. LITERALLY!!!! In the form of my cellmate Garrett Slant. PLEASE, say no to drugs!!!

Sincerely,

Prisoner #446969

alias "U4EA Dealer"

Pelican Bay State Prison

California Department of Corrections