
It’s Diarrhoea Week here on ITTODBTBIA and our deranged resident doctor, Herr Doktor Klaus Barbican (see above), is on hand to answer readers’ uncomfortable medical questions in his usual scatalogical fashion …
Dear Herr Doktor Barbican
Last week I sent our four year old down the shops to get me twenty Rothmans and a four pack of Double Diamond. Ten minutes later the little bastard’s back with nothing to show for his trip. On enquiry, I discovered the shopkeeper wouldn’t sell him my fags or my booze because he’s something called ‘underage’. Well, there was nothing for it but to tan my lad’s hide until he was blue wi’ bruises and kicking up a right stink into the bargain.
Now then, since I brayed him, he’s not stopped shitting buckets from out of his arsehole. Could the belting I give him – which is my right as a caring father, by the way – be the cause of his diarrhoea, or is it something more serious like the shitter cancer?
Fred O’West, Gloucester
The Doktor writes …
Nein! As a woman ages, her looks fade and her fanny dries up. Before you know it, she’s closed up shop, manned the barricades with expensive incontinence knickers and has begun refusing entry, even when it’s your birthday. No amount of cajoling will prise that dusty old relic open again, so I suggest you kill this woman, Norman, and get yourself a prostitute.
Ein prostitute made off of human flesh!
Dear Herr Doktor Barbican
Recently I wrote to you about my badly-injured four year old (see above), who’s gushing shite off of his anus at an alarming rate. I expected some sort of advice from you, but instead got something about the wife’s clopper seizing up. Now I’m all for talking about cladgers, don’t get me wrong, but not when the boy’s pumping out gallons of bum juice all over the spare room.
He’s ruined my collection of stolen knickers.
Fred O’West, Gloucester
The Doktor writes …
They turn off the taps! You’d think, wouldn’t you, that putting up with their endless nagging, their monthly ‘visits’ from the Shitbag Fairy, their nosiness when it comes to why you’ve come back smelling of brandy after ‘popping to the shops for a pint of milk’ and their inability to understand that a man needs an hour or two’s quiet meditation before tackling even the most basic of chores would mean they’d at least keep a trickle going … BUT NO!
Never get married, Don, that’s my advice. JAVOL!
Dear Herr Doktor Barbican
You may recall I wrote to you previously about my shitting boy? Well, thanks to your mental derangement, he’s dead now. As you can imagine, this has put the wife and I in a sticky position. It takes nine months to breed a replacement (seven if you kick her down the stairs, though that’s risky) and even then there’s a worry that the baby you’re trying to pass off as a four year old to the social worker won’t persuade, what with it being, well, a baby. Next thing you know that’s your child benefit slashed down to the bone and then … goodbye, Torremalinos.
Quite frankly, Herr Doktor, you’ve put us in a right pickle and no mistake. I’ll tell you this: It’s the last time I seek the advice of an internet physician who’s wrong in the noggin.
Fred O’West, Gloucester
Have YOU got a medical question you’d like the want-witted Herr Doktor to not answer? Perhaps you’d like him to go off on a tangent about women’s boobs instead of offering advice on your weeping cervix? Maybe you’ve got discharge leaking from an open sore in your ball sack, and would therefore like to know his thoughts on the 1977 Ipswich Town FA Cup winning side? If so, please write to:
The Deranged Herr Doktor Klaus Barbican
The Dusseldorf Central Bedlam for Lunatics
157 Scheissenstrasse
Dusseldorf
That Germany
Please mark your envelope, ‘I want a madman from off of the internet to answer my urgent medical question’.











