British scientists are claiming that the dinosaurs polluted the atmosphere with their digestive gases. I have no reason to doubt this, but it seems like an insensitive thing to say about creatures that suffered a mass extinction through no fault of their own. Suppose I visited the graves of the scientists’ ancestors and inscribed the following words into each headstone:
The evidence suggests that this human was a colossal farter who stunk up the neighbourhood.
I bet they would feel insulted and humiliated. However flatulent your ancestors were, you don’t want it advertised to the world.
I’ve never understood the point of this kind of science anyway. The dinosaurs are gone, so let them rest in peace. What purpose is served by raking over the ashes and speculating about their bodily emissions? However copiously they broke wind, it is of no concern to the Earthlings of today. The looming perils of our Age were not caused by someone guffing 70 million years ago.
An infinitely more beneficial scientific breakthrough has occurred in the field of medical research, where biochemists have discovered that the saliva of a lizard can protect diabetics from the deadly diseases they are vulnerable to. These scientists deserve a hearty pat on the back, courtesy of my hairy paw.
One has to wonder, nevertheless, how the lizard spit could be safely harvested. Are they planning to kidnap lots of lizards and trick them into salivating by dangling fresh centipedes in front of their noses? If so, they ought to have more respect for the dignity of a proud reptile. There are surely more ethical methods. I once made a wild lizard spit by sneaking up on it shouting “Stand to, you ugly devil!”. But that still leaves the problem of collecting the saliva in a suitable receptacle. A lizard won’t spit into a test tube just because you hold it under its chin.
If we lived in a perfect world, diabetics would cohabit with lizards and French kiss them from time to time. I don’t know whether lizards enjoy that sort of thing, but I should imagine they could be persuaded by taking them out on a date and treating them to a mouse dinner. The best person to consult on such matters is my friend Stella Deleuze, the blond bombshell from Bremen, who owns a pet lizard called Zorro. Their relationship is affectionate.
These scientific remedies are not infallible, of course. Many moons ago, it was postulated that mare’s urine was a palliative for menopausal women. Consequently, ladies of the hot-flashing persuasion started drinking horse-piss to put the juice back into their lemons. Then it was found out that ingesting horsey hormones carries worrying health risks, which caused the treatment to go out of fashion.
My advice to menopausal women is to eat plenty of fresh vegetables and partake in activities which exercise the muscles of the posterior, such as cycling and climbing trees. If the tush is in good health, the rest of the body will follow.
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