I’ve been thinking a lot, lately, about the things in my life I wish I could condense or remove completely: the daily chores that reach into the precious picnic basket we call life and steal from it the glorious sandwiches of time.
For years I yearned for a fancy toothbrush that could chastise me into having fantastic gnashers, coaxing me via a gaudy Bluetooth app to a winning smile. An electric gadget to do my work for me. My girlfriend finally bought me one, and I love it. Sonicare. Enamel white colourway. Little app and everything. Bluetooth, the whole deal. But it takes time.
They say good things come to those who wait, but there are already too many shows I’ve fallen behind on – season ones morphing into season twos and threes – and my room is a warehouse of books I haven’t yet read. I want to save this toothbrush for rainy days, the holidays, mostly for Sundays, and to have something to use on days when I’ve woken up late and am already on a warning.
Enter: The Blizzident.
A brush tailored to your teeth.
All teeth perfectly clean.
In six seconds.
Six seconds. For context: Mark Morrison’s opening salvo in his eternal banger ‘Return of the Mack’ (“WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAHHH-UHoh-uhoh-ohoh. Cuh-mo-oan. Oooh, yea-eh-ey…”) lasts eight seconds.
Matching the precise shape of your mouth and teeth – the ridges and grooves, gaps and cavities, even that little crack on your molar that you keep tonguing but are pretty sure doesn’t require actual dental intervention because these things just happen, don’t they, when you’re an adult who is bang into eating hard sweets – with 3D-printing, the Blizzident requires you only to chatter your teeth like a cold cartoon boy, biting and grinding in different directions, to clean ALL OF YOUR TEETH AT THE SAME TIME IN SIX SECONDS.
Per the Blizzident promotional material:
“You simply bite and release quickly 10-15 times. This creates the little vibrating/jiggling upwards/downwards/slightly-circling movements of the ‘Bass’-technique (while the bristles are placed in a 45-degree angle, which also automatically stops the biting movement softly) because you are brushing all your teeth at the same time, you are brushing extremely quickly. You brush all the difficult-to-reach and interdental regions without even having to think about it.”
That means if I’m in work and have an unexpected meeting scheduled after lunch, lunch that consisted of that sick grilled fish box from Leather Lane, I can simply pop the Blizzident from its case, subtly add a dollop of toothpaste, and duck my head under the table like I’m fiddling about with my mouse’s USB and go ANG-ANG-ANG-ANG-GAH-GAH-GAH-GAH like I’m Popeye laughing, and my teeth will be clean. Job done. Bring on the promotion, Mr. Manager, cheers.
That it looks a deep sea something ol’ Davey Attenborough would lightly condescend to in an episode of Blue Planet II is part of the charm. It is an aggressive gumshield of health. A puck of well-being. It does not waste time on aesthetics. It is under no allusions: despite what the iStock-pretty models of electric toothbrush adverts would have you believe, the act of brushing your teeth is about as unattractive as it gets: gurning and hawing, levering, scrubbing, fluids flying. It is a supremely antisocial act we’ve been conditioned into thinking is some kind of performance art piece.
Don’t get me wrong, I love a good luxuriating brush from time to time. A relaxing Sunday night Sonicare sesh leaving my teeth as smooth and clean as Simon Cowell’s forehead can leave me with an almost post-coital glow. But it takes two-and-a-half minutes. This takes six seconds. Six seconds! That is literally no time at all. Under many copyright laws, six seconds is deemed free usage. This is time you are freeing up for you to go and be you.
Between the Sonicare sesh’s two-minutes-thirty and a quick I’m late for work’s 45 seconds brush time, let’s take the average tooth-cleaning time to be about 90 seconds. The Blizzident is EIGHTY-FOUR SECONDS QUICKER THAN THAT.
Add that shit up over your lifetime:
Let’s use me as an example. I’m 26 and let’s presume I’ll die at 61, because of my familial history of heart disease and my proclivity for Diet Coke. Brushing twice a day with the Blizzident, from this day forth until I shuffle off this mortal coil, I would save around 35,770 minutes in brushing time. That’s 596 extra hours before my death. That’s 24.8 more days on earth, thanks to this fucked-up little toothbrush thing.
I’d take that.