The Modern Confessional?

One feels decidedly ill at ease in a dentist's chair. This has nothing to do with the vicious tools arrayed in the stand to your right, nor with the bright lamp held in a pose most reminiscent of some distant childhood memory of a hospital visit (perhaps the very first!). The face of the dentist, though covered by a surgical mask, is also not a cause of this distress. No, it is the act of confession that fills our hearts with discomfort and our minds with evil memories of one sipped teaffee too many, or that 10th sprite to calm a vicious hangover; that second cake you just know you shouldn't have, or that fifth mars bar you ate in the dare that right now feels so childish and inconsiderate.

Laid upon that dentist's La-Z-Boy, the dread that fills your heart is inspired by the fact there is no escape. The Roman Catholic Church, with all its power and money, could never more than cajole or terrify their subjects into the confession box. But now, with modern technology and a recliner, the dentist holds full sway of your soul/dental health. What ever lies you tell will be discovered by one quick glimpse across a handy mirror and into the very bowels of your unrepenting gums.

"No, I don't drink sugary drinks."
"I haven't had a cake in years."
"I brush my teeth, floss, and rinse my mouth out with listerine twice daily."

LIES! And your teeth, like some black book of misdeeds, carefully kept by the bacterial demons of your gums shall let it be known to your confessor that this is so. No inquisitor could achieve such fear and apprehension in their unwilling victims. The dentist need only root around in your gaping, lying mouth to find the truth; the inquisitors had no such tools to read the enameled face of the soul.

Yet still, I clean my teeth irregularly and scoff upon sugary treats, so the dentist can't be all bad.