The case against Vegetarianism

Paper presented at the annual convention of Częstochowa Red Meat Lodge, March 2009

'Oh come on! Like there are piles of jobs waiting for us if the beef industry has to close down.'

It is legitimate to nourish even strong antipathy towards certain types of food. It is perfectly healthy to invest carefully accumulated hatred in a particularly detestable dish. I for one find Polish cuisine an affront to my taste buds and spend two hours with my face in the toilet bowl if anyone as much as mentions bigos. The question is: Do I build a weltanschauung on it?

In this in-depth analysis of the irrational but widespread phenomenon of Vegetarianism I intend to show that this is not merely a diet, nor a healthy lifestyle, nor a way of showing compassion with our four-legged friends. No, Dear Lodge Members. Vegetarianism is a pathological obsession that bears all the hallmarks of a religion. And not only is it a religion; the central contention of this paper is that Vegetarianism is a particularly unattractive and pointless religion embraced by anally retentive nuts.

The contrast is obvious in this photo taken on a picnic in the Bavarian countryside in the 1930s. The Vegetarian to the left - short, feeble, trying to make up for his sense of inferiority by growing a ridiculous moustache. The meat-eater in the middle - healthy, virile, excuding strength and masculinity, fresh from shagging Marlene Dietrich

The anally retentive character trait of Vegetarianism manifests itself in a preoccupation with titles. Whenever you pose a Vegetarian an awkward question, he or she will retort that this concerns only Lacto-vegetarians, Ovo-vegetarians, Lacto-Ovo vegetarians, Pescetarians, Vegans etc, ‘while I myself am a Pollo-vegetarian, so there you go’. This is indicative of mental instability for 2 reasons. First, meat-eaters don’t give themselves silly names based on the type of food they eat. You don’t have Porkarians, Beefists or Hotdogarians. Secondly, even if they did, they wouldn’t expect the general public to be familiar with these terms or even be bothered. Vegetarians are different. They are so fascinated with their own universe of hyphenated Latinates that they think the world around them care. Well, time for a reality check, soy-munchers.

So I hereby suggest a new and simplified Vegetarian typology, where we operate with three kinds of Vegetarians: 1. the smelly, greasy-haired Pacifist Hippie type with a horrible taste in music (read: Joan Baez, Joni Mitchell, Fairport Convention and other monstrosities that sprang out of the 60s folk rock scene) who thinks the world would be a more harmonious place without water closets. 2. The herb-munching tea-sipping health nut whose narcissistic obsession with his own organism (including its digestive capacities) borders on the perverse 3. Adolf Hitler / Morrissey

For simplification I will hereafter refer to members of any of the above groups as Veggists.
Veggists feel deeply inferior to meat-eaters. This coupled with a bizarre and extremely infantile fixation with food shapes has given us the Veggist line of wannabe-meat products. ‘Oh no, don’t think that you primitive carnivores have a monopoly on the sausage shape. My soy sausage can call itself a real sausage with just as much right as any sausage made from pork.’ Thus there will always be a certain asymmetry between Veggists and the mentally healthy. Quite simply because meat-eaters don’t expect their chicken legs to have the shape of broccoli.

'Yes, I know I should go to the barberer's, but not eating pork is my no. 1 priority at the moment.'

One of the many unappealing features that Veggists share with religious people is their demand for special privileges. 'Ok, so I might be the only Veggist here among 500 guests and I know arranging a wedding is stressful enough already, but hey, serve me that veggie burger NOW!' Note how Muslims and Veggists share an obsession with particular types of food. Zealous Muslims have no problems with grotesquely excessive facial hair, but try to serve them pork and they will hijack an aeroplane and crash it into your kitchen.

How to convert a Veggist

Some of you might – and I speak from personal experience – suffer the misfortune of having colleagues, family members, friends or even (gulp) sex partners who for whatever depraved reason succumbed to the doctrine of Veggism. The healthy contempt you instinctively feel for such pathetic individuals is overpowered by an irrational sense of loyalty and compassion with them. You see not a self-important moralist but a fellow human being in need. Your carnivorous nobleness compels you to come to their rescue. How to save a Veggist? Here are 5 strategies:

Veggism - no recipe for happiness, as demonstrated by these two miserably-looking German veggists from the 1930s

1. Appeal to his/her general desire to be happy
Veggism offers nothing: Islam gives you sex with 72 virgins after death. The Christian afterlife consists of something more diffuse involving angels and harps and probably boring as hell but at least peaceful. Nazism offers racial purity and blonde hair that doesn’t fall of when you’re 33. Communism offers the dictatorship of the proletariat and the chance to rape and loot the bourgeoisie for all they are worth. What does Veggism offer? Dying from boredom at 56! It is a creed completely deprived of attractions. Its main attraction is in fact its unattractiveness. The budding veggist reads about the complete humourless Veggist lifestyle and thinks to himself: This looks so bleak and life-negating that there’s got to be some hidden reward somewhere; Some Veggistan-heaven where a permanently nude Scarlet Johansson shares a soy enchilada with a peace loving lion.

2. Appeal to his/her empathy
Tell your Veggist friend that the soy bean has a rich and fascinating emotional life. Veggists already have inflated opinions of non-humans’ mental capacities, so they just might buy it. Without soy the whole foundations of veggist cuisine will be pulled away under their feet and Veggists will have to face a choice between starvation or a return to sanity. (Some might chose the first option, you might argue – all the better. This shows that Darwinism still works.)
Alternatively you can try the inverse tactic. Convince them that cows are plants.

3. Appeal to his/her sense of guilt
Invite a veggist for a dinner. When she has just licked her fork clean, tell her that what she just devoured so enthusiastically was not a soy beef but raw Panda meat. Veggists like most religious nuts react with panic to the mere suspicion that they have committed a sin. Being a veggist has lost its raison d’etre once and for all and the tormented veggist-sinner will be sent sliding down the slippery (especially greased with animal fat for the occasion) slope to a healthy colesterol-filled diet.
Yes, that's YOU 15 years ago, and that is no soy sausage!

If you don’t feel like wasting good meat, you can produce (Photoshop offers unlimited possibilities) a photo from your friend’s childhood showing the future Veggist engrossed in the consumption of a hot dog on the annual Constitution Day celebrations, her snotty face all smeared with ketchup and mustard. If necessary (most Veggist have probably repressed all memories from their pre-Veggist existence), make use of Freudian techniques like hypnosis to recreate the meat-eating experience in its full sensual dimension.

4. Appeal to his/her ability to over-generalize
Dress up as a cow (or another animal prone to appear on your plate in the company of french fries) and subject a veggist to a violent assault. The victimized veggist’s ability to identify with the suffering of the cow will suffer a severe blow and the next time he sees a group of cattle heading for the slaughterhouse, he will cheer them on enthusiastically. However, keep in mind that this might prove counterproductive. Being notoriously irrational individuals, Veggists may easily fall victim to the Stockholm syndrome and start treating cows with even more reverence than before. A safer but more time-consuming approach is to dress up as a cow and start stalking a Veggist by sending her love letters, putting up a tent outside her apartment, start fan sites on the internet etc. This will cure your Veggist friend of her fondness for cows once and for all.

5. Appeal to his/her sense of aesthetics
Loved by everyone in Poland, and not only for her artistic genius.

Veggists are firmly convinced that their lifestyle is more in harmony with nature. (Their spirits are somehow not dampened by the fact that none of the carnivores actually living in nature would ever renounce meat-eating for ideological reasons.) Show the Veggist a soy cotlet and tell him or her that this is nothing more and nothing less than the culinary equivalent of a silicone breast. Hardly natural.

6. Appeal to his/her dislike of Adolf Hitler (The ‘Reductio ad Hitlerum’ approach)

If, Dear Lodge Members, your Veggist friend stubbornly resists all your attempts to nurse him back to sanity; even if he or she is stupefyingly immune to reason; there is a last resort, an argument to which there is no riposte: Adolf Hitler was a Veggist. ‘Oh, but that is irrelevant. His vegetarianism had nothing to do with him killing millions of people and stuff.’ Wrong. It had everything to do with it. If you value purity (be it racial or nutritional) above everything else including human well-being there is but a small step to dabbling in mass murder. The only difference between Der Führer and your average Veggist is that Adolf was the dictator of Germany while your Veggist-misfit friend is still the odd one out on the annual Thanksgiving dinner, sitting by himself with his miserable soy pancakes while his cousins are bonding happily over a juicy turkey.

Real, calorie-packed meat - brings the family together.

The CDHN course in applied fertilization

In an era where the youth of Poland are leaving in droves for the decadent West and the few remaining ones are brainwashed by homosexual propaganda into not having any offspring at all, it is all the more gratifying to come across men who know what it takes to be a proper Polish husband. The first Norwegian king, Harald Fairhair, made a vow not to cut his hair before the whole of Norway was one kingdom. Is it likewise the case that Krzysztof Putra, the Polish Parliamentarian, has made a vow not to cut his grand moustache until his wife has blessed him with a double digit number of kids? With 8 (some sources claim 9) kids already having catapulted out of his wife, the dawning of the day when Poseł Putra’s moustache can face a devastating encounter with a hedge trimmer is drawing ever closer.

Poseł Putra is a true living legend with unsurpassed achievements in the domain of turning one’s wife into a veritable baby-dispenser. Can I, a mere mortal, possibly compete with HIM, you ask yourself? Yes, you can, as Obama would have put it. CDHN is proud to offer you a crash course in how to beat Putra on his hometurf.

First of all, be a good Catholic. Adhere to the teaching of Pope John Paul II and never, absolutely NEVER use contraceptives. If your wife buys you condoms, find out where she stores them and poke holes in them. If your wife is too devious in seeking to flunk her breeding obligations - storing the condoms in a place you have never bothered to learn the existense of (like together with the cleaning detergents) - then have your penis pierced. This will make it difficult if not impossible to attach a condom to it. And for anyone steeped in the Catholic visual tradition, a piercing is more than just a needle: a colourful crucifix will liven up the dullest of penises.

Secondly, make sure that your wife is not taking any kind of contraception pills. Convince her that this type of pills causes a whole assortment of side effects, like cellulite, overweight, pimples and other things that women tend to get hysterical about.

Thirdly, learn from the dogs. Live for a while among stray dogs on the streets and internalize their mating habits. Dogs are notorious for possessing an unrelenting urge to penetrate everything with an inviting shape: table legs, human legs, trees etc. If cohabitation does not do the trick, seek a genetic biologist and have dog genes infused. You will be endowed with a constant erection and subject everyone and everything around you to a permanent assault.

Finally, keep your wife within a safe distance from the nearest labour office. It is imperative that she be available for insemination at all thinkable moments. If necessary, immobilize her, for instance by hiding all her expensive shoes. (No woman with a minimum of self-respect will leave the house in substandard footgear). Invest in new furniture to make staying at home a more attractive option. The combination of a flat screen TV attached to the ceiling and a comfortable sofa is a winner. In this way, your wife can watch ’M jak milosc’ lying on her back, a position that greatly facilitates impregnation.

FAQ
As a special service to our faithful readers, Assistant Dean Adolf Mandela from the Jozef Fritzl Department of Family Studies at the University of Salzburg answers some of the most common questions related to the mass production of offspring.

Q: Do I need to grow a moustache the size of Putra’s in order to become the father of 8?
A.M.: This is not a requirement, but it is strongly recommended. The danger exists that your wife will suspect that she married a rabbit and seek refuge in the basement as soon as she sees the ’let’s make babies’-look on your face. A generous moustache combined with a pair of dark glasses will serve to obscure your intentions and render it difficult for your wife to guess when you are planning to impregnate her. Besides, the presence of an intimidating bush in the middle of your face will make kissing and other forms of wasteful and non-reproductive sex (also called foreplay) less pleasant, enabling you to go straight to the point.

Q: If I have 8 children and each of them in turn have 8 children, I will have 64 grandchildren. How do I keep track of them?

A.M.: Experts recommend the time tested Michał Wiśniewski-method of child-identification. Make each of your sons and daughters colour their offspring’s hair with one and the same colour. All your daughter Bożena’s children will have red hair, all your son Zdzisław’s children will have blue hair and so on. If this method is too costly, paper hats are a cheap alternative. Yet another alternative, which can easily be combined with the previous 2, is to compile a list of your 64 favourite Catholic saints and make sure that each of your grandchildren is named after one of them.

The CDHN countdown of the 25 best tracks of all time. This week number 18.

Notorious, Duran Duran, 1986

Words fail to describe the sheer talent of our heroes from Birmingham. So instead of stating the obvious – that they are one of the most brilliant bands ever to appear on planet earth – I will offer some tidbits of information that you might NOT know. For example that there is a link between Frank Zappa and Duran Duran and that his (apparently genuine) name is Warren Cuccurullo. If this name rings a bell, it might be because he is namedropped in Zappa’s classic ‘Catholic girls’. After playing guitar for Zappa for more than 10 years, Cuccurullo became a member of Duran Duran in 1989. While his period as a member was not their commercially (nor artistically) most fruitful, he did pen their 1993 smash ‘Ordinary world’. W.C. left the group in 2001 to devote himself to publishing pornographic material of himself on his own web site as well as manufacturing his very own dildo, ‘Rock Rod’. Following a life threatening illness in 2003, he had a spiritual awakening (how unpredictable) and removed all adult material from his site. W.C. is proud to be one of those nuts who think that 9/11 was orchestrated by the American government themselves, and as though this wasn’t enough, he belongs to that most despicable category of creatues; Yes, he is a VEGAN.

In other words, things have gone somewhat downhill with W.C., but in the glorious year of 1986 (before becoming an official member of the band), he played guitar on one of the classiest tracks of the 80s, ‘Notorious’. To hear white guys sound as funky as this is a rare experience, to put it mildly. (Even if they probably had more than a little help from producer genius and former Chic-member Nile Rodgers.) Enjoy!

A jolly good play - CDHN reviews 'Fiddler on the roof'

The fiddler on the roof (Skrzypek na dachu), Teatr Muzyczny, Gdynia, December 2008

Arriving outside the theatre on this chilly December evening, I immediately sensed something was amiss. I could not contain the distinct impression that some of the guests did not arrive in limousins. Some even seemed to drive their own cars. Flustered, I asked my servant Zdzisław for an explanation. „We ARE going to the theatre, right? Does my lorgnette need polishing or does this place look like Paris just before the storming of the Bastille?” Zdzisław took my coat and assured me I would meet like-minded individuals inside, so with some foreboding I decided to take the risk and entered the foyer of Teatr Muzyczny in Gdynia. Safe and sound in my box in the theatre I again retrieved my lorgnette from my waist pocket and took a closer look around. Much to my satisfaction, Gdynia Yacht Club had a strong presence tonight. I also spotted some of the most venerated members of Ujeścisko Fox Hunting Society as well as Lord Ossoliński, head of the Wicket Department in Zaspa Cricket Association.

However, just as I was about to light my favourite cigar, a most hideous spectacle presented itself before my eyes. A shabbily dressed individual appeared on stage playing some kind of instrument that Zdzisław claimed to be a ‘fiddle’, apparently a close relative of the violin. Suffice it to say that if the violin is the racehorse among instruments, then this fiddle-thing is the run-down old nag you would put in front of a cart loaded with potatoes. My first thought was that the fiddling entity on stage was a Gipsy – somewhat to my puzzlement, since I had not ordered a Gipsy band to play. Quite frankly, I find them a little bit threatening, with their black hair and imposing manners. Some of my companions in the Gdynia yacht club seem to appreciate or at least tolerate their presence. I on the other hand always bring my flyswatter when I go to a restaurant. You have no idea how effiecient a smack from the flyswatter is! It is highly amusing to see the little vagabond musicians run for their lives with their ragged ‘clothes’ flying in all directions. My long term golf partner Henryk is a sworn follower of the slingshot, but I myself think a flyswatter does the trick. A slingshot might inflict more physical pain, but punishment meted out by way of a flyswater adds an element of humiliation that sometimes is just as effective. It sends a clear message to the Gipsy: ‘You are of no more standing than a fly, thus a flyswater is the only appropriate instrument.’



As the Gipsy demonstrated a lack of willingness to make himself scarce, I decided, as Gdynia Yacht Club’s most senior member present, to assume command. I resolutely approached the doorman with a polite but firm request to have this inconvenience removed. The doorman however just looked at me as though he was oblivious to my order. I sighed and showed him my membership card from Gdynia Yacht Club. ‘Could you please honour my request, you degenerate little lower class turd?’ To my complete bafflement, the impertinent creature still refused to act. I duly slapped his face and intended to proceed to the stage to remove the Gipsy plague myself, but suddenly I felt overtaken by an attack of dizziness. Sitting down in my arm chair I recalled my doctor’s orders from yesterday. ‘Your organism reacts negatively when exposed to elements from the lower spheres of society. Simply try to avoid them.’ Avoid? They are everywhere these days. I bought myself a villa in Orłowo in the vain hope that I would not have to suffer their company. As if! Hords of them come strolling along the beach promenade on Sundays, more often than not carrying their offspring with them. And yes, Dear Reader, I know we need them to do our laundry and clean our toilets, but do they have to be so... well, straightforward about their existence? Can they not just find themselves a hole in the ground somewhere?

Anyway, what was there to be done except follow my doctor’s orders? All the more since after a lifelong diet consisting exclusively of Filet mignon, vintage Cognac and Belgian chocolate my heart muscle has the vitality of a punctured football. So I leaned back in my chair, waiting for the gipsy to retire from the stage. Which he eventually did. Relieved, I sprayed my surroundings with air freshener in case some of the vile lower class stench had seeped into my box . Finally, I thought to myself, let me breathe some culture!

God, what misdeeds have I been guilty of to deserve such a treatment? For the Gipsy departed only to be replaced by what must have been dozens of his tribal companions. The stage was swarming with filth. They were all over the place, singing, shouting, jumping. I must confess, Dear Reader, that for a moment I panicked. I threw my arms around the gentleman in the box next to me, Zygmunt, the revered vice president of Ujeścisko Fox Hunting Society. ‘The revolution is breaking out!’ I screamed. ‘We are doomed!’ My fox hunting companion was also alarmed, but showed impressive calm in the situation. ‘All is not lost, my friend. What if I use my fox hunting skills to take them out?’ He retrieved his mobile and dialled a number. ‘I’m calling the assistant director of Ujeścisko Fox Hunting Society to send a shipment of horses and fox hounds to put an end to the turbulence’. ‘And my golf clubs might come in handy,’ I added, already imagining myself beating away at a member of the lower classes with religious fervour. Arkadiusz, a distinguished wine taster and tobacco plantation owner from Upper Sopot, joined us. ‘Do not despair, my friends! My recipe for stifling disorder is as follows: Get your cook to prepare a meal of the most exquisite filet mignon imaginable. The tattered insurgents will throw themselves over this meal like a pack of stray dogs over a bone. With glee they will devour the consummate meal – digging their own grave in the process! Because their digestive systems are only used to raw potatoes and rotten cabbage and will not handle culinary delicacies of this kind. While the subversive scum suffer the most brutal attack of bellyache, we will have plenty of time to crush the disturbances.’

Plotting the restoration of order, it suddenly came to our attention that the curtain had fallen and the Gipsys disappeared. What was this? A devious ploy from the lower orders to lull us into a false sense of security?

Apparently, as was explained to us by Stanisław Potocki, Honorary Director of Golf Park Gdynia, this signalled the break between the 2 acts and the underprivileged creatures on stage were not an insurrectionary crowd but – God help me – ACTORS. Yes, we were in fact watching a comedy, where real actors dressed up as lower class sewage were jumping around on stage to our amusement!

Golf Park Gdynia in Orłowo

With a mischiveous smile on his face, Zygmunt whispered something in his servants’ ear.
Just in time for the second act, his servant reappeared equipped with... 3 sets of monkey costumes.

‘I guess it’s ‘make fun of the poor’ day today!’ Zygmunt cheered. ‘Tally-ho, my friend! Here’s one for you too!’

It suddenly dawned on me what the naughty fox hunter had in mind. Hence, with the utmost haste I crept into my monkey outfit. 2 minutes later, Zygmunt, Arkadiusz and myself were dancing around in our monkey costumes on stage, engaging in orangutang acrobatics, making monkey sounds, pulling funny faces and generally pretending to be poor people. I hadn’t had such a jolly good time since uncle Jan let us kids watch the gardener being forced to cut the lawn with his teeth.

Ujeścisko Fox Hunting society - proud bearers of tradition

So, Dear Reader, how do I judge the artistic value of this particular play? Let me just say that I think our somewhat erroneous initial reaction testifies to the astonishing lifelikeness of it all. The filthy rags, the lack of diction, the greasy hair, the pig-like manners – it was a phenomenal display of lower class life at its worst – or should I say best? And if I may add one thing: Yes, I know there are differences between various fractions of the social elite; some of us prefer yachting, others golf while yet others again cultivate the fine leisure pursuits of polo, cricket, horse racing or fox hunting. But jumping around on stage making fun of the poor I realized how infinitely much more there is that unites us than that which separates us. This gentleman might be addicted to Russian caviar, the one sitting in the plush arm chair over there might prefer goose liver while that fine upper class specimen battling on the cricket pitch stubbornly refuses to eat anything but white truffles. Ultimately, however, we are all members of the same estate, the same class, united in our utter contempt for the working people. Last summer, we all suffered some terrifying traumas when the Orłowo golfers sued the Ujeścisko Fox Hunting Society for running their horses over Golf Park Gdynia and letting their fox hounds do their business in the holes next to the flags. For a while there, many of us forgot that whatever differences separate us, they are of a most trifling magnitude compared to the unabridgable gap that divides us all from the riff raff. The most wretched among us – the image of Count Zamoyski mistaking his poodle for his wife at one of the garden parties in Orłowo last summer springs to mind - is worth infinitely more than the most brilliant of their kind.

For new readers: Gdańsk Zoo revisited

Read the groundbreaking and painfully honest report from the Gdańsk Zoo which earned me the Radom Zoological Society's 'Golden Gnu' prize for investigative journalism 2008. Originally posted on my previous blog on Motime in August.

CDHNs groundbreaking Christmas-modified First Aid course

With Christmas coming up, innumerable perils present themselves. We get stuck in chimneys, overdoze on marcepan pigs, suffocate inside our Santa masks, and the persistent noise of sleigh bells cause our ear drums to explode. But first and foremost, Christmas is the one time of year when we gather to celebrate our blood ties. Uncles, nephews and grandparents pop up from everywhere, with all the extra conflict potential that this entails. Your grandfather has just added Septic Arthritis to his already impressive collection of ailments – and this year he’s determined to take it out on YOU!

To prevent yet another unresolved inheritance dispute emerging around the Christmas dinner table from having fatal consequences, it is our sacred holiday duty to brush up on our First Aid skills. So take a few minutes to read this – the life you save might be if not your own then at least your third cousin’s.





Is it safe?







1. Safety First

"Professional rescuers practice universal precautions when providing medical care to victims."

Often ignored. If your uncle Viggo has been subjected to a severe thrashing from your other uncle Torkjell, reducing the former to a blood-soaked pulp whose only sign of life are some idiosyncratic movements bearing an ominously close resemblance to final death spasms, we tend to rush to help him. But don’t let your eagerness to help get the better of you. First you make sure that the source of danger, in this case the fierce Uncle Torkjell, is removed. But how to accomplish this? Uncle Torkjell has been nursing a fierce hatred for Uncle Viggo ever since the latter made fun of his cowboy outfit at his 11th birthday party. He genuinely enjoys beating up the hapless Viggo and will not hesitate to deal similarly with anyone that seeks to put obstacles in his way. Here I suggest as the only possible remedy: immediate distribution of Christmas presents. Uncle Torkjell might be no spring chicken, but boys will be boys, and the idea of unwrapping his new Sony Playstation3 will dampen his sadistic impulses – at least until the novelty fades off.

2. Determine if the Victim is Awake

"Probably the biggest indicator of a serious medical emergency is an inability to wake a victim."

How to determine if your ‘patient’ is sleeping? Here, paradoxically, the otherwise annoying phenomenon of snoring lends us a helping hand. Uncle Viggo – fat, drunk, unkept; your archetypical snorer. However, the ability to snore is also influenced by the position in which you sleep. If you sleep on your side, airways are more open and you snore less. Hence, to release Uncle Viggo’s snoring potential, we must put him on his back. His airways will then be partially blocked, which facilitates snoring. If snoring ensues, you can safely conclude that the 'patient' is not awake.

Or can you? Alas, you must be alert to the possibility that the 'patient’ might be faking injury just to make a fool out of you. Could it be that all the other family members have planned a little practical joke at YOUR expense? How to distinguish genuine snoring from fake one? Easy, dear Reader. Your Aunt Gunhild is a certified snorer whose nighttime snoring reaches such giant volumes that her husband Kåre had to seek refuge in a mental hospital. Drop a sleeping pill in her aquavit and place her next to Uncle Viggo. Then observe whether Uncle Viggo’s snoring is affected by Aunt Gunhild’s snoring. If he is just faking, he will have substantial difficulties maintaining his own snoring rhythm. So if his snoring becomes synchronised with Aunt Gunhild’s, we can draw the conclusion that Uncle Viggo has subjected us to inauthentic snoring.

(It must however be added that the current field of snoring science has not reached consensus on this issue. Researchers from the snoring laboratory at the Nelson Mandela College of Nocturnal Health points to the well known fact the menstruation cycles of two women who live together will be synchronized. ‘The same applies to two adjacent snorers’, they maintain.)

What if the ‘patient’ is not your uncle, but your cousin’s sympathetic fiance Kasia? After choking on an almond, she is apparently lying unconscious on the floor. Or is she just observing the time-honoured tradition of female misbehaviour? If yes, you run the risk of ending up the laughing stock of the Christmas party by giving first aid treatment to a perfectly healthy person! Your duty as a first aid expert is to establish the truth value of her apparent lifelessness. Place both hands on her breasts and squeeze them firmly. Lack of reaction from the ‘patient’ points to loss of consciousness, and allows you to proceed to step 3. (Researchers from the First Aid Battalion at the Joseph Mengele University in Drammen, however, argue that it is still too early to proceed and that you should double check by touching other strategic parts of her body first. I will leave this to the discretion of the individual first aid expert, in the firm conviction that each will act in accordance with his or her conscience.)

3. A is for Airway and B is for Breathing

"If a victim is conscious, ask him or her to speak. The ability to speak directly correlates with an airway. If a person's airway is blocked, he or she can't speak."

A tricky one, as it poses no great difficulty feigning an unability to speak. How can we ascertain that we are not being made fun of yet again? A simple but effective method exists. Subject the ‘patient’ to prolonged tickling of armpits. If the idea of touching Uncle Viggo’s sweaty armpits with your fingers holds no particular appeal to you, I suggest that you uproot the Christmas tree and tickle him with it. The ‘patient’ will start laughing and beg you to stop, making it obvious for everyone that his so-called blocked airways were nothing but an evil lie.

If tickling does not produce the expected results, we might be dealing with a person whose airwaves are blocked. Place Uncle Viggo in the recovery position.

Again, if the prospect of dealing manually with Uncle Viggo’s obese body does not overexcite you, you can avoid direct body contact by putting on your Santa boots and try to kick your uncle into the recovery position.

Some individuals are not capable of producing coherent speech even if their airways are open, notably persons in a high state of religious fervour. If the sounds uttered resemble Arabic, we are in all likelihood dealing with a Muslim. If not, the God-fearing miscreation is probably a Pentecostal busying himself with speaking in tongues. The only way to deal with these deviants is to pull hard on their tongues with both hands until they come to their senses and realize that speaking in tongues is not protected by Freedom of speech.

4. C is for Circulation

"Look at the victim's color and feel his or her skin temperature to see if he or she has signs of circulation. If there is no breathing or circulation, start CPR."

The patient might need nutrition, so avoid spilling ketchup like the stupid person on this photo



How to administer CPR?

First, look around to see if there are any interestingly looking women (to whom you are not worryingly closely related) lying around who are also in need of first aid. Women have a longer life expectancy than men, so from the perspective of social and economic efficiency, there is a strong case for giving them priority. Uncle Viggo has only a few years left in the frozen food inventory at REMA1000, and so will only be a drag on the welfare state for most of the rest of his life.
If, however, after searching through the neighbouring farms you still haven't found any qualified female patient, you have no choice but to deliver CPR to your Uncle Viggo. But take precautions! Mouth-to-mouth is unhygienic and a recipe for transmission of diseases. Is lip contact needed at all? The Henry Rinnan Academy of Foot-and-Mouth Disease in Levanger argue convincingly that a bicycle pump does the same trick. This method has the added benefit that the victim can work the pump himself. As the main expert on first aid, you must always be in tip top shape and cannot exhaust yourself unnecessarily by sitting there pushing a bicycle pump like some kind of Reodor Felgen.

If you happen to be dressed up as Santa Claus, make sure that you leave the room in a discreet manner and remove your outfit completely before administering CPR. How can you expect your little ones to continue believing in the existence of Santa Claus after they’ve seen him do all kinds of weird things with uncle Viggo’s inanimate body? Two wrongs don’t make a right. It’s enough that you have one near dead family member lying on the floor; you don’t want a child’s broken heart on your record of Christmas-related crimes too.

5. While Waiting for the Ambulance

"As the ambulance is responding to your emergency, there are some things you can do to help emergency crews find you. Make sure to try to do as many of these things as possible to prepare for the ambulance's arrival"

With New Year’s Eve just around the corner, every family worth their salt has a basement full of fireworks, ideal for drawing the ambulance’s attention to your house. Let one of the kids fire up some powerful rockets so that the ambulance will locate you from afar. When the ambulance arrives, make sure to put away Christmas snacks, juleribbe and all the presents and hide your women from view. Ambulance personnel, severely displeased at having to work on Christmas Eve, might well conduct themselves like a unit of Red Army soldiers liberating their Eastern-European neighbours from the Nazis.

That’s it, dear Reader, 5 simple steps towards a casualty-free Christmas this year!

CDHN's very special Babórka-present to its readers: THE MINERS

On the occasion of the annual Miners’ Day here in Poland, the glorious Babórka festivities, CDHN is proud to announce the publication of its first ever poem. The reading of the poem should preferrably be preceded by a toast and 3 times hurrah for our underground working class heroes!

THE MINERS

The fireplace roars, laughter abounds
Ten miners at Gunnar’s place
Perfect bodies, no abundant pounds
A mere pimple would be a disgrace

Well-built men in the prime of their lives
Gathered on Friday night
And no, they do not miss their wives
Amidst male buttocks so tight

Gunnar’s wife Astrid briefly appears
To leave a cookie tray
Gunnar commands her: ‘Bring more beers
And then be gone far away!’

For in the company of mates from work
Wives are but a waste of space
‘He who chases women is a jerk!’
Declares Truls with a dignified face

‘Kåre, let a log on the fire be thrown!’
Says Gunnar, unbuttoning his shirt
‘Behold, pitmen! See how my biceps have grown’
From digging out coal in the dirt’

Nine pairs of eyes in amazement stare
As the shirt is consigned to the floor
An immaculate chest all covered with hair
Can a collier ask for more?

‘I took evening classes in the history of art.'
Says Torleif, wiping sweat from his brow
‘Hence, I have knowledge to impart
If the company may kindly allow’

‘I’ve seen ancient sculptures in Greece and Rome
Of consummate beauty and grace
Yet, why did I stray so far from home
At perfect proportions to gaze?’

‘When my workmate’s body is a masterpiece
To which no sculpture can compare
Let fire swallow my books about Greece!
For the beauty I seek is here’

‘And I’, says Einar, ‘have read them all
the sagas the Icelanders wrote
But neither Rafnkjell, Egil nor Njål’ –
Einar pauses to clear his throat –

’Exuded such power, such vigour, such force
As Gunnar in topless state.’
Kjetil interrupts with a voice so hoarse:
’He resembles Alexander the Great!’

Kåre announces, ‘Kjetil, my friend
in the sauna you showed me your chest
Why not display it once again?
To its splendour I gladly attest’

Kjetil obeys, followed by Truls,
Viggo, Reidar and Finn
Sweaty miners, mighty as bulls
Eager to show some skin

Shirts discarded on wooden floor
But helmets remain on heads
‘Trousers’, says Viggo, ‘what are they for?’
And throws them on the bed

His thighs are the talk of the mining town
The mining season’s number one hit
The excited colliers gather around
Like they once did down in the pit

Last week in the mineshaft he flashed his thighs
For all his colleagues to admire
Legs worthy of the Nobel Prize,
Thighs that can trigger a fire!

Many a miner in bed that night
To that perfect moment return’d
Two muscular thighs; a splendid sight
Ah! How the miner yearn’d

Once more to lay eyes on such flawless limbs
To revel in their beauty anew
More muscular than anything seen at the gym’s
Legs to which eyes stuck like glue!

Today the prayers of men have been heard
As Viggo at last understands
With legs like his, it is indeed absurd
To walk around wearing pants

By his workmate inspired, with flames in his eyes
Kåre the driller bursts out
‘Underpants are shackles in woollen disguise
Not fitting a miner so stout’

‘Begone! Ye chains around my legs
I curse you in Scargill’s* name
My athletic body for freedom begs
It refuses to hide in shame’

‘We, Prometheans from the bowels of the earth
The noble excavators of coal
For cent’ries the upper class ignored our worth
Our bodies they sought to control’

‘By wrapping us in trousers, sweaters and socks
Our nakedness hidden from view
But now the collier, as strong as an ox
Nudism seeks to pursue!’

‘Soon, fellow miners, on the May day parade
We will march for the 6-hour day
Red flags, banners will all be display’d
But clothes will be put away’

‘Only our helmets will remain
Safety must come first
That apart: not even the heaviest rain
Can stop us; or may we be cursed!’

‘Indeed, the bashful days are gone,’
says Finn, ‘Let’s march down the street
With nothing but our helmets on
And give the public a treat.’

‘Let eyes feast on masculine flesh
Revel in our dangling jewels
Relish the sight of male meat so fresh
Adore our reproductive tools’

‘In triumph we will stroll down the street
And gain the people’s respect
But for our strategy to succeed
There is one thing we must not neglect’

‘Practice! Let’s commence without delay
To our boxers bid a last farewell
May we start rehearsals for that glorious day
When miners ring the victory bell!’


*Arthur Scargill, legendary leader of the British National Union of Mineworkers from 1981 to 2000.