The Doctor of Love

Amelia Earhart

Hello there. My name is... Well, I can't quite remember my name right now. That's strange. Do you know my name? It's Emelio, or Amolia, or something like that. I guess living in the Bermuda Triangle will do that to ya, huh? Let's just call me Amelia. That has a nice ring to it.

Anyway, I'm here to discuss a matter that I feel will certainly effect a person's ability to attract members of the opposite sex. Since I've lived alone on an island for the past however many moons, I can tell you that I haven't the foggiest idea about current trends and such-not. What I can offer you is a bit of universal advice that I feel is very important.

Take a bath, you foul smelling, dirty beggar. You, with the D&D goatee, chicks don't dig your LAN-party B.O. Wash your pits man! You, the wannabe hipster with a Sol patch and the beret. Yeah, you. Wash some of that stench out of your clothes next time you decide to recite your poetry to your wannabe hipster girlfriend. And lest I forget, someone please tell that passed out drunken jock on the floor that the sweat and grime of the game needs to stay in the game! Not on your body.

You girls out there feel me, right? I mean, come on. We aren't living in the dark ages any more. When did they invent body soap? I mean, come on. Just wash up once in a while, you guys.

Now, when it comes to us ladies, we've got it easy. We take regular showers, we wash our hair fairly often, and we are allowed to wear perfume. You pick the right perfume and you can lead men around like a dog with a collar. The only disadvantage that I can see is that we are not allowed to express ourselves odoriferously in the one way that is inherently masculine. That is, The Fart.

After living on a deserted island for umpteen years without anyone around has really allowed me to explore the subtle art-form of the fart. But now that I'm back in civilized society, I have to hold back my natural urges. What a shame. I think that for all of the work that the Women's Liberation movement has achieved since I've been gone, this one would have really leveled the playing field. I'm serious. If I have to let go a real rip-roaring hair-curler, I have to find the nearest lady's room. How come a guy can just let fly, and damned-be the consequences?

I think I've somehow sidetracked myself in this discussion, but let me wrap it up anyway. Guys, every now and then, could you do us ladies a favor? You know that giant water faucet hanging off of the wall in the bathroom? Please stick yourself under it and turn on the water. Dear God, please? Ladies, let them farts go! We ARE equal or better to men at everything, toots and methane explosions included!

This is the Doctor, signing out.