I pulled one of my own teeth in 1976. I still got it around here somewhere. It was a broken tooth that had taken on a mind of its own and become a foul-smelling demon.
My wife knew about the problem. She insisted that I go see a dentist and have it taken care of properly. Instead, I waited until she went to work and then popped it out myself.
Snap-crackle-pop X 2 — and then it was back to work at the freight dock, where I promptly passed out. Lucky for me, I had a great boss who drove me home.