They say that if you line the insides of your shoes with brown paper, it cures jet-lag. Unfortunately, like a lot of things people say, it’s bollocks. In reality, there’s only thing that’ll stop your body clock getting messed up, and it’s called staying at fucking home.
Dear Dr. Ozzy:
All you need is a bit of heat and light. If you can’t afford a plane ticket, I’m not sure what to suggest, apart from setting your house on fire—which obviously ain’t a very clever idea.
Dear Dr. Ozzy,
A friend of mine got cancer a few years ago and didn’t want to go through any of the conventional treatments, so he spent months doing all the dead cat voodoo stuff—and now the poor bloke’s dead. Obviously, I ain’t gonna criticise anyone in that position, ’cos if you’ve been told you’ve only got weeks to live, you’re gonna do whatever you think you need to do. But baking power? You’re fixing a tumour, not a cupcake. Also, if it really worked, wouldn’t baking powder be in short supply by now? Personally, my rule of thumb is that if some whacky new treatment sounds too good to be true, it is.
Dear Dr. Ozzy,
The Osbourne family has the same recipe, passed down through the generations. In our version, though, there’s only one white raisin, and it’s soaked in nine bottles of gin, for two minutes.
It’s great for pretty much anything.
¦ In Egypt, they reckon that being buried in the sand during the hottest part of the day can cure rheumatism, joint paint, and impotence. If you stay out there long enough without water, it can also cure being alive.
¦ To treat a stuttering child, Chinese doctors used to recommend smacking the kid in the face—on a cloudy day. If anyone ever tried that on me, they’d get a knee in the balls, n-n-n-n-no matter what the fucking weather was.
¦ The only anaesthetic in Medieval England was a potion made up of lettuce juice, gall from a castrated boar, briony, opium, hemlock juice, vinegar, and what passed for wine in those days. I’m pretty sure I had exactly the same cocktail in Miami while on the road with Motley Crue in 1984.
Dear Dr. Ozzy:
Oh, I used to get this all the time—I’d wake up at three in the morning with a horrendous burning sensation in my chest. Then one night my bed caught fire, and I realised I’d been going to sleep every night with a lit cigarette in my hand. When I stopped doing that, the problem went away.
Dear Dr. Ozzy,
Sounds like it to me. The first thing to do is change your underwear. Personally, I find that nylon Y-fronts give me a raging case of ball itch: it’s like they’re on fire, man. Now, I wouldn’t mention this to your missus (if you ever want her to go near you again), but it’s all to do with trapped sweat. So the next thing to do is get yourself some antifungal cream—the same stuff you’d use for athlete’s foot—and it should calm down in a few days.
Dear Dr. Ozzy,
Your local drug store will sell you any old bollocks to “prevent” a cold—they must make a fortune out of virus season—but the fact is, you’ve just gotta ride it out. There’s no harm in having a Hot Ozzy or two as a precaution, though. If it does nothing else, it’ll make your day at work go by a lot faster.
Dear Dr. Ozzy:
Extreme pain, combined with the element of surprise.
¦ The longest-ever attack of hiccups went on for 68 years—68 fucking years, man!—and was suffered by an American guy named Charles Osborne (no relation). It started in 1922, when he was weighing a hog for slaughter in Iowa, and didn’t stop until 1990. The worst thing is, he dropped dead from an ulcer only a year after he got better. The
Dear Dr. Ozzy:
