A large part of my daily grind involves my teeth. Actually, most of the grinding goes on at night when the horrors locked up in my subconscious get loose and force the choppers of my upper and lower jaw into a war of mutually assured annihilation.

Years ago, my dentist fitted me with mouth guard to protect my teeth from being ground away. It was a large, cumbersome plastic thing that resembled what a boxer wear when he steps into the ring. The difference was that boxers, even punch-drunk ones, knew better than to wear theirs while they slept.

The guard covered all of my upper teeth, sealing them off from the natural process by which the mouth cleanses itself. The result was that by morning, the inside of the thing would be a reservoir of plaque and drool. In order to keep stalagmites of tartar forming, the guard needed to vigorously cleaned with a toothbrush after each use.

Ultimately, I learned that my devotion to the upkeep of high-maintenance dental gear was on a par with my devotion to the upkeep of high-maintenance women.

“The hell with it,” I concluded. “Let ’em grind.”

And grind they did. Five long years of nocturnal gnashing exacted a horrible toll on my teeth. Fortunately, mouth-guard technology has progressed quite a bit since then.

When I was at the dentist yesterday, I tried on one of these newfangled devices. It is much smaller, attaching to the two upper front teeth only, keeping the others apart without marinating in their own slime. He handed me a mirror and let me admire my rodent-like countenance.

I can have one molded to fit me, all for the low price of 130 shots of Jameson’s down at the local bar.

I am quickly making my dentist a very rich man.