Jesus, you shouldn’t eat so many sweets. If you carry on like this, you won’t have any teeth left in your mouth.
Yes, Mum.

Jesus, stop grinding your teeth. I can’t sleep because of it. If you keep this up, all your teeth will get damaged, and the roots will become infected.
Well, I’ll try not to do it anymore.

Jesus… your breath stinks. When was the last time you brushed your teeth? You reek.
Oh… woman, give me a jug of brandy to ease the pain. I can’t bear it anymore, please, stop nagging.

"What are you blubbering about, mate?"
"I’ve got such bloody pain in my mouth—I haven’t slept for three nights."
"Can’t you go to the dentist?"

...Jesus stays silent...

"Come on, mate, why aren’t you answering?"
"Ow, it hurts so bad, I can hardly stand it."
"Reckon you’re pissed."
"What d’you mean?"
"You stink of booze."

Pedro prods Jesus’ head. "Feel this?" —then gives him a whack.
"Have you lost your mind?!"
"Just as I thought—he’s got an infected molar. No money for a root canal, so it’s time for the tooth-puller."

"Bugger me, I thought you hadn’t slept for nights. Why’re you so strong, then, fighting like a lion for your life?"

Jesus struggles with all his might, and everyone helps pin him down.

"Just grit your teeth," says the tooth-puller with a grin. "It’s shaping up to be a fine day—the more rotten molars, the better. Lucky he came just in time; a day later and the tooth would’ve fallen out on its own."

"That’ll be €87—without anaesthetic, which is 22 euros. Will you be paying now?"

_{1.5.25
Painting:
Painter: Leonardo Alenza y Nieto
For the picture/contest see here}