Since real life doctors are expensive, sometimes it pays to take the advice of more ‘alternative’ practices. Bring your problems, not your apples, and the Dilemma Doctor will prescribe you some terrible advice. Whether you take it or not is up to you, but always know the Doctor has your best interests at heart, even if he does hold a questionable MD.
Dear Doctor, My flatmate Emanuel is the perfect flattie. Pays his rent on time, quiet, clean, fast with chores, super friendly, and has great legal knowledge which has gotten us out of a few jams this year. He is home every night except Sundays when he visits his ill mother in Johnsonville. Recently the spookiest thing happened. It is Wednesday and Emanuel hasn’t been home all week. He left Sunday eve to catch his usual train to Johnsonville and hasn’t returned. He isn’t answering his phone, and none of us know his mum’s address or number. We have a dispute that we’re discussing with the landlord this Friday and we desperately need to find him. However, we suspect he may have a few illicit secrets so we don’t want to risk telling the popo in case they take our beautiful flattie away. What should we do?
You say Emanuel has been up to some dodgy shit in the past, huh? Well how can you trust him? ‘Perfect flatmate’ is an oxymoron, there’s no such thing. It sounds like the perfect cover for something more sinister. And you say he has an extensive knowledge of law too? Where did Emanuel come from? Are you sure this guy even has a mother? For all you know he could be running a meth empire. I think you should call a code red and begin searching for hidden
cameras and microphones (tip: always check the one stove element that doesn’t work, I can tell you from personal experience that that’s where they’re always hidden). Learn how to pick locks (I think Massey has an elective you can take that should help you with this), and bust into his room. Make sure you wear protective face gear (ask an industrial student to borrow theirs, in exchange for a Scrumpy) in case it contains toxic fumes from all the meth. Best case scenario, you find a stash of freshly cooked meth, and you blackmail Emanuel into cutting you a piece of
the pie, and live like filthy rich pigs for the rest of your degree. Worst case scenario you find a neat and modest bedroom, and realise that Emanuel’s mother’s health must have seriously deteriorated and he may just be taking extra time to be with her in case she passes, choosing not to take calls for a few days. If this happens you can return to your normal lives with the guilt that you just suspected your poor, innocent, perfect flatmate of running a meth empire.
Dear Doctor, I’m not the most productive uni student. I find studying very stressful and lack motivation to get things done. Luckily a lot of my courses involve partner and group work. There’s this one guy I’ve been tagging along with who I collaborate with on assignments. I’ll admit now that he does most of the work, it’s just I’m usually too busy and exhausted from lectures, you know? Anyway the semester break has been amazing, I’m feeling recharged and ready for semester two. However, this guy I’ve been working with has dropped out of uni because he apparently has been battling illness and apparently an overload of work has prevented him from recuperating. I’m at a total loss of what to do, I can’t finish all these assignments with someone else who doesn’t understand my study pattern! Please help.
First of all get your inflated head and extract it from your asshole so that you can properly listen to what I have to say. Every student has a fuck load of uni work to do, it’s not some pissfest where you muck around and someone hands you a bit of paper that says you’re qualified to be a miserable adult. University is raw, students are graded on their integrity, their ability to learn and adapt, and their threshold of sleep deprivation and caffeine intake. You have become that guy in the group project who does none of the work and gets the same mark, and that is not someone you want to be. This guy did all of your shit as well as his own, while battling illness and you’re distraught not because you are responsible for his condition but because he’s now too sick to be your cheat sheet? Get off your ass and get some grit into ya. As much as it sucks that he’s had to drop out due to his condition, it’s a good thing for you because now you ain’t getting a free ride. Now you can actually start learning to contribute and work hard, and you’ll be better for it.
Dear Doctor, I’ve reached the end of my savings and Studylink for some reason has reduced my allowance. I’m in desperate need of a job, but every place I go to either isn’t hiring or they take one look at my CV then hand it back. Do you think my CV is the trouble? It’s only ten pages, I chose a cool font called papyrus, and last time I checked there were only a few typos. I’ve had this CV for about four years but I’ve never needed it until now. Any advice you could give me?
Most of the time I am presented with challenging dilemmas that take me a moment to solve. Every so often I come across a dilemma like this where the answer is so blatantly obvious that it’s almost as if I’m reading satire. I have five pieces of sage advice for you Paul. One, ten pages is ridiculous. It’s a bloody CV not your memoir. Employers haven’t got time to read about how your parents never made enough time for you as a kid, they want a pair of hands that know how to wash dishes. Two, Papyrus is the Kanye West of fonts. It’s tacky and awful, and doesn’t belong anywhere professional. Three, typos are like little stickers that shout, “hey, I’m illiterate, don’t hire me”. Four, update your CV you’re not going to impress anyone with the regional spelling bee trophy, or your high school participation award. Five, don’t lose hope. It’s a tough market out there, especially in Wellington. Don’t stop going hard, an opportunity will arise eventually.
Dear Doctor, So I went to an actual doctor last week, and turns out I have Coeliac disease. Fun, right? The doctor told me to stay away from foods containing gluten, which should be simple enough except that it’s the only thing I fucking eat. Nice saucy, cheesy pasta bakes, mince and cheese pies, and shit tonnes of toast. I love it all and the gluten equivalent is absolutely horrid. I cannot survive off the stuff. Tell me, am I screwed?
Discovering you have Coeliac is like discovering your house has been burned down. You think, “how am I supposed to live like this?”. “All the fun stuff is gone”. Well, I’m not going to prance around like one of your pompous ‘actual doctors’ and encourage you to eat filthy gluten free food. That shit tastes like vacuum bag dirt wrapped in paper towels, let’s be honest. Simply put, there is no alternative. If there were, why the fuck would anyone subject themselves to cardboard pizza? You will have to eat gluten free food or face the sensation of a million wrathful funnel web spiders rampaging throughout your intestines. However, there are ways to make gluten free food bearable. Scrap all the bullshit gluten free cookbooks, they never taste as good as they proclaim. The only way to make gluten free food bearable is to cauterize your tastebuds. You can do this with Carolina Reaper peppers which can be bought online for a modest price, or I know of a tattoo parlour who have a similar method. Send me your deets, I’ll get you a 15 per cent discount.
Dear Doctor, I believe I have attained the world record for the dilemma of the century. I went out on the town last Friday with a few mates. Had a fair bit to drink. Enough to get shitfaced but not enough to forget. We hit up the usual stabs like The Library, Welsh Dragon, and Famous. Stopped at Maccas on the way home for some chicken nuggets, then collapsed into bed, woke up Saturday afternoon feeling shit, then went about my weekend as usual. Caught up with my girlfriend on Sunday for an awkward brunch with her parents, then knocked out some uni work, before catching an early night. That was the calm before the storm. So I’m in my Monday morning 9am lecture when my phone starts going off. Bunch of random messages from a girl who I swear I have never seen in my entire life. “I’m pregnant,” she goes. “You’re the father.” I’m thinking what the fuck is she on about. “Don’t you remember me from Friday? We met at The Establishment.” Now I know she’s either playing me or has the wrong number because there is no way on God’s green earth that I would step foot in that hellhole. So I let her know she has the wrong number but she insists, she’s going crazy with the texts and trying to ring me, so I block her. I’m thinking ‘that’s weird, she must have me confused with someone else.’ But this is where my entire reality turns upside down. I get home, and who is standing outside the gate? She storms over to me, accusing me of impregnating her. “Listen, I have no idea who you are but I have never seen you before in my life, and I know exactly where I was Friday night!” I retort. I’m really hoping this girl will leave me alone but plot motherfucking twist, this girl pulls out a DNA test result that labels me as the father. She claims she took DNA from my underwear. I don’t know what to believe anymore, but I swear I didn’t knock this girl up. What should I do to avoid 18 years of child support?
We have a lot on our hands, don’t we? Now it’s clear to me that you didn’t give this girl her gift to the world, based on the following facts. Your usual stabs are never any good for hooking up, and like a man of culture, you refuse to go near the Establishment. So you can’t have possibly run into her that night. You’re committed enough to your own girl to brave out painful Sunday brunches with her parents, so there’s no way you’d cheat. And most of all, you remember the sweet embrace of chicken nuggets, which indicates you spent your night alone. Now this girl also isn’t fucking around, she knows who you are. So either she’s a hired actress and someone is trying to prank you, or she’s attempting to scam you, or it’s another social experiment. Regardless of which, you can end this fiasco by taking it too far and doing the opposite of what she expects you to do. Drop to one knee and tell her she’s your greatest love and you can’t wait to cherish the rest of your lives together. Offer to introduce her to your ‘conservative dad’ and
‘emotionally manipulative mum’ and assure her that although you’re practically broke, nothing will keep the two of you from living in lovely Lower Hutt where you will make sweet love to Linkin Park’s entire discography, and raise your love child to be the national competitive vaping champion. If it’s a prank, she’ll break character and demand payment from whoever thought this would be a hilarious cracker of a joke. If it’s a scam she’ll turn and run, because there is no baby, and there is no way in hell she wants that future. And if it’s another social experiment, you’ll be featured in a couple dozen BuzzFeed clickbaits which is pretty neat.
DISCLAIMER: Although the Dilemma Doctor has your very best interests in heart please keep in mind he is no expert. If you are after serious advice, please consult a professional.