I can smell you standing there.

What is with the lying about the brushing of the teeth?

It doesn't take a genius to notice the quarter-inch of cheese-like film enveloping your incisors, so why lie? When I ask you, "Have you brushed your teeth?" and you grow quiet, do you honestly believe that the brilliance of your silence will throw me so completely that it will halt my investigative techniques? Do you think that by holding completely still, my t-rex-like brain will be utterly confounded and conclude you have ceased to exist? That, magically, there is no longer a ten-year old before me, and therefore, no custard-encrusted dental issues of note?

No sir. I am sorry to inform you that rather than a t-rex, my puny brain is more like that of a suckerfish. It has latched onto the fact that your snaggle-toothed grin, in both scent and visage, bears a striking resemblance to a wedge of Camembert and I will continue to ask you, hound you-- nay, berate you-- to BRUSH YOUR TEETH. I'm not above pinning you down and getting in there myself with a blow torch. In fact, I think I would quite enjoy it.

Ahhh, the sound of the electric toothbrush. Music to my ears.