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Ask Doctor Down-Down: February 1997

Dear Doctor Down-Down,

We are going to be in New Orleans for another “Mardi Gras Madness.” The crazy folks from New Orleans require the out-of-town hasher who finds the plastic infant hidden in the breakfast strudle to be a live hare. Since we are better drinkers than runners, we were wondering . . . where do you suggest we “hide the baby” should we find it?

On On,
Pubic Party and Get a Room!

Dear Pubic Party and Get a Room!,

Same place you hide the sausage . . . if that isn’t too much of a stretch!

On On,
Dr. Down-Down

Dear Doctor Down-Down,

Motorcycles are better than women because:

You only need to change the oil every 2000 miles, not every 28 days. You can go as fast as you want without KY Jelly. When you signal to change lanes or turn, you actually go in that direction. You get to wear a helmet and smell your beer-burps from the night before. When you forget a special date, the bike doesn’t care because every ride is a special date. When the motorcycle gets a flat tire, you fix it by plugging it (use your imagination). You can rub and polish your motorcycle anytime you want, and it likes it. If you fart on a motorcycle, only the saddle knows, and it don’t care. My motorcycle gets 50 miles to the gallon, and at an average price of $1.35 a gallon for mid-grade unleaded, I figure I can ride constantly for a month for the same price that I pay to take a female out to dinner once, and I don’t even have to tip the gas pump.

On On,
KeepsITup

Dear KeepsITup,

Methinks you just wish you were riding your motorcycle, it being winter and all, but for what it’s worth, in my opinion motorcycles are just like women in several ways:

They require a lot of attention. They can get you in a lot of trouble. You can only ride ‘em so long before you get sore. You can argue with ‘em all day and it won’t change a damn thing. They’ll go down on you, but you’ll pay, brother, you’ll pay. You keep eyeing other peoples’ motorcycles. And finally, as anyone who has ever married a Harley can tell you, you’ll spend the rest of your life hanging around bike boutiques and swap meets, mumbling “accessorize, accessorize, accessorize.”

On On,
Dr. Down-Down

Dear Doctor Down-Down,

Today getting dressed for work I broke my mirror trying to shave. While making breakfast I spilled some salt, but didn’t throw any over my left shoulder. Thinking it was going to rain I opened my umbrella in the house so I wouldn’t get wet when I went outside. Then I went underneath the ladder of the window washer leaving my apartment. Next, a black cat crossed my path heading to the car. In the parking lot I saw a horseshoe and held it upside down when I picked it up. At work, went outside for a smoke break and lit three on one match.

My questions are: Are these bad things to do? Have I done bad things? Am I going to suffer horribly on trail this weekend? Will I get many Down-Downs? Does it being Friday the 13th make it worse, or do the negatives cancel out like in mathematical equations?

On On,
Rumpled Foreskin

Dear Foreskin (if you’re still around to read this),

You’re worried about getting down-downs? You should worry about not getting any down-downs. Good thing you didn’t step on a crack!

Being a highly educated medical doctor and all, I scoff at superstition. I scoff, I say. I reformat documents without backing up the originals. I make fun of religion and tell my wife about every affair, even imaginary ones. I eat rich food, drink single malt Scotch, and smoke Cuban cigars. I wear polyester, fly ValuJet, and drive a Dodge minivan with anti-lock brakes. I . . . hey, you smell that? Like wires burning? Why is my hair standing up?

On On,
Dr. Down-Down

Dear Doctor Down-Down,

What a disappointing Christmas . . . all I got was an ocarina.

On On,
Representative Barney Frank (D, Mass)
Washington DC

Dear Barney,

I thought that’s what you wanted!

On On,
Dr. Down-Down

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