Trust Me, I’m Dr. Ozzy

MAJOR LIFE EVENT	Biting head off winged nocturnal mammal.	Pissing on the Alamo—by accident.	Not being dead.	Drinking four bottles of cognac a day during most of the 1980s.	Being off my fucking rocker most of the time.
GENETIC CAUSE	“COMT”: Both variants (“Val158” and “Met158”)	A number of genes on Chromosome 10	“Haplogroup-T2”	“ADH4”	“NAT2”
WHAT IT MEANS	I’m a warrior AND a worrier—ie, I act like a lunatic but go to the doc’s afterwards.	Finally, it’s official: I’m part-Neanderthal.	Some of my distant relatives survived Pompeii in AD 79 (probably).	According to the doc, I have “an unusual variant near one of my alcohol dehydrogenase genes.”	My body can’t process caffeine.
NOTE TO SELF	Did someone just call me a COMT?	Next time, say, “Sorry Officer, it wasn’t me, it was my caveman gene.”	Survive Mount Vesuvius, and you can survive anything… even a bollocking from Sharon.	Translation: I’m a natural born pisshead.	Drink more coffee.

Friends & Arseholes 8

For People Who Aren’t People People

Only two things in life are supposed to be inevitable: death and taxes. Unfortunately that ain’t true, ’cos there’s something else you’ll never be able to avoid unless you live in Antarctica, Siberia, or Northumberland: people. They’re everywhere. At work. In shops. On your Facebollocks computer thing. And that’s a massive problem if you ain’t a people person, ’cos you’ll end up spending half your life getting into arguments, feeling embarrassed, not knowing what to say, having the piss taken out of you, or, even worse than all that, just being a boring fucker at parties. Luckily, Dr. Ozzy is here to help. Even if your idea of holiday is a month by yourself in a cave, all you have to do is follow the advice in this chapter, and you’ll be able to handle anything another human being can throw at you. Just don’t expect to like them.

Or for them to like you.

* * *

Dear Dr. Ozzy:

I hate “bear-hugging” other men, even close friends. How do I avoid it without offending anyone?

Rafael, Windsor

You’ve got a mouth, so say something. I know some tough-guy types who think it’s cool to say hello by getting me in a headlock and wrestling me to the ground—a “buddy slam” they call it over here in California. More like a load of macho bollocks, if you ask me. So if they try it, I tell them to fuck off. I mean, if your mates started to say hello by punching you in the face, you’d do something about it, right? So why not just say to them, “Look, I don’t like having my head in your armpit while you whack me on the back like Hulk Hogan, can’t we just shake hands, or wave at each other or something?”

Dear Dr. Ozzy:

I’ve suddenly developed a habit of putting my foot in my mouth in the most cringeworthy ways imaginable—like blurting out jokes about fat people in front of overweight friends. What could be causing this sudden outbreak of tactlessness? It’s not booze, because it’s happened as many times sober as it has when I’m drunk.

Fred, Basingstoke

It won’t make you feel any better, but we all drop a clanger every now and again. You can’t beat yourself up about it too much, ’cos life would be pretty boring if we all talked like politicians. And believe me, your fat joke’s nothing compared with the shit I used to say when I was drinking four bottles of cognac a day. One time, I had to call up Brian Wilson from the Beach Boys after a big night out and say I was sorry for telling him I was glad his brother had just died. That was about 20 years ago, and I’m still cringing now.

Dear Dr. Ozzy:

I’m a happily married man, but I keep getting inappropriate e-mails from a male co-worker. Some are just dirty jokes, but others are graphic fantasies, like how he wants to sodomize me in the handicapped bathroom stall. At first it was funny, but now it’s creepy and I want it to stop. Obviously I don’t want to say anything to the boss.

“Marcus,” California

If someone I knew started sending me e-mails about sticking their one-eyed wonder anywhere near my rear end—joke or otherwise—I wouldn’t be writing to Dr. Ozzy for advice, I’d be using my mouth to tell him to stop giving me the fucking creeps, man. I mean, how about sending this sicko a reply that says, “Don’t ever e-mail me again”? If that doesn’t work, confront him in private. Failing that, get yourself a sexual harassment lawyer.