Also, Dr. Bukk was featured on The Daily Show on Comedy Central in March, 1998.
|The Augusta Chronicle, July 19, 2002|
|The Augusta Chronicle, October 29, 2000|
|Allure Magazine *||Detour Magazine||Nashville Tennessean|
|Aspire Magazine||Detroit News||New York Times Magazine|
|The Cincinnati Post||Maxim||Seattle Magazine|
|Columbus (Ga) Ledger Enquirer||Men's Health Magazine||USA Today|
*Best article by far, but long
Maxim Magazine, October 1998
Annoyed by chatty strangers?
Scare 'em away with these!
If you're as good-looking as we are, you face this conundrum: Are your accomplishments really due to your skills and attributes, or has breath-taking physical attractiveness let you cheat in the game of life? Here's how to find out for sure: Slap on a snaggly, scragglyc sore-encrusted row of Dr. Bukk's Fake Teef and see if your fortunes fade. Available in more than a dozen styles with names like "Incest", "Mongrel," and "Eleanor Roosevelt," these babies are custom-shaped to fit your maw like a hideous glove. At $40 to $50 a set, they don't come cheap. But hey, the truth's supposed to hurt. To order Dr. Bukk's catalog, call (800) 925-BUKK or fax 800-507-TEEF.
by Erika Vanvick, Seattle Magazine, October 1998
When the funny nose glasses no longer fool friends and strangers, call on Dr. Bukk (www.drbukk.com), matriarch of dentistry gone horribly wrong. Dr. Bukk (Nancy Albert) will custom design a set of realistic choppers sure to draw quizzical stares- or outright repulsion.
Made of heat-sensitive plastic, the teeth are formed from bite marks (in a piece of Styrofoam, for example) sent in by the customer. Far more realistic than the vampire fangs found this time of year, these teeth have realistic details - decay, dental disorder - that make them suitable for disguise as well as goofing around.
"The best teeth are the weird, everyday gross teeth," says Casy Anderson, sales representative for KVI radio and two-time Dr. Bukk customer. "For 40 bucks you get a lot of laughs." Pictures and testimonials from satisfied customers are on the Dr. Bukk Web site, along with descriptions of various models. Orders are shipped overnight, in plently of time for Halloween festivities or meeting future in-laws. Beyond fun and games, Bukk teeth serve a more serious purpose. American troops stationed abroad are often identified by their good teeth; to cut down on their chances of detection in potentially hostile countries, more than 500 members of the U.S. military have sported Bukk teeth, including Captain Scott O'Grady (the Washington native whose jet was shot down over Bosnia in 1995) and his entire squadron.
by Dale Brasel, editor of Detour Magazine
photographed by Larry Hammerness
Model: Laurence Moore
Makeup: Michael Piombo
Look Bad, Feel Good
Tired Of Looking So Good? Dr. Bukk's fake teeth have saved thousands of suffering souls from the ravages of fame, beauty, wealth, and notoriety. From the "you sure got a purty mouth, boy" locale of Grovetrown, Georgia, the good doctor fashions fake teeth that are anything but fashionable. Be an attention-getter in any style of her (yes, the Doc is a style-conscious woman) 20 designs in either plastic hardwear or silicone softwear. And you can fax your order in and get an overnight delivery so you'll have that something special to don for the big cotillion at the Elks Lodge come end of the week. Priced at just $40 for the hardwear models--gold crowns are $15 extra--there just isn't any excuse for walking around and looking so damn sexy! Dr. Bukk: It isn't just about teeth, it's a way of life. 1-800-925-BUKK.
By Ann Magnuson, Allure Magazine,
Photographed by Michael Myers
Everyone knows that the world is kind to beauty, that it smiles on those who are graceful in face and figure. But what about those who aren't?
On a particularly disgusting humid summer day, I looked at the synopses of the films playing at the local multiplex: A struggling filmmaker's life changes forever when a beautiful model enters the back of his cab....A beautiful young concubine bewitches a gang of thugs....A beautiful scientist unlock the secrets of cold fusion....A beautiful four-year-old copes with the death of her mother.
OK, I'll admit that my memory will often exaggerate for effect, but I distinctly recall that not one of those films featured a female lead who was nothing less than Bond-girl beautiful (even if she was only four).
There is no escaping the inescapable. Because all around me, staring down from every billboard, bus ad, and magazine cover, is an endless parade of supermodels with superfaces superimposed on supernatural dreamscapes supervised by the superficial fashionistas. (Who knew George Orwell would look so good in Prada?)
But before I threw out my Lady Gillette and moved to that remote cabin vacated by Ted Kaczynski, I decided to conduct a little experiment. As an actress, I had played many parts--the good and the bad. But what about the ugly? In the midst of our culture's makeover madness, what if I did the opposite? What if I underwent a makeunder and went to the ball not as Cinderella but as one of her ugly stepsisters? How would the world treat me on that side of the looking glass?
So, after a lifetime of following glossy magazine Do's, I enthusiastically set out to become a Don't.
Years of theatrical experience had taught me that the best way to immediately (and safely) disfigure oneself is with a pair of Dr. Bukk's Fake Teeth. Dr. Bukk's brochure lists such "teef" styles as Incest, Mongrel, and the Eleanor Roosevelt. I ordered me up--overnight, express mail--one set of Speed teeth("gnawed down to the nubs, with miles of gum") and one Gnarly ("described by some as Neanderthal").
It's amazing how these "teef" can miraculously change the shape of your face and render you virtually unrecognizable. And yet bad teeth alone do not a classic nonbeauty make.
Next, I turned my attention to footwear. Anyone can feel instantly desirable when she slips into a pair of Manolo Blahnik stilettos. Conversely, I learned, anyone can feel instantly undesirable flip-flopping around in a pair of corksole Birkenstocks. Sure, they're the most comfortable shoes on the planet and perfect if you're working the talisman booth at the Renaissance Fair, but my assignment required me to work the other end of the fashion street--trolling salons, shops, and with-it hot spots that the beautiful people call their home away from home. I snapped up a pair.
Then, taking my cue from Sir Alec Guinness, I enlisted the help of a makeup artist, Bobby Miller. Together we created the character of art chick Sally Sinclair, part-time art critic and full-time owner of a juice bar in the East Village.
Morning one began with little sleep from the night before, My closet offered a wide variety of active schlump wear, and I settled on a pair of pink Bermuda shorts and an oversize T-shirt to complement my makeup--olive green foundation spread unevenly over my haggard face. Red blotches were added around the shnoz and chin, and the eyebrows were darkened and combed against the grain to create a bushier effect. Plum-colored powder highlighted the bags under my eyes and a sad attempt at applying "real" makeup in the form of blue eye shadow glowed on top of the lid.
Sally put on her favorite (and only) pair of cute-dork glasses from L.A. Eyeworks, adjusted her Speed teeth, slicked back her faded red hair with the inch-long gray roots, and, with the latest copy of Art in America under her arm, slipped on her Birkenstocks and stepped into the belly of the beauty beast.
First stop: Fifth Avenue--the Brad Johns Salon, where I hoped that Brad could do for Sally what he'd already done for Carolyn Bessette Kennedy.
I was certain I would get busted. But much to my surprise, Sally Sinclair was treated with deferential aplomb by one and all as she took her place on the Brad Johns assembly line that churns out hot buttery blonds. Johns himself, who bears an uncanny resemblance to Mrs. JFK Jr. (who came first?), demonstrated a sense of noblesse oblige that put me--uh, I mean Sally--immediately at ease.
"I just want to be pretty like Carolyn Bessette Kennedy," I shyly mumbled as the polite Mr. Johns began his work.
Although he wasn't nearly as chatty to me as he was to the women around me, with whom he merrily discussed movie stars and plastic surgeons, he did inquire about my choice of reading material. "Why are you reading Art in America ?" he asked.
"Uh..." I wasn't sure I was ready to launch into my shtick of being a part-time art critic, so I just muttered, "I like art."
Before I could finish, he blurted, "I love that magazine!" Then he asked me what I did. When I told him I owned a juice bar in the East Village, he was genuinely curious.
"A juice bar?" he asked quizzically. Then with great sincerity, he gushed, "Do you love it?"
I had to admit I did. I loved turning people on to the benefits of wheatgrass and beet-carrot cocktails with garlic-ginger combo boosts and, I told him, you can turn quite a tidy profit, which I intended to use to finance my dream home and...damn, I began to wish I did have a steady gig eviscerating root vegetables. That way I could afford to buy the art I loved and continue to have Brad Johns do my hair.
Before I left, I was to see Brad for one last look. He gave me a quick going-over, and though it was brief, he studied my hair seriously; within seconds he pronounced it "fabulous," adding with enthusiasm, "It matches your glasses!"
Sally Sinclair, geeky art chick turned golden-haired Kennedy wife, stepped onto Fifth Avenue feeling like a woman reborn.
With all that newfound confidence, it would have been a shame not to do a little shopping, find a smart outfit or little bauble to complement the fabulous new coif (even if I was hiding it under a nerdy rain hat). But, with few exceptions, poor pitiful Sally was brushed off by nearly everyone she encountered up and down the avenue. Throughout the day, the reactions were subtle yet obvious, not unlike the polite dismissals certain members of exclusive country clubs excel at. The salesgirl a Christian Dior was polite but maintained an air of suspicion while she followed me like a guard at the Louvre as I wandered among the racks. Without exception, the doormen at every stop would quickly glance down to assess my wardrobe (particularly my Birkenstocks), and when they saw I was determined to enter, would reluctantly open the door.
One who was particularly slow to admit me was the doorman at Harry Winston (hey, didn't he realize I could have been the female Howard Hughes?). The doorman at Bijan wouldn't even entertain an answer to my question about what the sign--By Appointment Only--meant, nor would he even tell me what the store sold.
When I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror at Escada (where no one acknowledged my presence), I scared myself. I looked like a sad, sick mongrel puppy, one you wanted to kick. Then I realized that I was looking at a portrait of low self-esteem. Being summarily dismissed all day had brought out the side of me that wanted to crawl into bed and hide under the covers for eternity. The part of me that cried for weeks (years? decades?) when no one asked me to dance at the junior prom. It was the feeling I thought had been successfully exorcised. I was wrong.
I was getting good at detecting the little signs: being purposely ignored, condescended to, shunned. I don't usually invite men to ogle me on the street, but every woman knows that she can count on getting checked out at least several times a day, even if it is by the creepiest of characters.
Sally Sinclair might as well have been a fire hydrant for all the interest she provoked from the opposite sex.
My confidence was at an all-time low, so I ducked into the Frederic Fekkai salon, where I was liberated of all unwanted hair. When I stared into the mirror at my perfectly arched, movie-star eyebrows framed by soft golden curls, the sparkle returned to my eyes, and I realized that even Sally could look pretty--if she kept her mouth shut.
Katarina Kasicek (pronounced "kash-a-check") wasn't so lucky. It's not her fault that the dentists in her native land aren't as equipped as those here in America. Fitted with a pair of Dr. Bukk's Gnarly teeth and a frizzled, mouse brown wig parted in the middle, I transformed myself from Sally into the onetime head archivist of the People's Library of the former Soviet satellite Czechoslovakia. I had obliterated whatever was left of Ann.
I never thought I'd pass as Katarina since the Gnarly "teef" protruded from my mouth like a row of crooked headstones. But speaking with a halting, semi-Slavic accent and inspired by Fannie Flagg's brilliant method performances on vintage episodes of Candid Camera , I was able to breathe life into the confused Katarina, who greeted the world with the naivete of Frankenstein's monster.
Alas, the response to Katarina was much the same as it had been for Sally. Indeed, it was worse: I was laughed at in Chanel, glared at in Fortunoff, ignored in Tiffany's and ridiculed in Ferragamo. As subtle as the treatment sometimes was, the cumulative effect brought on waves of nausea at the prospect of entering one more store.
So it was with a heavy heart that I made my way into one of the more exclusive little shops on Madison Avenue.
I felt like a stranger in a strange land but could not resist the new fall line and was instantly seduced by a beautifully cut camel hair coat. Suddenly a pretty, poised blond appeared. "May I help you?" she dutifully intoned.
As I turned to face her, the expression on her face changed from indifferent courtesy to one of undeniable horror, made even more horrific by her attempt to pretend otherwise.
"Excuse me, but..." I meekly asked as Katarina stumbled on her Berlitz, "please to try on coat?"
Reluctant but polite, the saleslady helped me put on the coat and, still visibly unnerved, followed me to the mirror.
"Ees so b-b-b-beautiful," I stammered while observing the saleslady's anxious reflection fidgeting next to mine. There was no doubt about it, she wanted to get the hell away from me, and when I looked directly at her, the look on her face reminded me of a child terrified of a birthday clown.
Her pain was soon alleviated when her post was taken over by an irreproachably well-groomed, officious man who attended to my needs with all the enthusiasm of a court-appointed attorney.
I pretended not to notice as I buttoned up the oversize coat, wondering aloud whether the man didn't think it was "some too big here...how do you call?...in soldiers?"
"No, no, no," he replied hurriedly. "It's a winter coat--you'll be wearing a sweater underneath," he added, looking past me to the opposite wall.
He wasn't really mean, just supremely uninvolved. But the less involved he became, the more my spine turned to jelly and the more the coat seemed to hang as I shrank several sizes smaller, I took it off while wondering aloud about the price.
"It's $1,870," he replied, confiscating the coat and adding, every consonant and vowel articulated in clear round tones, "That's one thousand eight hundred and seventy dollars ."
"Oh," I gasped, then giggled self-effacingly, "ees a lot."
I had never felt more like a nonentity than I did that afternoon. Granted, expecting love and approval from a salesperson is like expecting a confession from O.J. The treatment I got wasn't anything anyone who's ever wandered into a chic shop dressed in a sweat suit hasn't experienced. But it was what was happening to me inside that did the most noticeable damage.
Once you start retreating, it's hard to stop. And the more unwelcome you feel, the more you want to retreat and retreat and retreat until eventually you wind up on a park bench feeding the pigeons.
And that's exactly where I ended up. After finishing dinner at a model hangout near Union Square, I took a walk to the park, where I sat, Gump-like, sharing my Godiva chocolates with the other members of the Great Dismissed (the only people all day whose smiles were genuine).
But though the sun was setting, my mission was not yet accomplished. There was a movie premiere that evening that I had been invited to as an Insider but had decided to attend as an Outsider. Opening at the local hip multiplex was In the Company of Men , a fiendishly clever film about two misogynists who psychologically torture a beautiful deaf/mute (you wouldn't expect her to be anything less than beautiful, would you?).
Initially, part of the plan was for me to bar-hop before the movie and try to pick up men. But I had had enough humiliation. By that point I had admitted defeat and completely accepted my role as Reject. Once I gave up, however, a new kind of freedom took over, and I embraced my Outsider status with a relish I hadn't felt since I was a preteen hippie during the good ole "Us versus Them" days.
But in this case, the "them"s were the In-Crowd, whose names were listed on the clipboard held by the publicist in the power suit who stood behind the velvet rope. "Us" were the bystanders who waited patiently for a glimpse of one of the glamorous and beautiful members of the American royal family--a celebrity!
Feeling like a cake left out in the rain, I decided that if I was going to be a Nobody then I was going to be the best Noby I could be. And that meant capturing the flag of Somebody. In short, I became one of those geeky autograph hounds who prowl movie premieres and Star Trek conventions.
"Anyone famous here?" I asked the crowd. My downtrodden Eastern European accent was gone, miraculously replaced by a giddy mid-Atlantic vernacular. "Any stars gonna show?" I pressed the publicist, who quickly blew me off. But instead of feeling hurt, I became more determined.
With pen and pad in hand I scurried about in a frenzy, casting a wide net in hopes of hooking a Big One. I bonded with the paparazzi who kept watch over one end of the street while I directed my radar down the other.
The movie was about to start, and I was beginning to give up all hope when I spotted Cameron Diaz emerging from a cab. A rush of adrenaline hit me. I ran up to her, my heart pounding while the sweat on my brow melted the spirit gum that held my Brillo-like wig to my forehead.
I took a big breath then begged, "Miss Diaz, could I have your autograph?" in a reverential tone that took me by surprise.
She graciously complied, never once looking at me. My heart thumped as she wrote, and all I could think was, I did it! I got one! I got an autograph of a Big Star!
She handed me back my prize and I groveled, "Oh, Miss Diaz, you're so kind."
Whatever was left of Sally's, Katarina's, or the real Ann's dignity had long since vanished, and it was then that I realized a new personality had emerged. I christened her Pamela Pupkin, the love child of Katarina Kasicek and Rupert Pupkin--the obnoxious would-be comic portrayed by Robert De Niro in The King of Comedy.
Pamela may have been saddled with her mother's looks, but she more than made up for it with her father's chutzpah. Unfortunately, even Pam couldn't outfox Matt Dillon, who darted in a side entrance when he saw me coming.
It hardly mattered, I left satisfied. Not only had I gotten Cameron Diaz's autograph but I had seen her up close! Oh, she was so pretty. So very, very pretty. Unlike Pam Pupkin, whose only real hope was to go to Goth (a highly effective makeover technique for the beauty-impaired).
Walking back to that misfit ghetto known as the East Village, I passed a hard-core rock chick wearing a patch that read, "Hag Power."
Right on, sister! Hags of the world, unite! But will the revolution be televised? Probably not. Hags don't get their own TV shows, and they certainly don't get their faces splashed across glossy magazine covers.
That is, unless they renounce their hagdom, and, with the help of a good plastic surgeon, go Hollywood. And who can blame them> Doesn't every Riot Grrl secretly yearn to be homecoming queen? Doesn't every ardent Feminazi denounce her beliefs when bestowed with a scepter and crown? Don't blonds have more fun?
Well, they sure have an easier time getting into Bijan, as I discovered when I retraced my steps the next day-sans "teef" and dressed head-to-toe in Chanel. Maybe it was my new golden locks, or my new makeup, or my new-found confidence that grew by leaps and bounds, but suddenly everything was different. Cheerful doormen flung open their gates, smiling salespeople jumped to their feet, and drooling men eyed me like Tex Avery's animated wolves.
Actually, the response to the new, improved, "made-over" me was boring in its predictability. But it sure felt nice as I waltzed through Bergdorf's like Cinderella at the ball or, more precisely, Streisand in her first TV special, reveling in the triumph of ugly duckling turned superstar!
As impossible as my mission might have seemed at the get-go, I could now close the file on this caper. What a relief it was to remove the last vestiges of Sally Sinclair and Katarina Kasicek and Pamela Pupkin and stare at a stranger named Ann in the mirror.
Then a miracle occurred. Because for the first time I was able to look at myself under the bright, unforgiving light and actually like what I saw. Suddenly, all the things that I used to hate about my face didn't seem so bad. Not so bad at all. Gosh. Who would've thought that the best way to appreciate your natural God-given beauty is to get in touch with your Inner Hag.
By David Wecker, newspaper columnist and radio personality in Cincinnati, Ohio
Something I've always wondered is, do people really like me? That is, do they like the essential me, or do they just like me because of my good looks?
Nothing puts the whammy on a good-looking mug better than a set of nasty teeth. Ask your mother. This point was brought home to me when a friend gave me a brochure from Dr. Bukk Fake Teef, an Augusta, Ga.-based business that sells flat-out ugly plastic choppers designed to fit over your real teeth.
You could fit any one of Dr. Bukk's grotesque selections in, say George Clooney's mouth, introduce him to any woman who would ordinarily swoon at the chance and, as soon as he cracked a smile, you'd be watching her backside recede into the horizon. These are teeth that, generally speaking, subject to ridicule the last stereotype it's still politically correct to laugh at - the down-and-out-redneck.
The Dr. Bukk assortment includes the Chikklets, the Cowcatcher, the Sole Survivor ("inspired by the movie, "Deliverance;") and the Summer Teef (Some are here, some are not"). Dr. Bukk - actually a 46-year-old former graphic arts designer named Nancy Albert who last year sold $420,000 worth of bad fake teeth - steered me toward the Gnarly.
"Guaranteed to help you fit right in at your local outlaw biker bar," she said. The photo of the Gnarly in the brochure was of an asymmetrical collection of crowded, mismatched teeth, each badly stained canine and incisor protruding from a swollen pink gum at an angle all its own.
My Gnarly arrived a few days later. As I slipped it into place and grinned at myself in my mirror, a change came over me. It was if I was surrendering myself to my new teeth. I found myself pulling up at red lights, looking over at the driver in the next car and smiling cheerfully - fully aware that, in life, we get but one chance to make a first impression. Three motorists smiled back, one man did a slow double-take and a carload of teen-age girls responded with what I took to be friendly, good-natured laughter.
Individuals with whom I have passing acquaintances noticed something different about me, but said they couldn't pin it down. One guy who showed up at a party to celebrate the release of a book I helped write pulled his sister aside and asked if I'd been in a car wreck or a fight of some sort. But he didn't say anything to me, presumably because he likes the essential me and didn't want to hurt my feelings. I thought that was polite of him.
The waitresses at Diane's restaurant, downstairs from the international headquarters of The Cincinnati Post, seemed to notice no change whatsoever. But Dot Theuring, who washes dishes in the back, came out and mentioned that one of them had said something bad must have happened to me. Then Dot showed me where she'd had three of her front teeth extracted just a few days earlier.
"Don't feel bad, honey," she said. Dot always calls me honey. She likes the essential me. "I'm waiting for a new set of teeth myself."
That was polite, too. For the most part, my experiences with my new teeth, buttressed my belief that, above all, Cincinnati is a polite city - a town where anyone will be treated cordially, no matter how wretched their teeth are.
At the Brooks Brothers store downtown, for instance, sales associate Ed Campbell couldn't have been more helpful. "How much are are your suits?" I asked him, again with the cheerful smile.
He briefly cupped a hand over his mouth, as if in sympathy, then showed me several preppy suits in my size, which he correctly guessed was a 44L. I told him I appreciated his kindness, but that Brooks Brothers wasn't quite the right look for me - and since I needed the suit for an upcoming court appearance, I'd better look elsewhere.
"Glad to be of service," Ed said. "We try to be nice to everybody at Brooks Brothers."
At the Maisonette, I addressed several key questions to reservationist Roxann Clark. Does it cost anything to make reservations: Does the Maisonette have specials? How is the meatloaf? I rewarded each of her cordial answers ("No," "No" and "We don't have meatloaf.") with a warm smile.
Then she wrote my name in her reservations book, just as she would for any normal-toothed individual.
At the Bankers Club, I asked the woman at the front desk how I could go about getting a membership application. She called a friendly man who escorted me to the office of membership director Stacy Stevenson, who couldn't have been more agreeable.
She explained that I'd need a corporate sponsor, but that if I couldn't find one, she'd help me. I responded to her generous offer with a grin of gratitude, then asked if she could foresee any obstacles whatsoever to my being granted membership.
"Well, I'm afraid it would cause a stir if you were to wear those blue jeans," she said. After all the Bankers Club does have a dress code." That's OK. As long as there's no dental code. The important thing, though, is that I found out that people in Cincinnati judge me on the basis of my personality - not because I'm another pretty face.
You can e-mail David Wecker at firstname.lastname@example.org.
The Cincinnati Post, March 6, 1997
You pay a visit to the dentist, look in the mirror on the way out, and see a mouthful of ugly teeth untouched by a toothbrush, much less braces. Sounds like the good doctor's worst nightmare, right? Not if your name is Dr. Bukk.
Dr. Bukk, a.k.a. Nancy Albert, is the creative genius behind a hysterical line of fake teeth that come in 11 models, including Gnarly, Mongrel, and Zipper. Handmade and hand-painted, the acrylic teeth sell for $40, or $60 if you hanker to visit Dr. Bukk for a personal fitting. Since 1989, the former Atlanta debutante (really!) has cast more than 9,000 sets of Bukk teeth in the kitchen of her home. As well as being terrific conversation stoppers, Dr. Bukk says the disgusting dentures are great at warding off unwanted sexual advances. "They'll make a guy's testosterone level drop to his toes," she says, showing off her gnarly whites.
By calling 800-925-BUKK and ordering a set, you can become an official member of the "Bukk Fambly," which includes a Wall Street wizard, a Wyoming congresswoman, NFL star Dan Marino, actor John Goodman and singer Jimmy Buffett. And there's no telling whose mouth will be sporting the cheeky choppers next. Dr. Bukk reports a brisk mail-order business with several Beverly Hills teens - zip code 90210.
Aspire Magazine, December 1995
By KRISTEN STOREY, The Detroit News
The good news is that for only $40 you can buy a way to attract attention, prompt laughter and protect yourself. The bad news is the way this offbeat product makes you look.
The $40 will cover a set of teeth made by a Georgia firm called Dr. Bukk, Inc., which makes a custom set of snap-on "demented dentures" to wear over your upper row of pearly whites as a gag, disguise or to repel street attacks.
The phony teeth are molded from a professionally made cast or simple Styrofoam bit template, with customers mailing either example of their upper teeth. The synthetic versions are hand-painted with yellow and black edges for a truly repulsive look. Smokers can order a model with three built-in gaps for cigarettes. An extra $15 buys a mock gold cap.
"Shake off panhandlers, stalkers and rapists." says the company brochure. Look bad, feel good is creator Nancy Albert's motto.
She encourages other Southerners to buy the teeth to joke about the stereotype of dumb hicks. "Empower yourself," her flyer says.
She runs the business from her suburban Atlanta (sic) home, and says gross sales jumped from $36,000 in 1993 to more than $200,000 this year. Prominent clients include Miami quarterback Dan Marino, singer Jimmy Buffett and actor John Goodman, Albert said.
The Detroit News, Nov. 19, 1995
By JEFF PEARLMAN, staff writer, Nashville Tennessean
In the annals of medicine, there has never quite been a physician the likes of Dr. Bukk. Her practice is dentistry, her specialty redneck teeth.
For $40 ($15 extra for gold), the Grovetown, Ga. "doc" will make up some of the most repulsive looking dentures since Leon Spinks' heyday. The titles, ranging from Incest to Gnarly to the un-American-yet-appropriate Eleanor Roosevelt, speak true as a hall monitor. These things are gross.
At the same time, they are popular. Really popular. Funny, too. When Nashville's Jim Williams went to a friend's wedding several months ago, he wore his Gnarlys the whole time. "I smiled," he said, "and the groom practically threw up." When son Jeff, a local medical supply salesman, flew to Indiana to help perform an operation, his Bukks were in his mouth, hidden under a surgical mask. "It was over," he says, "and I pulled down my mask, smiled and said 'That went great!' They didn't know what to say."
This is Bukk at its best. Last year, mostly through word of mouth and magazine ads, Nancy (Dr. Bukk) Albert pulled in $98,000 selling her fake chompers. By year's end, she figures on another $250,000. The success comes, she believes, by the touted ability to take on a new persona.
In her brochure boasting the 11 Bukk types, Albert writes of Mongrel (seven widely spaced teeth): "Why have to beg for a doggie bag?" Of Gnarly: "Throwback to Neanderthal with these ...demented dentures." Slip on a Chikklets (two big front teeth surrounded by a row of yellowed ones) and you're no longer Joe Schmoe, business guy. Your're Pemp L. Picker (as Nashville dermatologist Howard Salyer goes by with his Gnarlys) or Papa Lugnut (Jim Williams' alias).
As rednecks go, Albert readily admits, so goes the business. Based on a most offensive stereotype, the entire premise here is that back-of-the-woods yokels have never heard of Aim, not to mention a toothbrush. "In the age of political correctness," she contends, "that's about the last group it's OK to make fun of."
The idea for Bukk dentistry first flashed through Albert's cranium in 1982, when the University of Colorado grad spotted a pair of hideous porcelain teeth on a New York dentists's desk. "That night we went to all the bars with him wearing those teeth," she says. "No maitre d' wanted to let him in. Right then, I knew I could make a million."
Over the next few years, Albert searched until she found a white plastic product that could be molded into different shapes. Dr. Bukk's first patients had to come to her house, where they wat on a table, gobs of plastic shoved in their mouths. The mold hardened, brown and yellow paint was applied.
Bingo: Dr. Bukk
Now it's all much easier. Send money along with an upper teeth impression on paper, and the weird doctor will make a pair in her own kitchen. Current clients include John Goodman, Jimmy Buffett and former Yankee pitcher Bill Gullickson. Miami Dolphin quarterback Dan Marino and Geoffe Dodge, editor of Inc. Magazine, are rumored to boast Bukks as well.
Even Scott O'Grady, the recently rescued pilot downed in Bosnia, showed off his Bukks on one of many televised news conferences. "We're not buying that story about him eating ants, " says Albert. "I think he dropped down in Bosnia and used the teeth to bite into animals."
Albert doesn't stop at just selling the teeth, either. Every orderee registers with the "Borned-Agin" program, picking a name and becoming official members of the homeliest first family since the Carter White House. Some of the more profound Bukks include Boner Daley, Marion Cousins, Skid Marks, Aiken Piles and Claud Bawls.
"It's a way to be someone else, " says Salyer, the dermatologist who owns a pair of Gnarlys. "I wear them out to eat. I'll wear them when I meet friends. It throws people off a bit."
Do you operate wearing the teeth?
"Oh, lord no."
Perhaps the only ones not buying into Albert's plan are the models behind the mayhem. Despite her theory that rednecks can be the butt of jokes ("We just sold some teeth to two local house painters"), a recent Atlanta Journal-Constitution letter to the editor scolded Albert for a "lack of sensitivity." She adds that several television stations refused her commercial bids. "Even Comedy Central," she says, "wouldn't take us."
The good "doctor" isn't fazed.
"Everyone who wears the teeth gets the laughs, but they also get the down side," she says. "Race, gender ... those are nothing compared to having to be ugley. The way people treat you - they can't meet your gaze, they can't look at you straight. There's a lesson beyond all this."
Yeah. Brush thoroughly.
Nashville Tennessean, Wednesday, Sept. 6, 1995
Former Atlanta debutante Nancy Albert, who obviously loves sight gags, has turned her twisted creative streak into a thriving business by making horrible false teeth.
Albert, 44, has made a name for herself as Dr. Bukk, creator of the hideous dentures. The freelance artist already has made more than $100,000 this year.
"It's fun," she said of her 2-year-old Augusta company. "I just wanted a happy business with happy customers."
She says she wants the teeth to free Americans from the narcissistic shackles of "looking so damn good" and to gross out the physical-perfection snobs "in bars from Buckhead across the whole United States."
More than 8,000 people have paid $40 each for a pair of Dr. Bukk's dentures. One testimonial says, "Not since the battery-powered severed head has there been a more wonderful creation."
John Barrett, a 32-year-old Wall Street financial consultant for Merrill Lynch, has sent Dr. Bukk several hundred dollars worth of business by word of mouth.
"I got married last July and along with cuff links, I bought each of my groomsmen a pair of Dr. Bukks," Barrett said. "At the wedding the seven groomsmen, my 5-year-old nephew and my father-in-law all had them in."
Until she began a mail-order business, Ms. Albert fitted people on her couch. They would lie down until the mold set and come back in two days to pick up the teeth.
To order by mail, her customers bite into a Styrofoam cup or business card and send it to Dr. Bukk. Or they can fax a copy of the imprint, with the indentations darkened. The dentures come with instructions on how to mold them to fit snugly.
"Now, the whole United States is my oyster," said Ms. Albert, who grew up in Atlanta's wealthy Buckhead section.
Wearers of the teeth earn membership in the "Bukk Fambly Bible," but are required to create a new name for themselves while they wear the teeth. "Once you is fitted, you is so changed, you is borned-agin!"
Members of the Dr. Bukk family include NFL quarterback Dan Marino, Singer Jimmy Buffett, Air Force Capt. Scott O'Grady, Wyoming Congresswoman Barbara Cubin and Olympic gold medal skier Tommy Moe.
Ledger Enquirer, Columbus Ga. Aug. 17, 1995
By RODGER BROWN
Since 1989, Nancy (Dr. Bukk) Albert has cast more than 8,000 sets of plastic Hollywood Style Fake teeth in the kitchen of her Augusta, Ga. home. Bukk teeth, as in buckteeth, have model names like Gnarly, Mongrel, Zipper and Incest.
The demented dentata have become popular props for a cult of Southern well-breds who appear at dance clubs as clod-hopping inbreds. Maybe they're working out a sense of Southern inferiority. Or maybe the teeth are just the dental version of a redneck joke. Folks with bad teeth are among the few remaining acceptable targets of nasty humor.
Last year, Dr. Bukk took in $98,000, gross. Jimmy Buffett, the singer, has teeth, as members of the Dr. Bukk "fambly" say. Dan Marino, the Miami Dolphins quarterback, has teeth. Even Capt. Scott O'Grady, the Air Force pilot who was rescued from Bosnia, bought Dr. Bukk's Sukkula model. The set was shipped to his air base in Italy in May.
New York Times Magazine, July 23, 1995
By ELIZABETH SNEAD
Look out, pretty faces! An ugly backlash is ready to bite: grotesque, parody dentures.
Rotted-looking, crooked custom-made acrylic choppers are changing smiles nationwide. Faux fang fans have one thing in common - an offbeat sense of humor (singer Jimmy Buffett has two sets).
Disgusting dentures are the creation of Sister Albert (known as Dr. Bukk), wife of Georgia State Sen. Frank Albert. Their popularity in her neck of the woods has spawned a mail-order operation. Smile and bite a business card. Mail it with $60 to Dr. Bukk....
Styles include "gnarly," "incest," (emerging tooth with gum blister), and others. You can eat and drink in them. But you probably can't keep a straight face.
USA Today, Jan. 4, 1991