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a) A nose job with a chisel and a chicken bone
b) Double chin surgery with a bread knife and a vacuum cleaner
c) Lip augmentation with an injection of “sexual lubricant”
3. What does “auto-enucleation” mean?
a) Deliberately exposing yourself to radiation
b) Gouging out your own eyes
c) When you body rejects an anaesthetic
4. In Medieval times, who did you go to for surgery?
a) A barber
b) A blacksmith
c) A carpenter
5. Which of these famous medical cases resulted in death…
a) The man who removed his own pacemaker
b) The man who deliberately cycled into the back of a truck to fracture his jaw, so it could be reset in a “more attractive” way
c) The woman who tried to give herself liposuction by cutting her thighs and squeezing out the fat
General Practise
6
Dr. Ozzy’s A-to-Z of Uncommon Complaints
Every day, people write to me about the craziest shit you’ve ever heard in your life. A lot of the questions are so far-out, it’s impossible to sort them into any normal categories. That’s why I’ve put all the whacky stuff into this chapter and listed them alphabetically—so if you swallow a te
A.
Dear Dr. Ozzy:
My dog, Clive (a Labrador), seems awfully glum, to the point where it’s begi
Doggie Prozac—ask your vet about it. Personally, the only doggie depression I’ve ever experienced is the feeling I get after one of my four-legged friends takes a dump behind the sofa.
Dear Dr. Ozzy:
Every night I go to bed with my dog, Ozzy (named after you), but wake up at 4am. I really want to stay in bed longer, but no matter what I do, I can’t get back to sleep. Is this something to do with Ozzy, do you think? Please help, it’s driving me crazy.
I don’t see how one dog could be much of an issue—I go to bed with 17 dogs, plus about 20 mobile phones, and the wife. It sounds to me more like you’ve got a sleep disorder. I’ve had the same problem for years, so I got someone to come over to the house one evening, put all these electrode things on my head, hook them up to a computer, and see what was going on in my brain. He was up all night, this guy, twiddling his knobs and studying his graphs—he must be a raging insomniac himself—and when the results came back, my doc put me on a mild anti-depressant which helps me nod-off easier. It beats sleeping pills. Or whacking myself on the head with a mallet.
B.
Dear Dr. Ozzy:
Is it true that humans use only 10 per cent of their brains, or is this just another one of those stupid myths?
I fucking hope that ain’t the case, ’cos I’ve only got about ten per cent of my brain left. By your definition, that means I’m ru
Dear Dr. Ozzy:
My breath is really bad—to the point where I can’t talk to people who are close to me. I’m a student here in Ghana, and I find it difficult even just to say “Hello” to friends on campus, because I just don’t want to embarrass myself. Please Dr. Ozzy, I need your help…
A long time ago, I made a pact with my wife: if my breath is bad, she has to tell me—and vice versa. Obviously no-one needs to break the news to you, Emmanuel. By the sound of it, when you open your mouth, the sun gags. My guess is that the problem is being caused by one of two things: something very nasty in your gut, or gum disease. If I were you, my first stop would be a dentist—although you might want to give her some advance warning, so she can put on a rubber suit and face mask, and light a few candles around the room first. In the meantime, try Euthymol, an old English brand of toothpaste, which makes you feel like you just gargled with gasoline and lit a match. Also buy some ultra-strength mouthwash, like Listerine, and get yourself a tongue scraper.
Dear Dr. Ozzy:
A friend told me that burping too hard can rip a hole in your stomach, is this true?
No. I wouldn’t have any stomach left if that were the case. In fact, I once saw a bloke on telly who could talk and burp at the same time. I tried to do it myself once, but ended up puking into Sharon’s handbag. Lesson: some things are best left to the professionals.
Dear Dr. Ozzy:
My husband and I have developed such a paralyzing fear of bedbugs that we’ve become like prisoners in our own home. How can we get over our paranoia?
I’ve never had a problem with bedbugs—probably ’cos they take one sip of my blood and drop dead from all the toxic shit in there. But I understand your concern: no-one wants to wake up with a thousand little red bite marks on their ballsack. Just bear in mind that bedbugs aren’t the worst thing in the world. I’m about to go to South America, for example, and I’m told they have these “kissing spiders”: they crawl up your body and onto your face, squat over your lips, secrete an anaesthetic, suck out the blood, take a dump, then scamper away back to their holes. Meanwhile, the spider crap contains a kind of bacteria that literally eats your heart out. I’m so freaked out about it, I’m probably go
C.
Dear Dr. Ozzy:
In the past five years, I’ve had two hip operations, throat cancer, and now a serious heart problem. As a result of chemo and radiotherapy I can eat only liquid food through a syringe into my stomach, and sex is impossible because of the beta blockers I take for my ticker. Thankfully I can still drink beer, but otherwise I’m rapidly losing my sense of humour, which isn’t like me. How can I cheer myself up?