Category Archives: Science

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.

The Church of Peabody

Steve asks:ur a nun

Dear Doctor Cragglehold,

I am seeking change in order to achieve personal success and well being.  I’m hoping to become lost without your advice, as right now I am simply lost.  If you can’t help me, then god help me.

Are there any religious groups that you can recommend?



Dear Stevie,

The only sure-fire way to become lost without my advice is to disregard my advice, or not to listen to it in the first place.  Therefore, my advice to you is to not listen to my advice.  And since my advice is to ignore my advice you’re going to wind up taking it anyway.

Whew, that came dangerously close to becoming a paradox!  Had we wound up in such a paradox I most certainly wouldn’t have been able to help you, and that would have been even more catastrophic, since God has been curiously silent since people stopped taking the Old Testament seriously.

Of course there are religious groups I can recommend!  Cults come in all shapes and sizes, and many are tailor-made to appeal to select individuals with specific tastes.  Some key examples follow:

If you’re really into anger and hate, why not try out the Westboro Baptist Church!  This high-profile cult does away with pesky principles like ‘love your neighbour’ and ‘don’t picket funerals for high-school shooting victims’.  They replace love with hate, spiritual practice with more hate, and interpret the Bible as a big anti-gay pamphlet.  I know what you’re wondering: where does all the love go then?  Well, Stevie, it goes to the big American media companies!  News anchors just love these guys!

Or, if you don’t like beating around the bush, you could cut straight to the heart of evil and worship the Almighty Dollar!  Disciples of the Dollar reward themselves for their devotion by filling their houses with shiny, expensive things.  In return, the Dollar replaces their ability to reason with the ability to ‘justify’ pretty much anything.  The most devoted disciples of the Dollar are some of the most infamous people in the world and are responsible for mass genocides, instances of cruelty that resemble hell on earth, and the ultimate destruction of our very planet!  How do these disciples sleep at night?  Surrounded by bear skin rugs, of course!

The third – and best – recommendation I can make is the Church of Peabody.  Founded in 2011, followers of Peabody gather weekly to perform humiliating acts of sexual brutality on their leader: Esquire Peabody.  Just like Jesus himself, Peabody repeatedly makes a great personal sacrifice for the redemption of the common man – although in an adult setting.  The Church of Peabody is perfect for those that agree with Christian principles but desire a much more entertaining and perverted version of the Bible.

Feel free to try all three!  Life’s for living, Stevie!

Your Spiritual Guidance Counselor,
Dr. Cragglehold, Ph.D.

The Calorie Counter

Not Quite Primed asks:calorie calculator

Dear Dr Cragglehold,

How much to paint my bathroom?

Not Quite Primed

Dear Notquite,

How much what?  How much paint?  A bathroom’s worth, I suppose.  How much time?  Probably all day – I’m not a very good painter.  How much effort?  Well, the ol’ college try ought to be enough.  How much energy?  Umm…

To determine the amount of energy required to paint your bathroom I decided to use the most accurate possible method: the Calorie Counter.  Esquire Peabody would be given energy in the form of food and would be asked to paint your bathroom.  The amount of food ingested would be entered into the Calorie Counter (mounted to my clear plastic clipboard) and converted to units of energy – or ‘calories’ – at the outset of the experiment.

The first problem I encountered was how to ‘zero’ the energy levels in Peabody’s body so I could be sure he was at no point drawing on energy reserves he’d previously stored as sugars or fats.  As the only reliable way to zero his energy was to eliminate the sugar and fat stored in his body Peabody was required to fast for thirteen days.  During this period of fasting I encouraged his body to eliminate fat by employing him to construct a Koi pond in my bedroom.  In addition to having helped hurry the preparation for our experiment, I continue to find the pond quite soothing.

Peabody passed out from exhaustion a number of times during the last few days of his fast.  When he could no longer be revived by a sharp stick to the ribs I injected him with exactly one-hundred calories of glucose and satisfied myself that I had his energy levels under total control.  I realize that the true human energy ‘zero’ is the point of death, but as such a state is still so difficult to reverse I hope you will be satisfied with defining ‘zero’ as the point that consciousness is lost due to starvation.

The following excerpts from my clear plastic clipboard represent my experiment carried out in stages.  To begin each stage Peabody was given nourishment and directed through the task of painting your bathroom until he lost consciousness.  To revive him – as chewing food takes energy and would throw off the results – I had a plug installed in Peabody’s belly.  With the plug extracted I was able to insert food items directly into his stomach, adding a great deal of accuracy to my readings.

1: Injection of glucose – 100 calories

-Subject regains consciousness, is encouraged not to speak as it may sully results.
-Subject rises to feet, appears shaky and weak.  Attempts to beg for food but is discouraged with laboratory taser.
-Instructed to paint your bathroom, subject uses social media to find out where you live.  Loses consciousness twice during search, but is roused with taser without much difficulty.
-Subject loses consciousness upon attempting to stand.  Taser technique unsuccessful.

2: Insertion of baby food, Apples with Ham, 4oz. – 70 calories

-Subject regains consciousness but is disoriented.  Physically aimed in direction of your house and ordered to ‘march’.
-Subject ‘stumbly’.  Makes it five kilometres before taser rousing technique fails.

3: Insertion of commercially prepared cheesecake, 1 slice – 257 calories

-Upon waking subject is pleased with the flavour of his burps.  Attempts to vomit into his mouth but is discouraged with taser.
-Subject walks the remaining eight kilometres to your house with little difficulty – emotional state suspected to be a fluctuating variable due to cheesecake eructation.
-Subject finds no one home and door locked, passes out after kicking in front door, unable to revive.

4: Insertion of ground veal, raw, 4oz. – 163 calories

-Subject given can of paint and brush, reminded of his task.  Memory seems unreliable.
-Paint application proceeding fairly well, all things considered.  Subject nearly finished one coat before fainting and spilling most of the can on fuzzy toilet seat.

5: Insertion of one packet powdered bearnaise sauce – 91 calories

-Subject unable to stand.
-Finishes painting bathroom by flinging paint from brush.  Loses considerable volume of paint to mirror, countertop, floor, and several towels, but nonetheless is successful.
-Subject loses consciousness again – unable to resuscitate after plenty of food and repeated taserings.
-Police arrive in response to silent alarm (in a record-breaking four hours) and insist on calling an ambulance.
-Police lose consciousness after repeated taserings, Peabody is dragged to safety.

So in response to your question, Notquite, it takes 681 calories to paint your bathroom.  It may have taken considerably less if a) you didn’t live so far away, and/or b) you weren’t so paranoid you have to lock your door.

Your Calorie Cruncher,
Dr. Cragglehold, Ph.D.

Population Control

Hard House asks:

Dr what’s with the male youth of today and wearing “skinny jeans”. They took the saying “getting into her pants” the wrong way, this must be fix.

Hard House.

Dear Hard House,

While I certainly can sympathize with your disparaging critique of current male fashion, I must point out that the youth of today may not necessarily be to blame.  You see, the current young generation has had their testosterone obliterated by seemingly innocuous food additives, their minds enslaved and stunted by constant digital media bombardment, and their sense of fashion dictated to them by fashionistas residing in the pockets of the International Paramedics League.

The reason “skinny jeans” are in season, simply put, is population control.  You see, as humans we have removed ourselves from the process of ‘natural’ selection by means of health care, weapons, and information technology.  The weakest of us are no longer weeded out by predators, competition, or disease.  Therefore we have developed a commonly understood – but seldom acknowledged – process of ‘artificial’ selection.

Actually, the “skinny jeans” system is considered quite humane next to the flammable hair products of days gone by.  Skinny jeans inhibit the scrotum’s natural tendency to regulate the temperature of the testicles thereby rendering the wearer sterile, thus eliminating him from the ‘jean’ pool while allowing him to live out his life and chase his dream of becoming a whiny indie-rocker.

So next time you see some skinny douche-bag walking around in his skinny jeans, Hard House, just smile to yourself and remember: this must already be fix.

Your personal illuminati,
Dr. Cragglehold, Ph.D.


Chuck Mandell asks:

Why do they call it doggy style when there are so many species who use this same method to reproduce? A few to list would be lions, bears and even dung beetles. What makes canines so special that they get there own fornication style?

Chuck Mandell

Dear Chuck,

The most obvious answer would be that canines are the species second-most commonly bestialized by humans, next to sheep.  And, as sheep are generally favoured by unmarried shepherds that rarely need to excuse their behaviour, human/canine intercourse has become the popular standard.

Interestingly, it is due to this popular form of recreation that canines are known as ‘man’s best friend’.  To this day, the most commonly wielded excuse for cross-species infidelity is the phrase: “It didn’t mean anything, honey, we’re just good friends.”

Esquire Peabody, however, may have a somewhat different answer to your question.  Once, when I was doing research in my lab late at night, Peabody emerged from the storage closet and proceeded to refresh himself with the carton of milk he kept in the refrigerator I store my stem cells in.

“Esquire Peabody!” I exclaimed, surprised at his sudden appearance.  “I thought you were in the midst of copulating with my young lab assistant, Kelly!?”

Peabody nodded calmly as he swallowed his milk.  “I am, Doctor,” he said.  And, in truth, I could hear the sounds of ecstasy emanating from the storage closet still.

Exasperated, I struggled to form my question: “But…how?”

“That’s the advantage of doggy-style,” Peabody replied with a devious smirk.  “She’s not looking.”

I don’t think I need to explain to you why lions, bears, and dung beetles are lower on the list, Chuck.  Lions and bears shred things much more efficiently than do dogs, and dung beetles are just too small.

Your sports-commentator for tonsil-hockey,
Dr. Cragglehold, Ph.D.