Stanley Cup Win

Hockey Nut asks:Hockey cup

Dear Dr. Cragglehold,

I love hockey.  In particular, I love my local hockey team, the Edmonton Oilers, but they are sucking a lot right now.  I want to do something to help them win, but I don’t know what to do!

What can I do as an avid fan to make sure they start winning?

Hockey Nut

Dear Nutcase,

Kidnap their wives and children.

You see, the reward system in hockey is broken, and that’s why your team continues to lose.  For decades professional hockey clubs have relied on awarding their players ridiculous amounts of money to motivate them, but as you can clearly see that system is not working.  Instead of motivating them, their enormous paycheques serve only to inflate their egos and make them feel like they’ve ‘arrived.’

However, logic dictates that if a human being feels like they are successful they will cease to strive to achieve their goals.  They become complacent, lazy, and a sense of entitlement pervades everything they do.  When they lose a game they blame it on the other players (who all feel the same way), on their coaching, or on the other team.

But no one works harder than someone who is about to lose everything.  You need to humble them, to make them remember how fragile their lives are, and how quickly it can all disappear if they don’t fight tooth-and-nail.

Gather a posse of your beer-swilling, riot-inducing hockey peers and break into their houses the night before a game.  Steal their families away in nylon-rope bound burlap sacks and take them in your practical SUV’s to a warehouse or a dungeon somewhere (but don’t tell me where that is because I do not wish to become an accessory to something like this again).  Leave a ransom note on their wives’ pillows.  The vaguer the better.  In fact, just write one word: ‘WIN.’

I guarantee your hockey-heroes will play the best game of their lives.  And the longer you keep it up, the better they will play.  Hold on to your hostages throughout the season and occasionally send the players pictures of them to prove that they are alive.  If they falter on the ice, send them a finger or a toe.  There should be enough toes to last an entire season.

You’ll have a Stanley Cup win in no time.

In no way affiliated with your actions to come,
Dr. Cragglehold, Ph.D.

Addiction Cure

T. Totalled asks:-Satanic-Rituals

Dear Dr. Cragglehold,

I think my brother is taking drugs.  I told him that drugs are against the law, but he doesn’t seem to care.  

I don’t want my brother to go to prison!  How do I get him off the crack pipe?!

Your friend,
T. Totalled

Dear T.,

It is wise of you to try to keep your brother out of prison.  Although many people believe prison is an excellent place to conquer addiction, the truth is that drug use is rampant in the prison system, and that he may come out more of an addict than he went in.

A good old-fashioned haunting is in order!

First, locate your brother’s stash of crack/cocaine.  Next, move it from one hiding place to the next every few hours.  This is a classic poltergeist move, and will evoke half-forgotten memories of scary movies he’s seen.  Although it will not stop him from hitting the pipe, it will lay a solid foundation from which to escalate the haunting.

Once he’s been sufficiently frustrated, find a small reed or a wide blade of grass and carefully feed it into the mouthpiece of his pipe.  Make sure it is set far enough inside that he won’t see it.  As he draws on the pipe a ghastly moan or a whistle, like that of wind through a dark forest will be produced, awakening images of spectral wolves and dark, wet corridors in his mind.  By this point, if you’ve done your job well, he should feel a cold shiver up and down his spine.

Your brother will begin to associate these creepy feelings with the act of smoking crack/cocaine, but as you know such emotions are hardly a match for the power of addiction.  You will have to magnify your haunting to the level of full-scale demonic possession if you want to save your brother.

You will need a rope, goat, a long, sharp knife, and a dark room lit with at least a thousand candles.  Oh, and ether!

The next time you mysteriously move his stash around take a moment to open the bag and introduce the ether.  Your brother will have to be unconscious for the next stage of this plan, and as you have observed crack/cocaine tends to keep the user up for days at a time.

The mixture of ether and crack/cocaine will cause your brother to go into convulsions the next time he partakes.  During this period he isn’t likely to form new memories, so he won’t remember you dragging him into your darkened room, stripping him, and hanging him by his wrists from the ceiling.

When he wakes up you should be standing in the shadows in a black, hooded robe like some kind of weird Wiccan.  Make up some stuff to say that sounds ‘ritualistic’ and, ideally, kind of satanic.  Mumble this garbage as he watches you in bewilderment.  Slaughter the goat, gut it, hold its heart in the flame of a candle or something, and finally butcher it.  This is all he will have to eat for the next six to eight weeks.

Feed him at midnight every day, but do it strangely.  A good trick is to chant and sear the meat in the heat of your candles.  Keep this up until all of the meat has been exhausted.  Finally, use some more of the ether to knock him unconscious.

Dress him carefully back up in his clothes, take him to his bedroom, tuck him in, and let him sleep it off.  Never ask him where he’s been – in fact, act as if you just saw him yesterday.  The beauty of this trick is that it’s so extreme, so frightening, that he would never suspect you of abusing him in this way.  He should have more questions than answers, and he should remain silent about his ordeal, lest you stare at him like he’s insane.

He’ll never look at a crack pipe the same way again.

Your accessory to kidnapping,
Dr. Cragglehold, Ph.D.

No Ifs, Ands or Butts 2

Cordially Invited asks:peeping_tom

Dear Dr Cragglehold,
What are ifs & ands?
I’ve received an invitation that says “no ifs, ands, or butts.”
What am I supposed to wear?
Cordially invited.

Dear Cordialia,

I know what you’re trying to do here; by intentionally misspelling the word ‘but’ as ‘butt’ you’re baiting me into writing about your backside.  I’ll avoid speculating as to whether your motivation is simply an interest in harmless amusement or a hurtful attempt to portray me as a witless ass and simply state that, although I would quite enjoy describing the subtle curves and bounce of your caboose, such wordplay would be better served through a more poetic medium than this prose affords.

Let’s cut to the heart of the issue, shall we?

What the host of the event in question meant to say with their dimwitted old chestnut was that no excuses for your absence at their event will be tolerated, regardless of how valid said excuse may be.  Even if your leg was mauled to a pulp by a timber wolf and your blood is pulsing from your thigh in crimson jets but there’s no time to apply a tourniquet before the party you are expected to attend.  In fact, if you’ve just started to peak on a quadruple dose of some hallucinogenic like DMT and no one can convince you to stop stripping away your clothes and masturbating for strangers with a celery stalk sticking out of your butt you are still anxiously awaited at the soiree.  

If your car broke down and the only ride you can get is with the Eastern European gentleman that watches you change through his binoculars from the oak tree outside your bedroom window on the condition that he gets to rub your thigh on the ride there but you can’t tell anyone this time, you must still arrive on schedule.

So to answer your question, Cordiallia, you should wear nothing.  If the host complains – as they likely will – explain to them that if they have a problem with what you’re not wearing they can shut right up and suck your exposed butt.

Your Social Consultant,
Dr. Cragglehold, Ph.D.

The Panty Remover

Clothed and Helpless asks:ymdTa

Dear Dr. Cragglehold,

I heard from a friend of a friend that gin is the panty-remover.  But then I poured it on some panties and they didn’t come off – instead I got smacked and screamed at and had to run away.

What am I doing wrong?

Clothed and Helpless

Dear Clothed,

You have step one figured out – albeit rather clumsily – but you’ve forgotten the second part of the process.  You see, gin alone isn’t enough to remove such a lacy garment.  You need to provide a source of ignition such as a match or the glowing end of a cigar.

The reason gin is so effective at removing panties is that it burns with a dull blue flame.  Whereas gasoline or moonshine may ignite brightly and alert the wearer to the combustion process, the flame produced by gin is subdued enough that it can easily be mistaken for the glow of a black light on the frilly fabric in a dark nightclub.

You’ve got me thinking though, Clothed, about why gin is reputed to remove such a specific article of clothing.  Could the same process not be used to remove a parka, or a pair of moccasins?  What about bellbottoms?

To prepare for my experiment I once again called upon that most trustworthy of control groups – the college student looking for extra credit.  To my chagrin, however, the only volunteers that showed up to my lab were male, and those having been dared to do so by their peers.  Apparently my experiments have developed a reputation for being somewhat unorthodox.

I’d had Peabody fetch our supply of garments an hour beforehand, but had made the mistake of allowing him access to my supply of gin before he left.  It took some time to find him, but eventually I did.  He had unearthed a wealth of clothing in the form of a ‘lost and found’ box, into which he’d climbed, drunk, and promptly fallen unconscious.

Nevertheless, my subjects were stripped and fitted with panties, several of which were stained with one bodily fluid or another.  Peabody assured the complaining students that he’d correct the situation by sterilizing the garments, and immediately urinated on them.

At first I was upset with him, but after discovering he’d consumed our entire supply of gin I realized that his urine must doubtless be saturated with the combustible substance.  So I lit a match, touched the burning end briefly to each waistline, and found myself impressed at the speed with which the underwear disappeared.

Gin works quite efficiently to remove panties, I noted on my clear-plastic clipboard.  But what about other types of clothing?

Rich, the captain of the badminton team, was fitted with the retired costume of his team’s former mascot – Birdsley.  As the bulbous, beaked head was placed on top, completing the outfit, Peabody climbed onto a chair and soaked it down.

Upon ignition, however, the costume did not disappear in seconds as expected.  The yellow feathers burned long enough for the plastic frame beneath to catch fire, and soon a blackened, flaming Birdsley could be seen sprinting from my lab, into the gymnasium, finally becoming entangled in a badminton net.

There was a game in progress, and a quick-thinking water boy sprang into action, emptying a ten-gallon container of orange-drink over the heap of smouldering polymer athlete, effectively extinguishing the fire.

Fortunately, Peabody claimed responsibility for the whole fiasco, and spent the next three months in prison.  While there he was able to strike a deal with the Warden of the facility, granting us access to the prison population for future experiments.

All in all, this was a ‘win.’

Furthering the horizon of human knowledge,
Dr. Cragglehold, Ph.D.


Lodged in Traffic asks:paint drinky

Dear Dr. Cragglehold,
If an ambulance was on its way somewhere to respond to an emergency and it ran a guy over, do you think it would stop to help, or hit and run?
Lodged in Traffic

Dear Lodge,

The miracle of Science is that we don’t need to merely speculate.  We can find out for sure with a carefully executed Scientific Experiment!

My experiment began with a nine-one-one call.  I calmly informed the operator I had consumed a quart of ‘Smokey Lime’ coloured acrylic paint on a dare and I was worried I’d get it on my expensive shirt if I tried to vomit it up.  It was doubtful that such a scenario would be considered life-threatening; a variable I hoped would soften the resolve of the ambulance driver.  When the operator requested that I remain on the line I made retching noises and slammed the handset of the rotary phone on the receiver a number of times before hanging up.

Himself responding to the ruckus I was making, Peabody then entered the room to see if I was alright.  Assuring him that I was I invited him for a friendly stroll.

Partway to the hospital we happened upon the display window of a clothing store, at which point I paused and consulted my watch.  The ambulance was running behind.

Curious about my behaviour, Esquire Peabody asked why we had stopped.  In response I produced my clear plastic clipboard and informed him that I had been hoping to perform an experiment on our outing.  At that moment the siren of an ambulance plied our ears from the end of the street – it was swerving around rush-hour traffic and careening toward the University at highway speeds!

Looking from the ambulance to myself and finally to the clothing store, Peabody surmised the nature of my experiment and darted into the store.  Just as the ambulance was blasting by he tossed a mannequin in a two-piece negligee through the plate-glass window and right under the front tire of the speeding vehicle.

Broken glass and plastic body-parts were thrown willy-nilly about the street and sidewalk.  The mannequin was pulverized – quite graphically – and the ambulance driver slammed on the brakes, screeching to a halt.

For a moment nothing happened – the ambulance sat motionless, its ear-splitting siren echoing forcefully from the surrounding buildings.  I could see the driver and the passenger arguing heatedly in the cabin.  Finally, the vehicle backed up a bit, stopped, pulled forward, backed up some more, and the siren was turned off and on a few times in indecision.  One of the two paramedics yelled in a frustrated, although operatic voice, and they opened the doors.

The driver, who appeared to be the more authoritarian of the two, lifted a lace-draped thigh from the ground and showed it to his colleague with a chuckle.  Realizing it was a fake leg, the pair appeared relieved.

Satisfied with the success of my experiment I began to write the results on my clear plastic clipboard.  Hardly had I finished the first word, however, when an unmarked van came squealing from a nearby alley and plowed directly into the paramedics, sandwiching them between its hood and the back doors of the ambulance!

Exasperated, I ran to help, but I was stopped by Peabody as he stepped from the van.

“What have you done, man!?” I exclaimed.
“I’m helping with the experiment, Doctor,” he responded uncertainly.  “Aren’t we trying to figure out if Paramedics can use their healing magic on each other?”
“No, no, no…”  I said, shaking my head, which was on my palm.  “We’re trying to find out if an ambulance would stop if it hit someone.”
“Oh,” he said.  Then, after some thought: “We’d better get out of here.”

From the rooftop of an old chapel a block away Peabody and I observed two further ambulances: one responding to the catastrophe on the street, and one to my initial phony phone call.

As both were accompanied by police cruisers I found myself appreciating the bit of wise foresight that had me make the call from Dr. Buchanan’s phone.

So, in answer to your question, an ambulance would certainly stop and help anyone it ran over on the way to an emergency.  Although we may infer from the conflicted nature of our unfortunate subjects that the International Paramedics League needs to more clearly outline its policy for such a contingency.

Also, I have learned to fully brief Esquire Peabody on future experiments, although I must admit that the data his ‘mistake’ seems to have produced is unquestioningly valuable.

Green paint doesn’t taste like limes at all,
Dr. Cragglehold, Ph.D.