[Stan is at the dentist]Dentist: Mr. Smith, you're what we call in the business a Class A grinder. Now, I'm not talking about the sandwich grinder or the organ grinder you may find locked in sweaty coitus with your father one fateful afternoon in Rome. No, you're a Class A grinder, meaning that you grind your teeth so fervently that you need braces.Stan: Braces? You've got to be kidding!Dentist: I only wish, Mr. Smith. And I only wish I had never known the sickly sweet scent of my father's love with that filthy fat gypsy. And that I could have mustered something other than "Papa, no!" before that shrieking monkey drove me from the room. But you're a grinder, and you're getting braces.Stan: But I've already had braces, doctor! I've paid my dues![The last line triggers a flashback of his father and the monkey, which apparently traumatizes the Dentist to the point of becoming emotionless.]Dentist: [grimly] Do we ever pay our dues, Mr. Smith?
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