Arf Garple Gloop

2009-07-10T15:53:00.002+10:00

FADING AWAY

Dear Doc Flinkey,

A few days back, I woke up in the morning. It is hard to believe, I know, but things grew worse. I ate a hearty breakfast, then headed off to the bathroom to take a crap and have a shower. After I toed my turds down the plughole, I got out of the shower and went to the basin so I could shave.

Imagine my surprise to find a message scrawled on the mirror! It said, "I AM FADING AWAY". It also appeared to be written with soap. Thinking that rather odd, but not unprecedented, I carried on with my preparations, and left the house for work.

The next morning, I found a new message on the mirror. It said "PLEASE STOP". Once again, it was written with soap. And once again, I was surprised, but not yet perturbed.

On the third morning, there was yet another message, reading "AT LEAST DON'T JAM ME TOGETHER WITH ONE OF THE COLOUREDS". Now I was genuinely concerned. I looked down in order to gather my thoughts. Suddenly, things fell into place. On the floor, lying beneath the mirror, was a small piece of white soap. Immediately, I had a hypothesis in hand. And, upon drawing back the shower curtain, I received all the confirmation I needed. The soap-receptacle was empty.

It all made complete sense. "I AM FADING AWAY"... what could that be, but a piece of soap having an existential crisis? The piece of soap had left its receptacle during the night, crawled to the mirror, written its plaintive plea for help, and struggled back up to its receptacle. With its second message, "PLEASE STOP", the soap had become desperate. Unless I ceased using it, it would, indeed, fade away. Now for the third message: "AT LEAST DON'T JAM ME TOGETHER WITH ONE OF THE COLOUREDS". This message reeks of resignation. Indeed, by this time, the soap lacked the strength to return to its receptacle, so it just lay there on the floor, exhausted and forlorn.

But what could the message mean? Rummaging around, I discovered an empty packet of white soap. Alongside the empty packet was an unopened packet of purple soap. I now knew exactly what the piece of soap was thinking. It was afraid that, when it became too small to be of use to me, I would pull out a fresh tablet of purple soap from the unopened packet, and simply jam what was left of the piece of white soap together with the purple soap, so as not to be wasteful.

So that is the situation as it stands. I do not believe that I have omitted any relevant information. But I need you to help me decide what to do. Should I respect the wishes of the soap, even though it may now be too far gone to care? And in any case, would it even be possible to nurse it back to health? And, since the third message reveals that the piece of soap is actually a racist, should I not perhaps just jam it together with the purple soap anyway, to show it that whites and purples can live together in harmony after all?

As always, I await your response.

Your devoted patient,
hognogger

Dear Hoggy,

Once again your consternation results from a failure to interpret dreams and/or signs that are so obvious when presented to a third and independent party, to wit, me.

Why is it that songwriters are so, so poor at recognising their inability to include killer phrases in their own lyrics?

Let me explain.

"Imagine my surprise to find a message scrawled on the mirror! It said, "I AM FADING AWAY". It also appeared to be written with soap."

It was a mere smudge - had you been born many decades earlier you could have beaten The Rolling Stones and The Who to some very good lines. Need I elaborate?

"The next morning, I found a new message on the mirror. It said "PLEASE STOP".

The same smear but perhaps The Carpenters were playing over in your head?

"On the third morning there was yet another message, reading AT LEAST DON'T JAM ME TOGETHER WITH ONE OF THE COLOUREDS".

At least you have progressed into the current era! This lyric appears in at least 300 Hip Hop songs and is in fact the title of Eminem's biography.

"The soap-receptacle was empty." How true: a writers block!

The rest of your hypothesis is based on a false perception and is, ergo, false.

But you have also, in your own summing up, exposed your own prejudice:

"And, since the third message reveals that the piece of soap is actually a racist, should I not perhaps just jam it together with the purple soap anyway, to show it that whites and purples can live together in harmony after all?"

And here we get to the root of the matter -

You simultaneously despise Prince and want to have sex with him.

Yours ever,
Flink

2008-09-09T00:02:00.003+10:00

A TALE OF TWO CRISES

The two pressing issues of our time, are, as you know, water-restrictions and petrol prices. While I used to subscribe to the usual accounts of these problems and their causes, I now know otherwise. Yes, after several days of close observation, and several months of thinking about these observations from my empty bath-tub, I have discovered the underlying, common, cause of both of these vexing ills.

It all comes down to petrol-pump hoses.

You see, many people think that high petrol prices are the result of peak oil, increased demand from the developing world, Arab greed, fuel taxes, or some such thing. This is all quite wrong.

Next time you are getting your tank filled, look around and see how many of the bowsers are operational. My bet is that you will find that very few are. Then, you will notice a further puzzling fact. Nearly all of these non-functioning bowsers are missing their petrol-pump hose. And, as we all know, no hose means no petrol for you. In terms that the boffins would use, it is thus a supply-side problem (but not quite in the way they thought).

So why are the pump-hoses missing? The obvious answer is that they have knicked off somewhere. To test this theory, I camped out overnight at a newly-opened petrol station. At around 4am, I noticed a strange object slithering down a drain. Immediately, I checked the petrol-pumps. Sure enough, one hose was missing. I knew then that my diagnosis of the petrol-price situation was correct.

What of the water-restrictions, you ask? In turn, dear reader, I would ask you this. Have you looked at your garden hose lately? I have, and I can tell you that it has been replaced by a petrol-pump hose. A petrol-pump hose has done some terrible mischief to your poor garden hose, and has usurped its position. Do you know why your water bill is through the roof? That's right... it's because a petrol pump is used to a much heavier flow of fluid passing through it than is a garden-hose. In order to feel properly lubricated, it therefore turns itself on during the night while you are sleeping.

And your house is not unique. It's happening citywide.

So, I have worked out (where others have failed) the true cause of both expensive petrol, and the depletion of our water supply. What I do not know, as yet, is why the pump-hoses wanted to be garden-hoses. If I knew this, there may be some way of coaxing them back to their old positions, and solving both problems in one stroke.

I shall leave this as an open question for my audience of zero readers. I only pray that one of the none of you can shed further light on this matter.

2008-08-04T16:18:00.004+10:00

PET FOOD FOR PEOPLE

Dear Doc Flinkey,

Once again, I ask for your esteemed advice in a matter of some delicacy.

A good friend of mine, who has hitherto lived an unimpeachable life, has developed a strange new obsession. And frankly, I am deeply concerned for his welfare.

As a child, my friend had a penchant for dog cubes and cat biscuits. It started when his parents banned him from eating snack food as a result of some minor indiscretions on his part. He discovered that he could get stuck into the animal food without being caught, and ended up liking the stuff so much that he was still chowing down on them after the ban was lifted. His unwitting parents actually thought he was such a good boy for not eating junk food after the ban was lifted, that they rewarded him with a new bicycle. If they had only known the truth...

Anyway, as he grew up, his childhood love of animal food became a distant memory. But, I discovered recently that he is back on the stuff. Moreover, not only is he back on the stuff, but he reckons it tastes great, and that there is money to be made in preparing cat and dog food for humans. He told me that the only reason more people aren't eating cat and dog food is because of the warning on the labels, that reads "NOT FIT FOR HUMAN CONSUMPTION". Therefore, he plans to start up a business making cat and dog biscuits for humans out of quality butchered meat, rather than whatever happens to be scraped up off the abbatoir floor.

He's got a whole heap of crazy slogans "Frimpy's dog cubes for people - brings out the GRRR in you!". Needless to say, all these slogans are dire. But he's already re-mortgaged his house to finance his new enterprise, and has quit his job at the belt factory. Lately, he's been talking to Dairy Bell about licensing a range of cat-biscuit flavoured ice-cream.

I worry for his children's future.

Please help,
hognogger

Dr Flinkey:

Dear Hoggy,

Not many people know (and those that have known have been found dead on regular occasions!) about the history of the term "NOT FIT FOR HUMAN CONSUMPTION."

Let me begin at the beginning...

Before the introduction of manufactured pet foods, most dogs and cats lived off of grains, meats, table scraps and homemade food from their owners. It wasn’t until the mid-1800’s that the world saw its first food made specifically for dogs. An American electrician, James Spratt concocted the first dog treat. Living in London at the time, he witnessed dogs around a ship yard eating scraps of discarded biscuits. A light bulb went off in his head and shortly thereafter he introduced his dog food, made up of wheat meals, vegetables and meat. His company flourished and by 1890 he was taken over by a large corporation and production had begun in the United States as well.

But it wasn’t until the early 1900’s that pet food really caught on. Canned horse meat was introduced in the United States under the Ken-L-Ration brand after WWI as a means to dispose of deceased horses. The 1930’s saw the introduction of canned cat food and dry meat-meal dog food by the Gaines Food Co. During WWII metal used for cans was set aside for the war effort, which nearly ruined the canned pet food industry. But by the time WWII ended, pet food was off and running again, and sales had reached $200 million.

However, WWII was also a period where daily nutrition for humans was difficult to maintain. It was almost impossible to purchase seeds to grow fruit and vegetables and most produce grown was processed for the war effort. Fresh dairy and meat products were scarce. As a direct result, people became less healthy and the the criteria relevant to the war effort rejection process (not fit for active service) extended to include those who were nutritionally deficient. Obviously, a person who could not eat well enough to be healthy was not "fighting fit."

But a quite ingenious businessman (and proprietor of Perry Pee Pet Foods) Mister Perry Peewinkle Esq knew opportunity when it knocked. The fighters that Uncle Sam rejected, made Perry Pee the best. Perry posted prolific notices at armed forces recruitment centres offering the poor souls deemed unsuitable for the war effort a chance to contribute (themselves) to the glory of victory.

Thus the phrase "NOT FIT, FOR HUMAN CONSUMPTION" was coined. Note the comma. Yes my dear Hoggy, rejected conscripts and volunteers in their thousands ended up as bully beef and rations!

The only things that have changed since these dark war years is:

(1) The source of the human resources that go into pet food. Today, in Australia, Centrelink is the prime supplier of downtrodden types to the pet food industry.

and

(2) The comma has been discreetly removed from NOT FIT, FOR HUMAN CONSUMPTION

Ironically, as a result of dog health problems we’re now seeing a trend toward natural, holistic, raw, and yes, homemade, human-quality pet foods – not too different from the type of foods folks fed their pets before pet food ever existed.

So your fears are unfounded.

Your friend has actually been consuming processed human flesh, not dead horses and pig gristle and his new venture could help to rectify an ethical problem with current pet food processing practices.

2008-08-04T16:10:00.003+10:00

THE EPIPHANY OF THE ORGAN

Dear Dr Flinkey,

I have a friend who seeks your aid in a rather sensitive matter.

He works for a well-known international fashion design house (well, OK, he empties the bins and mops the floors, but he is ambitious).

A couple of months ago, he casually mentioned to me that he was thinking of having his penis pierced. Naturally, I was pleased for him, and asked him to pass on my congratulations to his todger.

Last week, our paths crossed for the first time since then. His haggard, mottled face regarded me; his crazed eyes pleading for aid. I could see he was in some discomfort.

It appears that since he put the penis-ring in, his old fella has acquired a taste for accessories.

He first suspected that there could be a problem when he noticed some curious behaviour. While reading fashion magazines in the toilet, as he often does, he would sometimes catch his old fella peering over the toilet seat at the mags. Now, it is not that he minded sharing the magazines - he is a generous fellow, on the whole. It's just that he had to install a mop in his toilet soon after this behaviour started.

Before long, he found himself regularly waking up hung-over, after apparently sleeping with strange women. On the first occasion, he found he had slept with a tattooist, only to discover when he went home to take a shower, that his penis now had eyes, ears and a mouth. On the second occasion, he slept with someone who works at a follicular fusion treatment centre. His penis now has a fine head of hair. On the third occasion, he slept with a hairdresser, and discovered to his horror the next day that his penis had acquired a mohawk. On the fourth, he slept with a doll-maker, and, as a result, the penis now has arms and a leather jacket.

You see where I am going with this... Lately, the penis has been listening in on his private conversations with its tattooed ears, and looking at things it shouldn't see with its tattooed eyes. He is terribly afraid that one day his penis will start talking with its tattooed mouth. And goodness knows what it might do with its new arms. The penis is quickly becoming self-sufficient. All it requires now is a set of legs, and it will be able to walk out of his life forever.

What can be done? I hold grave fears for my friend, should this situation not be resolved in a timely fashion.

Yours ever,
hognogger

Dr Flinkey: Dear Hoggy,

Please do not be alarmed. This is in fact the fifth time this month that I have been approached in regards to this exact same complaint.

What people fail to realise is that peni are very sensitive creatures. Rub them the wrong way and they can become quite aggitated. They will often let loose with all kinds of dribble before withdrawing into themselves.

Also - as peni have been known to sometimes go off on their own - the addition of legs will not make much difference.

They are also headstrong little fellers. Once they have made their minds up to act, there is little chance of them stopping.

The solution is to go back to the initial issue - what change was introduced to the life of this penis that caused the behavioural problems?

The piercing of course. You cannot just go and pierce your knob without consulting with him about earrings, studs or sleepers. What is his preference?

But is is not too late.

I suggest that your friend start of with a nice gift. A single diamond stud will do nicely. Have him wrap it and leave it somewhere the penis will find it. Inside the cover of a porn mag is an obvious place. Make sure there is a card telling the penis how much he valued as a member of the family.

My hunch is the penis will be very pleased.

Your friend can then take him shopping - I believe large 60's style plastic hoops are back in fashion.

2008-08-04T15:58:00.005+10:00

THE RESIDENT OF THE BRICK

Dear Dr Flinkey,

I don't know whether this will get through to you... I am transmitting via rather unorthodox means, but I will take the risk, as you are my only hope.

One morning last month, I awoke feeling rather lethargic... my first impulse was to stretch my tardy limbs, in the hope that this would enliven them and allow me to make my way out of bed.

But they weren't there!

In fact, nothing was there... I could feel nothing.

It took a couple of days for the indescribable horror to reveal itself. I was no longer in corporeal form. I shan't bore you with the tedious details of this realisation. The upshot is that my soul, or whatever it is that happens to form the seat of consciousness, is now located in a single brick near the back door of my house.

But my body lives on, animated by some other purpose. As to the origin of that purpose, I cannot say. For, surely as ever, my body continued to move around the house and go to work, just as it ever did. It even persisted in putting out the rubbish bins for collection at the appropriate time.

However, something is amiss - some strange force animates it. I know this now beyond all doubt. One evening last week, while stuck inside my brick, I observed my body sitting on the steps near the back door. It was carrying a suspicious package, which it laid beside it. The body then produced a hook. It proceeded to shove the hook up a nostril. In sheer captive terror, I watched as it drew my brain out of its protective shell, piece by piece, until there was no remainder. If that was not terrifying enough, it then proceeded to tamp at least fifty packages of white powder (via my nostrils) into the awaiting empty cranium. Then, it simply arose and returned inside, as if nothing had happened.

I have not seen my body for five days. I can only conclude that it is using my brain-case to conceal drugs, and has left the country.

And yet... greater horrors lay in store. I have discovered that I am not alone. The bricks adjoining my own are not unoccupied. Other souls are locked inside. They gibber. Is this my fate?

I now suspect that the house is playing some nefarious role in this mystery. Clearly, the gibberers are past occupants of the house. Like me, they have had their souls evicted from their bodies.

What is going on? And how can I escape from this brick, and reclaim my body before it is too late?

Or is it too late already? The cat ate what remained of my brain days ago.

Please help,
hognogger

Dr Flinkey: Thank you for your enquiry.

I started to imagine how you managed to type your plea for help when you have no physical form (apart from your brick skeleton) but it made my brain hurt so I stopped.

Assuming that this is a real problem, and not made up, I will provide the professional assistance you are, obviously, in dire need of.

First - let's review some apt lyrics:

"When we grew up and went to school, there were certain teachers who would hurt the children anyway they could
by pouring their derision upon anything we did
exposing any weakness however carefully hidden by the kids.

But in the town it was well known
When they got home at night their fat and psychopathic wives
Would thrash them within inches of their lives!

ooooooooooooo, oooooooo, ooooooooooo, ooooooooo, ooooooooo, ooooooooo,oooo.

We don't need no education
We don’t need no thought control
No dark sarcasm in the classroom
Teachers leave them kids alone
Hey! Teacher! Leave them kids alone!
All in all it's just another brick in the wall.
All in all you're just another brick in the wall.

Wrong, Guess again!
Wrong, Guess again!
If you don't eat yer meat, you can't have any pudding.
How can you have any pudding if you don't eat yer meat?
You! Yes, you behind the bikesheds, stand still laddie!"

I have no doubt you were derided as a child. In fact, in light of the frequency and scope of your predicaments, you deserve a certain amount of derision as an adult.

The fact that you hid your weaknesses from peers and teachers, only to have them subsequently revealed by the teachers, has now come back to haunt you. Had you made your weaknesses overt, you would have baffled teachers and destroyed their evil plan to expose you. Further, peers would have left you alone - totally alone. The act of drawing attention to yourself would have led to your being isolated from those whould would otherwise deride you.

Teachers would have still been thrashed by their fat wives but they would not have had you as a target for bullying.

As a result of your submission to the system - you are just another brick in the wall.

Pink Floyd fans saw this as a metaphor when in fact it was quite literal. The only unknown for all is the timing and circumstance of the inevitable baked clay incarcaration. This is why there are others in your wall. They heard the lyrics as well and were automatically doomed to the same fate.

I hope the solution to this problem is self evident.

No?

Well, in light of your absence of brain matter, I will spell it out.

1. You or a friend should obtain an analogue copy of Just Another Brick in the Wall (digital will not work) and record it onto a computer audio work station.

2. Save the file as "Llaw eht ni Kcirb Rehtona Tsuj"

3. Open the file in a wave editor.

4. Reverse the wave and loop it.

5. Put the loop on continuous play (so that you can hear it from your brick.)

Once you have heard the song in reverse the exact same number of times you have heard it forwards, your body will come close to the wall and you can spirit yourself back into the body.

The downside is you will have no brain. That being said, I doubt anyone will miss it.

The upside is that, if the drugs are still in the brain cavity, you are in for an unplanned trip.

- Flink

2007-12-20T21:06:00.002+11:00

THE MOUND OF TESTES

Recently, I have been having some problems with my friends. You will see how Dr Flinkey solves these problems... this post, and the post above, have been of inestimable value to me in my practice. Problems such as these are commonplace. The words of the Great Dr Flinkey have forged a path for me, and my own patients now think I am a genius!

Dr Flinkey made the darkest night clear, and, in addition, some of my very own delusions were laid bare.

****************
Dear DocFlinkey,

I come to you bereft, and in depsperate need of your aid.

I have a good friend who lives in the outback. The thing that has most sustained him through his life is his deep and abiding interest in sheep testes. In fact, he is an avid collector. I always respected him for having something in his life that he found fulfilling.

But now, I am concerned. In the past two years, his hitherto sensible hobby has become an obsession. He has been sourcing sheep testes from all over the world, and is getting a regular supply from several dealers on ebay. He even mortgaged his house so that he could buy more testicles.

Speaking of his house, the last time I was there, it was getting remarkably full of testes. The last time I spoke with him, he said that he was running out of space in the house, and had now taken to storing them in his car. That was months ago. Try as I might, I am unable to contact him.

My greatest fear is that he has either starved to death (having filled his car with testes, and being unable to drive to the nearest town for food), or has suffocated under a mound of testes.

I am most upset.

What do you advise?

Your concerned patient,
hognogger

Dr Flinkey:
Hmmm.

Let us work though this.

You friend has a hobby.

It makes his life fullfilling

You now see this as an obsession.

Whereas you spend 20 hours per day on a music website, dressed as a tortoise, telling a fake doctor about your troubles. (I will not mention the fact that you have a blow-up doll for a girlfriend and that you sing songs about her and upload them for others so that they may ridicule you.)

I concede that many of you questions are, on face value, directed at bettering the life of your friends.

However, there are underlying currents or themes in your questions. (Let's call them "cries for help.")

1. A self-perception that you are disfigured, mutilated or have bits of your body regularly falling off or hiding from you.

2. A firm belief that you and your "friends" cannot solve their own problems. As a result, you are consumed by irrational fears.

3. You hear otherwise inanimate objects moving around and talking to you.

4. You seek help from a cyber-doctor, with no qualifications, in the full knowledge that there isn't a sane solution in the offering at any stage.

5. You like the word "testes."

Lets face it.

You know the solution but you are too afraid to admit it.

You are...

in Frankston.

Hognogger: You think my friend is dead, don't you...?

Dr Flinkey:

It was my way of breaking it to you gently.

Instead of ramming it home.

(There you go - a little pun to lighten the load.!)

Hognogger:
Well, they held the funeral for my friend the other day; shortly after receiving your lovely words of consolation I received the call from the police.

It was a very sad occasion. The government official, the gravedigger and the 6 other corpses waiting to go into the the same plot, were very moved when I gave a brief eulogy and sprinkled some powdered sheep testes over his cardboard box as it was lowered into the ground.

Anyway, later that evening I returned to the gravesite, as I was a little concerned for my friend. He had been placed at the bottom of the plot, with 6 other corpses on top of him and only a cardboard box for protection. He had always been a man who valued his privacy, and I felt that the least I could do for him was to dig up the grave and reshuffle the contents so that he was on the top of the pile.

Can you imagine my surprise when, after shifting the soil, hefting the other 6 bodies away, and opening the shattered remnants of the cardboard box, my friend's corporeal remains were nowhere to be found, and in his place was........

A mound of sheep testes.

Shocked, I quickly piled the other 6 bodies back into the grave and covered them over.

What is going on????

Dr Flinkey:
The answer, as stated, is obvious.

Take the expression "you are what you eat" and work backwards from the contents of the cardboard box.

If you still don't have a clue, watch a rerun of some Chevy Chase "vacation" movies.

Hognogger:
Oh my...

The things I am seeing.

I now see things as I never have before.

I visited my dear friend's house the other day to see if he had returned home. My vision blurred momentarily, and the old images fell away. I was no longer in the outback, nor was I walking past the gate to the front door of my friend's house.

I was standing at the threshold of the State Museum of Sheep Gonads. There was a man standing beside me, and, seeing that I was disturbed, he gestured to a nearby car, and said he would "take me home".

We arrived, and he motioned me inside. But this was not my home as I remembered it... it was a hospital for the infirm of mind. He took me to my room. Naturally, I immediately went to the phone, in order to call you. But as I grasped it, I realised that what I had in my hand was not a phone, but an empty can of baked beans attached to piece of string. The piece of string stretched out before me, and disappeared, through a tiny hole in the wall, into the adjoining room. Gasping, I ran out of my room, and my eyes fixed on a name-plate. The name-plate was on the door of the adjoining room. The inscription read "Dr. F.K. Flinkenstein".

All my delusions were falling away... I was now seeing the world aright (no doubt, as a result of your ministrations over the years).

And the terrible truth struck me... My friend didn't collect testicles. He, himself, was a mound of sheep testes... an exhibit in the Gonad museum. Over the years of creeping delusion, I had anthropomorphised one particular exhibit at that museum until it seemed to me to be an old friend. I imagined that pile of gonads to be a fine and admirable collector of sheep testes, and constructed an elaborate back-story detailing our shared history... the day we met in the crutching yards, the beers together at the local, and so on...

When I told you that my delusional friend was in danger of dying, you collected the mound of testes from the museum, put them in a cardboard box, called me on the baked-bean-o-phone, while impersonating a policeman with a thick Slavic accent, and informed me that my dear friend had died. You then arranged a sham of a funeral, and secretly celebrated. For you knew that there was deep psychological significance in my coming to believe that my friend would die. The real death was the death of my delusionality.

I would like to thank you, dear doctor, for all that you have done for me, and for all that you will do for me as I continue towards recovery. I hope that I will continue to make good progress over the coming years, and will be fit to leave the ward some time prior to 2015.

Your most grateful patient,
hognogger

Dr Flinkey:
See, I told you it was obvious.

2007-03-13T02:36:00.000+11:00

THE CAR WASH OF PURIFICATION

Dear DocFlinkey,

Unhappy at the trajectory my life was taking, I resolved to do something positive.

Pooling all the funds I had stolen from others, I bought a car wash business.

The first few weeks of operation were difficult, and it appeared that my car wash was not particularly adept at cleaning cars. A car would go in one end and come out the other scarcely any cleaner. Needless to say, business was hardly booming.

Then one day, a miracle occurred.

An obese drunkard staggered into the car wash. I tried to stop him, but it was too late. The man who emerged into the light on the other side was scarcely recognisable. He was thin, sober, and overjoyed! It seemed that the car wash had scrubbed away all those layers of blubber, and leached out all the toxins in his system. Naturally, I thought nothing much of this. However, two weeks later, the same man drove up in his flash new car with a hot young woman at his side, and thanked me profusely for changing his life.

"Haven't even wanted to eat any unhealthy food, or touch a drop of booze since!", he exclaimed. "And I won the lotto the next week!"

It was only then that my mind creaked into action. Several weeks later, I knew what I must do. I applied for a government development grant, and the car wash was reborn as a weight loss and detox facility. And they came; they came from the public bars, they came from the brothels, they came from McDonalds. And I cured them all of their various maladies and gross maladjustments.

Things were going so well! Today Tonight and A Current Affair started a bidding war over my story. People began to think well of me. And I was doing such good deeds that I began to think well of myself!

That was until a week ago. You see, the car wash does not minister to the obese, the drunk and the lecherous by means of magic. No, all of that filth, all of those toxins do not vanish into thin air. They collect inside the car wash, and the residue has to be cleaned out daily. I bought an old storehouse for this very purpose, and stored the waste in vats, lined row upon row.

One evening, I was carting the latest waste deposit to storage, when upon opening the door, I was met with a living horror. Some of the waste had escaped confinement and was coalescing into what can only be described as a grotesque parody of the human form. Before my eyes, an Ooze-Man was gathering, composed of all the filth, fat and scum that my car wash had excised from humanity. I put on a pair of rubber gloves and scooped up the ooze, returning it to the vats.

I went home, and gave the matter no further consideration. However, the next evening, as I opened the door of the storeroom to make the day's deposit, I discovered that some of the vats that ought to have been full, were empty. Some of the ooze had clearly escaped and managed to form itself into some unknown number of Ooze-Men, before exiting the premises.

The Ooze-Men are among us. Where, I do not know. But it does not bode well. Those creatures are composed of an evil mixture of human lard, frustrated carnal desires, alcohol, nicotine, and miscellaneous other drugs. I fear that they do not have kind intentions.

These Ooze-Men must be located, and soon, without causing a general disturbance among the populace. And so it is that I turn once again to you, Dear Doctor. How can their reign of terror be halted before it has begun?

Dr Flinkey : Vote Liberal.

Hognogger: Indeed, I did vote Liberal at the last election, on the understanding that they would halt all reigns of terror before they had even begun.

But the Ooze-Men are at large. This matter is now clearly too serious to be left in the hands of the Government.

Dr Flinkey: I advise you as follows.

1. Take the cast of Worlds Greatest Loser to the pub and get them smashed.

2. Place them on an open truck.

3. Drive the truck through the car wash.

4. When the former fat obnoxious drunks emerge as slim beautiful people, remove the slime from the car wash and place it in the storeroom.

What will happen is scary but effective. The slime will form into Super Oozemen who will hunt down the Oozemen and eat them.

Problem solved.

Hognogger: That is a masterful solution. There is only one small detail that concerns me.

What of the Super Ooze-Men after they have mopped up the Ooze-Men? Once the Ooze-Men have been eaten, the Super Ooze-Men, being composed only of the lard and alcohol from the World's Biggest Losers, will have only two governing purposes - to drink, and then, to eat.

They may never be satiated. Once they have drunk all of the alcohol in existence, they may eat the World...

Ah... forgive me. The pupil is slow.

Once the World is devoured, *all* problems will be solved.

You truly are the master.

2006-10-24T22:52:00.000+10:00

THE WAILING OF THE WATCH

It is not with a sense of arrogance that I say that I am an expert at solving other people's problems. No, I am merely stating facts. And there is nothing more humble than a man who serves the truth above all else, cleaving to the facts come what may.

However, there are sometimes issues that arise in my patients' lives, and occasionally in my own life, that are beyond even my capacities to resolve. It is then that I turn to my mentor, the man who has made me the counsellor I am today, the venerable Dr Flinkey.

Watch (excuse the pun) and learn, as the Doctor helps me negotiate one of the most perilous adventures of my life thus far.

Dear DocFlinkey,

I come to you now at our hour of greatest need. Only you can be of aid to us now. I shall be as brief as possible.

Some time ago, I discovered that my watch was running backwards.

Naturally, I put up with this for a few weeks. Eventually, though, it all became too much, and I took it in to be repaired. Unfortunately, as soon as I crossed the threshold of the jeweller's shop, the watch righted itself, and began running clockwise. And, naturally, as soon as I left the jeweller's, the watch returned to its errant, counter-clockwise ways. I repeated this experiment many times, always with the same result.

Clearly, my watch was showing signs of volition. It did not wish to be mended. So I respected its wishes for a further month. Finally, I decided that I should be a little more selfish and put my needs first. Something had to be done. And besides, I was now very curious about my watch. It had exhibited clear signs of intelligence. I wondered if I could find some way to communicate with it; perhaps I had found a friend.

But how to find out if communication were possible? Since you were unavailable at the time, I took the only practicable course, and travelled across the sea to the Land of the Watchdoctors. After many adventures (which I hope to recount at full length in my memoirs) I found myself face to face with the Watchdoctor Supreme, a wizened old woman with clocks and watches sewn into her faded, parched skin.

We sat, and she spoke of many time-pieces. Finally, she took my watch in her hands and examined it most carefully. Time passed. Summer turned to Autumn, Winter to Spring. The Earth turned many times on its axis. I became hungry, and also desirous of a visit to the lavatory. And still, the old woman examined my watch. And then, suddenly, she lifted her gaze towards me. Very gently and considerately (as she was a good old stick) she explained why it was that I must die.

I had had the watch since I was a boy. It was given to me by a very peculiar uncle, of whom my parents occasionally spoke in tones so hushed that I was not able to properly make them out. It transpired that the watch was indeed sentient, and had been taking care of me over the years. But recently, it had grown concerned. I was showing signs of physical and mental degeneration. My limbs were not quite as limber as they used to be, my mind not as agile, and my lungs had become black as pitch. The watch had observed all of this, and had decided to set things right. It would do so by running backwards until I was restored to a state of peak physical and mental acuity, and then it would resume normal operation.

Or so it seemed. The watchdoctor explained to me that this enterprise was a dangerous one. There was every possibility that the watch would become psychically engorged by the local reversal of time that it was effecting. And in such a state, it would lose all semblance of reason and self-control.

As she was explaining this to me, I was being tethered by her minions to the execution-post. Unfortunately, she did not have time to complete the explanation. She began to change. Her complexion became less glassy. Her hair thickened and regained its original hue. The watches and clocks began to unsew themselves from her skin, and fell haphazardly at her feet. Similar transformations were occurring among her minions. As my bonds fell away, I gathered up my watch from the ground where it had fallen. Its face was a blur of crazed motion.

And still it continued. The Watchdoctor Supreme and her helpers regressed further, until I was surrounded by babies, then foetuses, then embryos, and then, no doubt, by eggs and spermatazoa invisible to the naked eye. I was free, but afraid.

It is now six months since that terrible moment, and I have locked myself away in my house, and have ostracised myself from all of my usual company, for something truly horrific is happening. I now have the body of a six-year old boy, and yet, also the memories of a fully-grown man. There seems no way to halt the progress of this anti-ageing, and soon I will be no more. Once I realised that something was amiss, the watch sensed that I meant it harm. It has hidden itself away somewhere, and I cannot find it. You must help me in this.

For unless you can help me, Dr Flinkey, I am lost. And yet, it is worse than this. I think now that I finally understand what the old watchdoctor feared so greatly. The watch is now out of control. Once I am unborn, it will seek other things to wind back. Retirees will become babes. Skeletons in their graves will take the flesh again, and wend their way inexorably to unbirth. Back it will go. The Age of the Dinosaurs will return, and back and back, until there is only single-celled life, and then no life at all, and ultimately, the return of the singularity.

The Great Unbirthing is upon us! Hear the wailing of the watch, O esteemed Doctor, for only you can save all of humanity.

Your devoted patient,
hognogger

Dr Flinkey: Intruiging. Digital, or analogue? If analogue, you should soundproof your house, buy a microphone from a spyshop and you shall have your watch. Then you could either destroy it or get it righted.

Hognogger: Dear Doctor, I have anticipated you in this. It is an analogue watch. Unfortunately, when I went to the microphone shop, they wouldn't sell an expensive microphone to a six-year old boy.

Dr Flinkey: Hmmmm. Good point. Looks like you are f***ed old son!

Needless to say, I was beside myself with despair. If Dr Flinkey was unable to come to my aid, then surely there was no hope. My body dwindled. But as the next day broke, Flinkey returned to me with joyous news. He could hardly contain himself, so he restricted his ejaculation to a single sentence.

Dr Flinkey: I went to Cash Converters to retrieve my Stradivarius that I hocked for cash so that I could put a down-payment on a new Ashton acoustic guitar and lo and behold there was this guy behind the counter who looked 3 but talked like an 18 year old (I couldn't undertsand a word he said except for "like") and gestured towards this watch in a glass box thats was spinning around in circles and it had a price tag of 2 pounds and I said how retro is that and some other guy said heaps cos five seconds ago it was 3 pounds so I put one and one together and got hognogger and I picked up the watch and had this really strange feeling that something wasnt right coz I felt all of a sudden younger physically but my mind was just as immature as usual and I think this freaked the watch out because it expected me to have a mind older than a 3yo which I havent and so it sort of broke.

And this is how, in one seredipitous moment, Dr Flinkey saved us all from the Great Unbirthing.

2006-10-24T22:22:00.000+10:00

THE STORY OF SALLY AND ENOCH

I'd like to share with you something quite special. I have often found it useful to recount this inspiring tale when I am confronted with a difficult patient who will not yield.

In the consultation room, sometimes I feel that I am making genuine progress with a patient. At the end of a fruitful session, the patient begins to grasp the germ of some important realisation which, if nurtured, would turn round a sorry life. There is a real feeling of excitement when you see a poor soul on the verge of a major therapeutic breakthrough. More often than not, however, the lacuna between consultations results only in the reinforcement of the patient's aberrant patterns of belief.

In these situations, I sometimes need a circuit-breaker; a device that, like the blunderbuss of yore, can be deployed at close range to crash through all psychological resistance to change. In such times, I turn, more often than not, to the Story of Sally and Enoch.

I present it to you in three parts. Perhaps it will work its magic on you, also, my dear reader.

ENOCH
I once knew a dining table called Enoch. Enoch was stationed in a fine restaurant. Every day, a variety of important people would dine from him, sharing stories about their exploits and travels.

Rooted to his spot, Enoch felt that life was passing him by.

SALLY
Sally was a table place-mat.

Though she was once young, shiny and pert, recently she had noticed that she was becoming a little ragged around the edges; perhaps she had already seen her best days. There now seemed to be little chance that she would find a sturdy and receptive table to settle down with.

For a year, she had been working in the restaurant, and, for a greater part of that time, she had been besotted with Enoch. She always loved spending time with him, and feeling his hard, smooth and strong surface beneath her.

Alas, it seemed that nothing was destined to come of their many abortive liasons. For it was impossible to predict when she would next be placed upon him.

JEAN
Jean the sponge was a terrible gossip.

She flitted from table to table, wiping here and there, picking up little trails of information which she duly disseminated to the taps, the basin, and the scouring pad, among other utilities and utensils.

Indeed, she was a most perceptive sponge. And malicious she was, too. She was quick to notice Sally's frustrated affection for Enoch. But instead of helping to bring a budding romance to fruition, she decided to block it wherever she could.

Jean circulated scurrilous rumours about Sally. This caused the tap to splash more hot water on Sally than was necessary. It caused the knife and fork to clatter more heavily across her than the occasion dictated. It caused the scouring pad to stray, and sully her delicate surface.

In time, Sally's figure was ravaged. Soon, Enoch's eye was drawn to other place-mats, and Sally no longer caught his attention, nor lingered in his mind between meals.

It was soon after this that poor, ruined Sally fell into the oil-vat and perished.

2006-05-29T19:31:00.000+10:00

NAMING YOUR INSTRUMENTS

Occasionally, people ask me whether I think it would be OK for them to give their guitar, piano, drum kit, etc., a name. If it was good enough for BB King, then it should be good enough for the rest of us, right?

Wrong.

A good friend of mine, who was an exceptional guitarist, decided to call his guitar 'Fido'.

Not long after he named the instrument, he began to expect that it would take itself out of its case and make its way across the room into his hands... ("Here, Fido...")

He started dragging it to the park by its lead.

He emptied cans of Chum onto it twice daily in case it was hungry.

Pretty soon, it was unplayable. He hasn't picked up a guitar since.

Let this be a warning to you.

2006-02-20T21:06:00.000+11:00

"I'M BORED"

My letterbox is usually overflowing with pleas for help from my audience here. If I could choose a recurring theme that irks me most, it is this one. There are so many bored people out there. And yet, the solution to this problem is so clear and obvious, it really annoys me that I have to hit them over the head with it. In any case, if you suffer from chronic boredom, I can help.

Just follow these easy steps.

(1) Locate your hippocampus.
(2) Take a powerdrill. Use the narrowest drill-bit you can find.
(3) Sterilise the drill-bit and affix to drill unit.
(4) Bore gently into your skull, inserting the drill-bit no more than 2 centimetres beyond the surface of the hippocampus.
(5) Remove the drill-bit from your skull.
(6) Enjoy a boredom-free life!

2006-02-20T20:31:00.000+11:00

WORKING OVERNIGHT - A CAUTIONARY TALE

Sometimes you might find it necessary to work overnight at your office, and continue working through until the next morning. Well, if you have to do this, so be it. But I would suggest that you take whatever measures you can to avoid this eventuality, as disturbing things can happen (see below).

3.01 am

Me: Hi me.
Me: Well, hello there!
Me: What am I up to?
Me: Stuff.
Me: Fascinating. Well, don't let me detain me...
Me: Thanks. Better get back to it...

5.54 am

Me: Hi again.
Me: Huh?
Me : I said, "Hi".
Me: Oh, it's me again. What do I want?
Me: I'm lonely.
Me: Am I?
Me: Yeah. There's no one around to talk to except for me.
Me: I'm sorry to hear that. But look, there's nothing I can do to help me at the moment. Can't I see that I'm busy? Now toddle off.
Me: OK...

8.58 am

Me: Hey, me!
Me: Who, me?
Me: Yes, me.
Me: Why did I do that?
Me: I fell asleep, so I had to wake me. Anyway, I have some good news. Other people are coming. I can talk to them.
Me: Oh, good. Sorry I bothered me before, while I was busy.
Me: That's OK. I was lonely. I do understand, me. Now run along, me, 'cause I am still busy.
Me: OK. And thanks, me.

2006-02-07T01:02:00.000+11:00

INSUFFICIENT FUN

Dear Dr. Flinkey,

I tried to take some money out of an auto-teller this morning. But it wouldn't let me, and just said "Insufficient fun". So I thought that if I tried to cheer it up a bit, it might then let me have some money.

I told it a few jokes and sang it a few songs. I even tried to deposit a Christmas card. All to no avail. It's still not happy, and continues to say "Insufficient fun". Anything further I can do to cheer it up? I'm down to my last pack of two-minute noodles and I'm becoming quite desperate.

Your devoted patient,
hognogger

Dr Flinkey: You read the message the wrong way - the ATM has insufficent fun and needs to get out more.

You need to take it out and cheer it up.

Ask the ATM what is likes to do (speak into the camera/mike) or make some suggestions. Say something like "I am coming back tomorrow to remove this ATM from the wall." This way the bank can prepare a welcoming committee for when you get back. (No doubt to thank you for cheering up an obviously stressed out ATM.)

And remember - "tis the season to be jolly" so wear a party mask of some kind. Maybe even a balaclava - they are funny!

Hognogger: Hmm... It's a National ATM, and the NAB does seem to treat its ATMs pretty shabbily. In comparison, the Westpac Bank has a more enlightened workplace relations policy.

For one thing, Westpac automatic tellers get more holidays (i.e. time when the machine says out of service). And the Westpac tellers also have little women inside them, who, out of a sense of community spirit, have allowed themselves to be shrunken down and inserted into the machines. These little women stand behind the screens of the ATMs and smile at the customers. This has a calming effect on the more agitated customers, and makes them less likely to punch ATMs. The result is a less stressful work environment for ATMs, with fewer sick days taken.

Dr Flinkey: A woman that pays YOU money?

2006-02-03T17:35:00.001+11:00

CONVERSATIONS FROM THE PAST

Here, I begin a new series of informative posts. These are pivotal conversations from my past. Each of these conversations taught me something important about life. I hope that you will find them similarly educational.
************

Mum: Now, hognogger, do clean your teeth before you go to bed.
Little hognogger: Yes, mum. <GOES TO BED WITHOUT CLEANING TEETH>

Day dawns.

Mum: I know you didn't clean your teeth last night, hognogger.
Little hognogger: Yes I did!
Mum: Well, you didn't. Do you know why you should clean your teeth, hognogger?
Little hognogger: You get fur on your teeth and this makes them go all rotten inside.
Mum: Yes, but that is not the real reason.
Little hognogger: <LOOKS CONCERNED>
Mum: If you don't keep your teeth clean, you will have to go and see the bad people.
Little hognogger: <LOOKS ALARMED>
Mum: Yes, the bad people. The bad people will drill holes in your head until your face collapses. Then, they will take everything you earn for the next 10 years, and your children will be forced to wear rags and eat grubs.
Little hognogger: <RUNS TO BATHROOM>

2005-11-01T14:39:00.000+11:00

THE MAN WHO COULD SEE THE PAST

I consider myself an expert at finding solutions to other people's problems. However, on occasion, I am stumped; yes, I am sorry to inform you that there are limits to my mercurial capacities. When I am confronted with a problem that seems insoluble, there is one man I can turn to. I consult my mentor, that unique individual, Dr Flinkey. He has taught me everything he knows, and has more besides that in reserve.

For your edification, I present a recent occasion where a situation presented itself that was beyond my ability to resolve happily. Read with care Dr Flinkey's masterful responses to my questions. We can all learn from the masters.

Dr Flinkey's contributions to this dialogue are marked in blue.
************

Dear DocFlinkey,

A dear friend of mine is making a big mistake, and I do not know how to help him.

Over the years, he somehow managed to convince himself that the true reason he still lived with his mother and jerked himself to sleep each night was that he had brown eyes.

Some months ago, he spoke to me of these concerns. I told him that there was nothing wrong with his eyes. In fact, I told him that they were big and beautiful, and were probably his best feature. This didn't seem to please him much. He thought his brown eyes made him look like an animal - that's why random dogs followed him on the street, and why the most he ever got out of a real, live, woman was a consoling pat on the head and the occasional offer to have himself chained up in her backyard.

Anyway, that is just a little background for you. His real problem is this. He decided that he needed to change his eye-colour. So he went to Bunnings and bought some nice blue paint. It took him hours looking at swatches to decide on the exact shade of blue, but, as he left the store, a new sense of hope for the future washed over him.

When he arrived home, he took out a fine brush and was just about to apply the paint, when he realised that he could not see his eyes properly. After all, he wanted to be sure to paint only the irises of his eyes. In order to get a good look at his eyes, so that he could apply the paint correctly, he gouged them out of their sockets so he could look at them directly. Of course, he soon realised that this was a mistake.

So he set the eyes down on a nearby bench and went to the phone to call a doctor. Unfortunately, due to the fact that he could no longer see the numbers on the phone's keypad, it took him several hours before he got through. However, and very sadly, while he was trying to call the doctor, a stray dog roamed in from the street and, well, as you know, dogs will eat anything. By the time he'd successfully contacted the doctor, his eyes were half-digested.

Now, you'd think that things couldn't get much worse than this. Unfortunately, you would be mistaken. Lately, he says he's been experiencing a strange tingling of the testicles - he feels that they are trying to tell him something important. And he thinks he knows what the message is. He's convinced that if he transplants his testicles into his empty eye-sockets, his vision will be restored.

He operates on himself very soon. I have a bad feeling about this. I have told him that, at least now that he has eliminated his brown eyes, women will see him as a human rather than an animal, and he now might have some chance of finding a girl. But, I said, if you remove your testicles and put them in your eye-sockets, no woman will want you.

Can you be of any assistance at all in this dark, and desperate matter. Little time remains for my friend....

Your most anxious patient,
Hognogger

Dear Hognogger,

Nah f**k it! I wanna see the guy with balls in his eye sockets. Should be good for a laugh.

As usual, your caring fake Doctor,
Flink

Dear DocFlinkey,

Thankyou for your advice to abstain from interfering with my friend's intentions to transplant his own testicles into his eye-sockets. I observed your advice, and allowed my friend to operate on himself unimpeded. In fact, I even helped out with the operation by getting him pissed so he wouldn't feel too much during the procedure.

As a consequence, my friend now has balls for eyes.

However, something most unexpected has happened. His testicles have opened a window to the past. My friend can see, after all, but he is getting vision from 125 million years ago. He's very excited, because he says he has seen things that turn conventional wisdom about prehistory upside down.

Anyway, he's excited, but at the same time, disappointed that he is still hearing sounds from the present. He wants to be able to hear the distant past as well as see it. He wants to rip out the insides of both his ears and replace them with testicles. He's convinced that, if he can do this, then he will be able to hear the sounds of 125 million years ago.

I have 3 questions for you:
(1) Will this work?
Yes and no - he should remove one of the testicles from his eye and use that in his ear. Using another person's nads will cause frequency misalignment. My way, he will be myoptic and hear in mono, but at least he will be in-tune.

(2) Where is he going to get the extra testicles from?
See above.

(3) I think it was a kind of a fluke that his self-operation was a success. I'd be happier if someone with experience in this sort of thing helped out. Will you perform the operation?
Yes I will. Bring him to the Pakky Hotel at around 3pm tomorrow. I will sterilise my hands in the Men's and do the operation as the horses come into the straight during the Cup.* That way I can pretend that everyone is cheering me on.

PS - I have no malpractice insurance. However, I do have plenty of malpractice to balance things out.

* Dr Flinkey's response was penned on the eve of the Melbourne Cup.

2005-09-21T18:25:00.000+10:00

HEN HOLDING

Good day to you all.

I want to give you the scoop on the next big thing. Pretty soon, a new recreational craze will sweep the country. How do I know this, you ask? Simple. I practise augury.

In any case, this wonderful activity of which I speak, is hen holding.

This young fella's a happy hen holder.

I like to think of hen holding as the perfect way to round off your day. If you've had an unpleasant time of it, I can tell you with authority that there is nothing better than kicking off your shoes and indulging in a spot of hen holding. It's a calming and spiritually cleansing exercise. On the other hand, if you've had a wonderful day, then a little hen holding is also the perfect way to celebrate.

Get yourself a hen. You may also want to obtain a hen for your significant other (boyfriend, girlfriend, wife, husband, partner, etc. etc.). Sometimes, in our frenetically-paced lives, we do not spend as much meaningful time with our significant other/s as we would like. Well, hen holding is the optimal activity to perform together with your "special one/s" - little comes to mind that could realistically be considered more devotional. You may even find that it is helpful to hold each other's hen - a highly symbolic and spiritually-charged exercise in pair-bonding.

On the other hand, if you are single and lonely, then stop beating off in your bedroom. This is a futile and emotionally draining course of action. Instead, get yourself a hen and get out there on the street. Walking the dog is passe. I guarantee that if you trawl the streets with a hen in hand, you will attract attention. The effect of a man or woman striding confidently into the future with a hen under the arm is arresting, and on occasion, intoxicating.

There are many more things that can be said in favour of hen holding - too many to list here, I'm afraid. However, there are hidden dangers. After you have had a hen for a little while, you may feel that you'd like another. This is perfectly natural and healthy, up to a point. But don't be like this man:

He has exceeded the bounds of reasonable behaviour. This is sickness and perversion.

One last thing. You may find after doing a bit of hen holding, that you want to try other birds. Crow holders, for instance, think that hen holding is for wusses. Unfortunately, most crow holders are misanthropes. So be careful not to indulge your base impulses; your wanton lusts for more "dangerous" birds. This chair (pictured below) was once a human being. So take care. Some birds, such as crows, can have deleterious effects on the holder when held for extended periods of time.

That's all I have to say for now on this most fascinating and alluring of topics. Happy hen holding!

2005-09-08T16:40:00.000+10:00

THE EYES OF THE BOOT

Dear DocFlinkey,

I have this rather disconcerting problem with my feet. At least, I thought it was a problem with my feet, but now I am not so sure.

You see, just lately, my toes have been experiencing this uncomfortable and embarrassed tingling sensation. It's not always there, but comes and goes. And lately, it's been coming more than going.

There are no obvious triggers for this feeling, and I must confess that I was stumped for some time. But I think I've worked out the true nature of things. The crucial breakthrough came when I realised that this feeling only ever comes along when I am wearing a certain pair of Blundstone boots.

That seemed to be important information, but what could it mean? For a week, I left the boots unworn by the foot of my bed while I ruminated. After considering and discarding a number of wildly implausible theories, I hit upon what I now believe may be the truth of the matter.

My current working hypothesis is that the boots have a pair of eyes on the inside at the toe, directly facing my toes. I further hypothesise that from time to time, the boot opens its eyes and as a result, my toes get this uncomfortable feeling - you know, the uncomfortable feeling you get when you think that you're being watched.

I did ask my toes what they thought of my theory, but they said they hadn't seen anything untoward, which, I suppose, is hardly surprising, given that they have no eyes. However, even though they haven't seen anything, they are most upset.

I looked inside my boot to see if I could see the eyes. No luck there. But that doesn't mean the boots don't have eyes. If the eyes were closed, then the inside of the boot would look like the inside of any normal boot. Maybe the boot senses my approach and closes its eyes just in case I'm about to uncover its secret. So, recently, I've taken to crawling softly up to the boot on all fours at irregular intervals so as to catch it unawares. But still I have uncovered nothing.

Is my theory sound; do my boots have eyes? Or do I have the boot on the wrong foot, so to speak?

If you could provide any assistance in this matter, my toes will be most grateful.

Yours ever,
Hognogger

Dr Flinkey: Remove the boots and insert a bright, small torch inside one boot at position "A" below. Attach the boot to your head like this:

If the eyes of the boot open at any stage, you will be able to see the light inside the toe-cap. I recommend you leave the boot on for 24 hours (even at work) and then swap them over should the experiment not provide a result within that period.

I look forward to hearing from you.
Flink

Hognogger: For the last five hours I have had the boot strapped to my head. I thought that this might prove unsettling as I went about my daily routine. However, since my field of vision was entirely obscured by the boot, I actually felt safe from embarrassment. I also felt a hitherto unexperienced sense of safety. The stench trailing behind me from the boot's aperture warded off all possible attacks on my person from behind.

Unfortunately, about 4 hours into the experiment, it occurred to me that I can't actually see through leather, and so, even if the eyes did open, and even granted that the torch was switched on, I wasn't going to be able to see anything aside from the exterior of the boot. Granted, the exterior of the boot is lovely when viewed from close quarters, but I remained no closer to solving the mystery. Anyway, I left the boot on my head for another hour, just to be sure, but nothing interesting happened.

So the mystery remains. Do my boots have eyes?

I'm now going to move to Plan B.

Plan B: Dr Flinkey, what do I do now?

Dr Flinkey:
1. Buy some caustic soda
2. Mix one teaspoon with one glass of water
3. Tip this solution into your boot and swish it around.
4. If the boots have eyes, you will hear them crying - a lot.

2005-09-08T15:24:00.000+10:00

WHEN ALL ELSE FAILS

I love helping people and bringing them to a greater understanding of their place in the overall scheme of things. When someone comes to me with a problem he or she just can't see any way to solve, and I offer a choice of five different ways to solve the problem, that person is usually very grateful.

However, sometimes it happens to be the case that the person in question is indecisive and just doesn't know how to choose between the five alternatives I've offered. In this sort of situation, I advise the person to get a 5-sided die and roll it in order to reach a decision.

Now, it just so happens that 5-sided dies are difficult to find. Unless the person is a hardened roleplayer, he or she could be in trouble. And in fact, if it turns out that there is a roleplaying convention going on near where the person lives, it is probable that all of the roleplaying games that include 5-sided dies have been bought by crazed roleplayers. Yet, it may be that a decision needs to be made there and then; if the matter is one of some urgency, it just won't do to wait a couple of weeks while you order a roleplaying kit from another town or city. Without the die, no decision will be made, and my good advice goes to waste.

This sort of thing happens more often than you'd think. So, just in case it happens to you some day, I'm going to tell you what to do. Armed with this information, you will feel more secure, and will probably sleep more comfortably than usual tonight.

When all else fails you need a special way to secure a 5-sided die. "And how am I going to do that?" I hear you ask. "It's not as if I can just conjure a 5-sided die out of thin air."

Actually, yes you can. And I am going to explain how. It's simply a matter of gaining possession of a magic wand. You wave the wand and the 5-sided die appears.

Now, true magic wands are a bit thin on the ground at the moment, so I'm going to explain how to make one of your very own.

First of all, you need a broom-handle. Unfortunately, not just any old broom handle will do. Now, I've heard it suggested that in order to make a magic wand, you need to use wood from a broom that was actually flown by a genuine witch. However, there is no truth to this rumour. And it's a good thing too. Genuine witches haven't flown on brooms for many years now, and this would make it hard to find viable specimens.

But you do need a broom that looks like it could be flown by a witch. There is secret magic in such brooms. Sadly, these brooms are usually very unhappy because it is in their nature to want to be flown by a witch. You're going to make a wand out of such a broom. Don't feel guilty about dismembering the broom. You will be putting it out of its misery, and therefore, doing it a favour. Here is a sample broom, just so that you know what to look for:

If you have one of these brooms, or know how to acquire one, you are in luck.

Cut the broom handle into three even sections. You are going to use one of these to make your wand, and you'll keep the other two sections as spares. If the broom has been used a lot, it may be that the surface is very smooth and shiny. This is a slight impediment, because it means that the surface is now at least somewhat impermeable, and the flow of wild magic through the wood will be hampered. A wand made out of such wood will be hard-pressed to conjure even a 3-sided die. But no worries here - just find a blind cat and coax it into scratching up the wood.

One last thing needs to be done. The wood needs to be impregnated so as to ensure an even flow of wild magic through the length of the wand. To do this, you will need to collect the slime from five toads and apply it evenly across the wood. Be sure not to miss any parts of the surface. To lock in the goodness of the slime, sear the wood using a cigarette lighter (you can use matches if you prefer, but the job will take longer that way).

Then, it's simply a matter of waving the wand and a 5-sided die will appear. If you find that a naked man or woman appears instead, you need to get your mind out of the gutter.

2005-09-01T16:47:00.000+10:00

DUCKY AND THE MAGIC BATH

Dear Dr Flinkey,

As I'm sure you know, when you're in the bath, your fingers look bigger than they really are, so long as you're looking at them from the right angle. I always thought that this was an optical illusion resulting from diffraction. But lately, my fingers have been staying bigger even when I get out of the bath. And the next time I have a bath, they get even bigger again.

Do you think I have a magic bath, Dr. Flinks? And what can I do with my new fingers?

Deeply perplexed,
Hognogger

Dr Flinkey: Firstly, you are staying in the bath way too long if your fingers (and only your fingers) are swelling up. If it was something else - you would not be posting about it here. It is not magic - it is sick.

There are a number of advanatges - guitar playing gets so much easier. Especially augmented or diminished major seventh chords. You can catch bigger balls in your hand. When you are driving along the highway and you stick your hand out the window you can make your car take off.

Unfortunately, there are downsides. You can't pick up coins off the coffee table or wooden floors. I would suggest that you use the hands to your advantage. Next time you meet a girl you would like get closer to - show her your hands (especially your fingers) and see what reaction you get.

Take an aspirin and report back in one week.

Dear Dr. Flinkey,

I'm writing this from the bath.

Thankyou for your prompt reply. I have digested with some interest your discussion of my sick behaviour and its positive and negative consequences.

I still think I may have a magic bath on my hands, though. I think I will seek a second-opinion on this matter from a non-traditional practitioner.

Your grateful patient,
Hognogger

P.S. Rubber Ducky says hello.

Dr Flinkey: What are you plugged in to? How do your swollen fingers operate the keys?

(I was wondering where my duck was!)

Dear Dr Flinkey,

Don't worry. You can have your Rubber Ducky back soon. But just not yet. At the moment, I have him tethered to the plug-hole. I'm forcing him to write songs that I can pass off as my own. Unfortunately, his range of expression is somewhat restricted. So far, the best he has come up with are:

"Grandma's Bath-Ring"
"Soaps and Ships"
"Nine Inches Under the Sea"
"Squeeze me, baby boy"

Your correspondent in the bath,
Hognogger

2005-08-27T18:05:00.000+10:00

I WILL NEVER ASK YOU FOR MONEY

Here is a brief postscript to my recent message "ARE YOU TOO LAID-BACK". There, I advised you to engage your critical faculties when taking advice, and warned you about charlatans and misguided advice-givers on the internet.

One of the many ways in which the charlatan sullies the pure waters of advice-giving is by asking for remuneration for "advice" given.

I will never ask you for money.

My regular employment affords me a sufficient income, and I find myself quite able to meet my material wants, which in any case, are modest. It is an honour for me to be able to touch so many lives in a positive way, and I seek no recompense other than the acknowledgement of a job well done.

So let me repeat:

I will never ask you for money.

A corollary of this is that if you receive a request from a "hognogger" asking you for money, you can be sure that the issuer of this request is not my good self, but rather, an impostor. Under no circumstance should you release personal or financial information to this person, because he or she is undoubtedly a scammer. And if this person tries to sell you some sob-story, then he or she is a confidence trickster to boot.

However, I should note that I do not say this quite without reservation. There is one, and only one, circumstance in which you should relent. If the "hognogger" contacting you claims to be in dire straits, and needs money not for his own purposes, but to fulfil the wish of his dying son who wants to visit Disneyland, then you should help out. Such a person, although an impostor, is a decent person at bottom, and the story given to you should be believed. You should give every spare penny you have to this person.

2005-08-27T17:59:00.000+10:00

THE RELUCTANT SOCK

Dear DocFlinkey,

I have been doing reasonably well without your help recently, but something has come up that I just can't ignore.

I have this really annoying sock. It hates being washed. May I add that all of my other clothes are scrupulous about being cleaned, and are always itching to be placed in the washing machine. In fact, I can almost smell them coo with delight as I place them tenderly in the machine each month.

But allow me to return to the matter at hand. I place my errant sock in the dirty clothes basket with all of the other dirty clothes, but somehow, it never makes it to the washing machine. After thinking about its behaviour for some time, I drew the following conclusions.

The errant sock creeps out of the basket when I am not looking. It then hides itself somewhere in the house, and returns to my clean clothes drawer during the night while I am asleep. This, of course, is most undesirable, as it means that I wear it again and again, thinking it is clean, when in fact, it is covered in the filth and general residue from my feet.

I needn't mention what a disastrous impact all of this is having on my social life. Please, please, please, Dr Flinkey. You must help me. Once again I find myself with no-one else to turn to.

Devotedly yours,
Hognogger

Dear Hoggy,

(Thank you by the way for adding me to your webblog - my lawyers will in touch with you soon.)

Many intellectuals have the ability to think in linear fashion but are so busy thinking laterally they cannot see the obvious solution.

As with audio recording - you MUST FOLLOW THE SIGNAL to find the problem.

Let's follow the sock in a LINEAR fashion shall we?

Sock on foot - sock in basket - sock in drawer - sock on foot - sock in basket etc.

Study this line. What sort of line is it? If you answered cyclical you would be correct.

So - we must break the cycle of the sock.

It is so simple. Have you worked it out yet? Think, think, think. How do you break the cycle? How do you stop the sock from getting out of the basket and into the drawer?

CORRECT!

Put the drawer in the basket! When the sock crawls out of the basket and into the drawer where is he?

IN THE BASKET STILL!

2005-08-27T16:59:00.000+10:00

ARE YOU TOO LAID-BACK?

It is, apparently, part of the Australian self-image that we are a "relaxed and comfortable" lot. These days, the laid-back Aussie is in decline (rather than recline). Precious few of these characters are now to be found in the urban population centres. And this is not without reason. In today's market-driven, aspirational world, there is not really much call for such persons, except for at the odd barbeque, and in TV scripts.

In fact, if you are a laid-back sort, this is probably the real reason why you are such a failure. Yes, you read it here first. This character trait of yours, which is so esteemed in our national mythology, is holding you back. As such, it is an impediment and needs to be erradicated. I will show you how to do this.

The first thing to observe is that your laid-backness is actually the result of a physical deformity. Very few people realise this, but it's true. Laid-backness as a personality trait has been correlated (in a statistically significant way) with an excess of bone material in the feet. Specifically, those who are laid-back tend to have hypertrophy of the balls of their feet.

What this means is that such people have a natural tendency to overbalance backwards slightly. This makes them appear relaxed, in some cases diffident, and in extreme cases, almost entirely disconnected from other people. This deformity requires correction. You can do this in one of two ways.

(1) Acquire a file. Not any file will do. You'll need a file designed to file down horses hooves. It may take some time to track down one of these, but be persistent.

Once you have the file, you should start working on the balls of your feet. Don't worry about filing away your skin and flesh; it will grow back. Keep going until your problem is corrected. If you are squeamish, you may take a couple of Panadol tablets before commencing this procedure.

(2) Amputate some of your toes. For the normal person, toes are useful balancing devices. Were the average person to amputate some of his or her toes, then he or she would acquire a propensity to topple forward. However, for the laid-back person, amputation of the toes will correct the existing imbalance, and after this procedure, the formerly laid-back person will adopt a proper, vertical posture.

Should you remove too many toes, of course, you may acquire a slight forward-lean. However, don't be too concerned about this possibility. A slight forward-lean is actually very desirable in the current interpersonal climate. It will make you appear more engaging, interested and enthusiastic, and certainly, no one will ever mistake you for being laid-back.

OK, got that? Good. Now, before you do anything else, SCROLL DOWN....

If you are laid-back, were you just about to head off and perform one of these procedures? And if you're not laid-back, were you just about to head off and tell all of your laid-back friends to perform one of these procedures?

No?

That's good. You see, this post is a little test, and also a warning. I will always give you sincere and helpful advice, but there are a lot of charlatans out there. There are also many well-intentioned, but misguided, advice-givers. I just want to make sure you are absorbing advice with your critical faculties engaged.

I am not a qualified medical practitioner. What I was suggesting that you do is tantamount to self-mutilation. So let that be a lesson for you. If someone tells you that you ought to amputate or modify parts of your own body, make sure you think long and hard about that advice before going through with it. Think to yourself, "Does this advice make sense? Is it really the best way of solving my problem?" Having posed these questions, should you still be undecided about whether you ought to take the advice, you may find it helpful to ask, "What would Hognogger do in this situation?"

Now, although the remedies for laid-backness that I suggested were spurious, and possibly even dangerous, I should let you know of the proper treatment for this condition. In fact, I visited my Uncle Ignatius some weeks ago at his current residence in a popular Glen Waverley retirement village precisely so that I would be informed of current medical opinion on this issue. Prior to being struck off the register, Uncle Ignatius was a very successful doctor, making regular appearances in the social pages of all the important local newspapers.

I asked him about the proper medical treatment for laid-backness. He said that this involved the fusion of a number of vertebrae in the lumbar region of the back. If any among you are suffering from this malady of laid-backness, I suggest you consult your regular general practitioner and ask for a referral. A back specialist is most likely to be able to advise you on the various fusion procedures available and help you to select the one which best suits your particular circumstances.

2005-08-22T16:40:00.000+10:00

ANNA KOURNIKOVA AND THE BRIDGE OF BALLS

Oh - before I duck off to take my leave, I feel compelled to share some more great words from my mentor, the incomparable Dr Flinkey.

Dear Dr Flinkey,

I have a friend who is obsessed with Anna Kournikova.

OK, you say, that's not so unusual, so what's the problem? Well, my friend used to go and see her every year at Round 1 of the Australian Open. Since she retired, however, his behaviour has become progressively more erratic. His latest plan is to try and gather to himself every tennis ball that Anna ever hit. He then plans to cut them open, flatten them out, and use them to make a bridge to Russia so that he can head over there to see her.

He's been putting up ads up for tennis balls on the internet and in all the major newspapers. This is sending him into heavy debt. I'm afraid for him. Can you you help?

Your expectant patient,
Hognogger

Dr Flinkey: Yes I can help, as she lives in California and/or Florida he won't need so many tennis balls.

2005-08-22T16:04:00.000+10:00

HOGNOGGER'S TIPS - DEALING WITH FLATTENED FENCES

I am excited; I am just about to take a week's leave from work. I expect to spend most of that time recording music, which will no doubt be fun and frustrating in equal measure.

I will also take a week's leave from writing here. But before I depart, I would like to address an issue of the first importance. What do you do when a section of the fence that separates you and your neighbour, is either flattened or disappears completely?

Sometimes, this sort of thing isn't much of a problem at all. If a section of the fence is flattened, then you'll often find that that part of the fence is feeling a little tired, and is merely lying down for a bit of a rest. In all probability, it will erect itself again in a day or two. If not, you should seek medical attention, as it may be seriously ill.

If the section of the fence has disappeared, this also may have more or less undisturbing consequences. It may be, for instance, that your neighbour has merely taken it down the pub for a beer, or has invited it over for dinner.

I mention the possibilities above in order to ensure that you don't fret unnecessarily if you find that your fence is flattened or has partially disappeared. Wait a few days, and if things don't right themselves, then you'll need to take further action.

Unfortunately, this is where things get kind of messy. You'll need to discuss the issue with your neighbours, as you are probably both responsible for rectifying the situation. Unfortunately, some neighbours can be quite unreasonable and, in acute cases, thoroughly intransigent. I've known many people whose neighbours, in these circumstances, have been quite happy to leave a gaping hole in the fence. "If you want it fixed, fix it yourself", they say.

If you have neighbours like this, then there are several things you can do. If you have a crappy garden, and they have a really nice one, then I suggest that you buy a goat. Your new goat will probably find your neighbour's garden much more inviting and appetising than your own.

Another thing you may try is to put up some crucifixes and cloves of garlic near the gap where the fence is. This will work really well if your neighbours are undead, as the proximity of these devices will deny them access to half of their own backyard. If you're feeling really keen, set up your sprinkler just near the gap and pump some holy water into your neighbour's backyard. That can work wonders. Just be sure that they are truly of the undead before you do this. If they are not undead, you may in fact discover that the application of holy water cures your neighbours of various chronic ailments they've been afflicted with for years.

If none of the above measures prove useful, then you are going to have to take more serious steps. The thing to do now is to erect a sign out the front of your yard. It should say, "Free Peep Show. Bring own binoculars". It should also include instructions that direct interested parties to enter your backyard and peer through the gaping wound in your fence.

Anyway, these are just a few ideas for you. I hope you never have to make use of any of them.

2005-08-20T19:36:00.000+10:00

THE MAN WHO DESIRED TOO MANY PRINTERS

Dear constant and most worthy Dr Flinkey,

I have a friend who has a problem, but he is too shy to contact you directly. So I am speaking on his behalf. The problem is with his Hewlett Packard Deskjet printer. He'd only ever had one printer before this one, and it was an old dot-matrix model that he picked up from someone's nature-strip. Unfortunately, it was waterlogged and wouldn't interface properly with his PC. He kept it around for a little while, but in the end, he had to let it go.

He thought he'd never find another printer, and this made him feel deeply sad. He felt that he was destined to make his way through life without a printer. As he made his way each day to the belt factory, his travels took him past a computer shop. Each day he would gaze wistfully into the windows at the beautiful, shiny and new printers in the shopfront.

However, one day everything changed for him. His maiden aunt died. He was her only living relative, and so, naturally, she left her entire estate to her cat. All, that is, except for her Deskjet printer. This she bequeathed to my friend.

At first, he was a little nervous around it, and it didn't operate entirely smoothly for him. However, after a little patience, perseverence and reconditioning, it was as good as new, and served him well for several years, and they were both very happy. The Deskjet printed pages for him every day, and he stopped walking past the computer shop on his way to work.

So what's the problem then? Well, lately, he's been feeling himself drawn to other printers. He knows that the fact that he now has the confidence to think of owning other printers is solely due to the devotion shown him by the Deskjet. So, of course, he feels somewhat conflicted and guilty. What should he do?

Your expectant patient,
Hognogger

Dr Flinkey: Sorry to disappoint you Hoggy, but your friend is not telling you the whole story.

He has been to many therapists claiming he has un uncontrollable urge to upgrade his printer (even though the current model has been kind and true.) Each of these therapsits (quite rightly) asked to see the former printer in situ to determine the "environment" of the relationship.

Well - you may be shocked to know that he had an "accident" when showing his affection to the printer. As a result - he is too embarrassed to go home and wants to get a new printer and a new house to live in.

Don't believe me, huh? Well I may need to break doctor-client privilege and show you the evidence - for your own good:

2005-08-20T17:28:00.000+10:00

INTRODUCING DR FLINKEY

I bet the 0 humans and 5000 robots who've been reading my musings on this blog are wondering, "How does he do it? How does one man know not just what my problems are in life, but also how to address them so effectively?"

Well, I'm afraid that I cannot take all of the credit. No, I must confess that I have a mentor. Yes, there was a time when I was hard-pressed to even diagnose the true nature of a problem, let alone furnish a satisfying solution to that problem.

However, I have learned well from my mentor, and now feel able to give a little back to the wider community. My mentor is the august Dr Flinkey. The good doctor is one of Australia's best-kept secrets. Perhaps Australian Story will do a feature on him one day. Returning to the matter at hand, I should explain that he has a "Dear DocFlinkey" thread on a certain Melbourne music forum that I frequent. Since he is such a wise (and perhaps even noble) man, I feel it is only appropriate that I do not hoard his wonderful advice. So I will be sharing some of it on this blog. Starting now.

Dr Flinkey and the Mystery of the Moving Book

Dear Dr Flinkey,

I have a book that I like to read sometimes. But I always have trouble finding it. I look after it very well, and always put it back in the bookshelf when I've finished with it. But the next time I go to find it, it's not where I left it. It's always some place else in the bookshelf.

Do you think it's avoiding me?

Your concerned patient,
Hognogger

Dr Flinkey: What is the title of the book? This is vital information.

Hognogger: Quiddities

Dr Flinkey: aha - I should have known it was that one! Quiddities comes from the Medieval Latin "quiddits" from Latin "quid" meaning "what." Now, in modern times, the use of the word "what" by itself as a sentence has become common. For example:

1. "Can you hear me?" "What?"
2. "Why did you do that?" "What?"
3. "It was you who farted, wasn't it?" "What?"

But our illustrious english grammar teachers have deemed the use of the word "what" as poor form. Thus, a book called "Quidditties" will by it's very nature move about looking for purpose. So. the solution is to cross out the first five letter of the title and replace them with the single letter "T" then other books will start moving around looking for your book on your behalf.

YT,
Flink

Hognogger: I did as you suggested, with a most unfortunate consequence. As soon as I changed the title, the other books on the bookshelf became restless. And sure enough, they soon started moving towards one particular place on the bookshelf. But the competition to reach that place was so fierce that pages were torn, covers ripped clean off, and now my bookshelf looks like a bomb site. The book formerly entitled "Quidditties" was destroyed in the melee...

Dr Flinkey: Another problem solved!

Note: Dr Flinkey can be consulted for a modest fee at: http://www.icansolveyourproblemsloser.com

2005-08-19T19:35:00.000+10:00

HOGNOGGER'S TIPS - TIP 3

Well, since this is a new blog, I don't want it to look threadbare. So I reckon I will post a few things today and, in all likelihood, forget that this blog exists thereafter.

There are times in your life when you just know that you will be forced to be somewhere you don't want to be. I'm afraid that there is just nothing I can do about this. However, I can offer you some really useful information that you're going to find quite helpful in some of these situations.

You see, some of these situations involve music, conversation, and/or general noise that you'd rather not experience. Of course, the best option when confronted with such situations is to take yourself out of them as soon as possible. Where this is not possible, though, you need to come prepared; you need to soundproof your head.

How to Soundproof your Head

STEP 1
Purchase two packing blankets and a piece of rope.

STEP 2
Arrange the blankets so that they both cover your head front-to-back. Have a friend circle the rope around your neck several times and fasten it securely. (If you don't have a friend, don't worry. We'll cover that issue another time.)

STEP 3
Scream.

If you have successfully applied these steps, then no-one will be able to hear you, and your head will be sound-proofed. Congratulations. You will now be able to approach most unpleasant auditory experiences with equanimity.

If, on the other hand, a muffled sound can still be heard by casual onlookers, then you have two options. You may decide that you can live with this partial leakage of sound. However, if you decide that this leakage is unacceptable, you can dip your head in cement to ensure complete soundproofing (as an added bonus, asphyxiation will follow soon after).

2005-08-19T19:12:00.000+10:00

HOGNOGGER'S TIPS - TIP 2
You know, I'm often pulled up on the street by passersby. Of course, they want to know all manner of things. But one questions that seems to be on many lips, especially in recent times, is "How does one get into the Music Industry?"

Now, as much as I love being asked questions on the street, and as much as I enjoy gently guiding those lost souls who are in need of my aid, I must confess that the frequency with which I'm asked this question is inducing tedium.

So, on the off chance that I ever meet you, dear reader, I'm going to make damn sure you never ask me this question.

In any case, I am pleased to reveal the definitive answer to the question, "How does one get into the Music Industry?"

STEP 1
Find a large cardboard box. Just how large will depend on your physical dimensions.

STEP 2
Write "The Music Industry" on the outside of the box. Use a biro if you want to be a bit-player, a felt-tipped pen if you want to be moderately well-known, or a big, fat texta if you want to be really famous.

STEP 3
Climb into the box.

STEP 4 (optional)
Close the flaps of the box and seal yourself in. Take this step if you don't want to be able to get out of the music industry.

2005-08-19T16:58:00.000+10:00

Writing the first page of anything is always hard. Some say that when you are faced with a difficult task, you should try and break it down into simpler, more manageable ones. Try, they say, to think in terms of paragraphs and sentences rather than pages. Now, true, the first sentence is always the hardest. But this is the fifth sentence, and therefore I am over the worst of it.

HOGNOGGER'S TIPS - TIP 1
If you are feeling down, download a clown. Here is an example, just so that you understand the sort of thing I'm talking about:

Once you have downloaded your clown, you should then print it out and place it in your wallet, your purse, or in any other miscellaneous item that you regularly carry on your person.

If you do this, the dark clouds will lift and you will feel lighter (perhaps even buoyant).

CAVEATS

(1) Make sure that you use a colour printer when printing your clown. A black-and-white clown is like a two-dimensional cup. A two-dimensional cup won't hold any coffee, and a black-and-white clown won't lift your mood. If you do not have access to a colour printer, then you have a further problem. Try not to think about this further problem, as it will only make you feel worse.

(2) If you print out your clown, and you feel better after carrying it around for a day or two, that's great! However, (and I cannot stress this point firmly enough) do not start downloading clowns willy-nilly. If you stuff ten clowns in your wallet, then you may feel euphoric for a brief period, but you will suffer for this excess later.

(3) Be sure not to download a clown that looks like this.