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Problem Page with Dr. Anthony Fenton Sturges

Today's focus emotion: Even the littlest doggies need love.

Q: I am a trainee sea lion de-louser. Since dropping my sponge on the floor fourteen seconds ago, I feel that I have lost my way in life and feel a deep lack of spirituality in my life. How can I fill my yearning inner void with Godliness ? I am without hope.

A: Many people your age, both young and old, find a religion later on in life to comfort and guide themselves. Do not despair yet for there is plently of time my child. Perhaps you have been looking for God in the wrong places. Some scientists believe for instance, that God is in Nature. Instead of looking into your own heart, try looking in flowers and in the wonder of damp, musty leaves, and in the teeming life under flagstones. If this fails, try looking indoors through piles of crockery, down the back of the settee, in that bit under the stairs or in the kitchen cupboard under the sink, just behind the Dettol.

Q: Please help me. I am completely obsessed by problem pages. Every time I open a magazine I flick to the problem page and am compelled to read it for filth, sleaze, tales of infidelity and disgusting sexual practices. Imagine my horror when I find that they are mostly full of boring letters from people who probably haven't ever had sex, pointless tales of moving house and dullard seekers of advice on eating fish. I long to read about scandals, chainsaw massacres, unwanted pregnancies and bestiality. I long to read about depraved subjects such as these in print. How should I control my urges ?

A : You should not control your urges at all. Simply find a good problem page on some excellent website somewhere, ask them to publish your letter, and then read it.

Q : I am having a dastardly lot of trouble moving house. Please can you help ?

A : Sod off. I am forwarding your letter to the Mail on Sunday.

Q : Recently, I was spreading butter on a Jacob's cream cracker for my husband's supper. The butter was straight from the fridge, and so quite difficult to spread. As I was grappling with the biscuit, I slipped with the butter knife, and broke a bit off the corner. The tiny piece of cream cracker then flew up into the air and hit the ceiling, shattering into shrapnel as it did so. Unfortunately, in a blink of an eye, the miniscule shards fell into my husband's lap and sifted into his undergarments.

As he walked from the dinner table later that night, they caused a great deal of chafing and injured his groinal area with splinters of crunchy biscuit. This had the effect of rendering him unable to function as a man in our boudoir later that night, and left me unsatisfied, and him disappointed and restless.


A few weeks later we moved into separate beds, and I realised the physical side of our marriage would never be as good. I only realised that he was seeing someone else when I was ironing his shoes the next week and found a long brown hair on them. It was the shetland pony from the stables next door. I was disgusted, I mean not even a thoroughbred ! In the ensuing row our lovely daughter Thyroid walked in and, to my shame, I realised I had forgotten to cook the dinner, and so told her to order a pizza. When my husband came back for his things later that night, she burst into the room and announced that when the pizza delivery boy had arrived, she had broke down and cried on him.

One thing had led to anotherí over the pizza she said, and she had just bought a pregnancy testing kit and tested positive. My mother (who lives with us) then shouted from downstairs some common phrases I do not care to repeat, to the effect that my daughter was a young woman of low morals, and demanding to be brought her dinner too.

I set out driving to the local fish and chip shop, leaving my estranged husband to console my daughter and calm my mother, smoking heavily as he did so. As I drove back I suddenly realised the perilousness of the situation. In my haste I had inadvertantly left out on the kitchen counter a tin of prunes that I keep as comfort food. I recalled that my mother was also fond of prunes in times of stress, and also that her digestive system was in no way up to it. As I pulled into the drive I could see my family through the kitchen window, shouting at each other. All I could scream from the car was, "Don't give Granny prunes" before I saw my mother spy the tin of fruit and fatefully pop one in her mouth.

The ensuing blast from her nether regions caught light on my husband's cigarette as it billowed from beneath her skirt and exploded, catching a nearby gas main as it did and blowing up the whole house in a gigantic prune scented fireball. As I swerved to avoid a section of the roof crashing down from the sky in front of the car, I saw to my horror that caught in the beams of my headlights was the pizza delivery boy. His moped had broken down further down the road and so he was riding the shetland pony. He was galloping back to the house to ask for our daughterís hand in marriage, and make a modest but honorable life for them both delivering hand-made pizzas by pony. I couldn't reach the brakes in time and hit them both, killing them instantly.

My house has burnt down and my family are all dead now. What should I do ?

A : Use margarine on your biscuits in future. fin

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