I'm such an old fashioned, old fart grand motherfucker. A pensive mood need not make a poet, but a hangover sure as fuck does.
Top of the morning gents,
In my last cackle sesh with Agent Octuck he stated he
needed someone 'fine' to cook and clean for his
family.
Shit, free beer, good food and a classy condominium:
hook me up fucker. I've crashed Patrick's pad, sweet
digs. Dude lays out heavy dinero, and it shows nicely.
As far as me being Octuck's armed maid, chef and
answering service, I don't think he's shopping to add
another swinging dick to his castle, I'd guess he's
more in the mood for some skirt, biscuit and trimmed
lippy.
Shuck, another point: I'm already happily employed as
bun's kept man, asset manager and lumberyard. Besides,
my risks of breast cancer are equal to my risks of mud
flap cancer. So far I've found only 2 lumps in my
trash bag.
Monthly self-examinations are prudent, but greasing
yer crank and con rod daily work real fucking good.
"If you shake it more than 3 times, yer playing with
it" (M. Callahan).
I'm so impressed to find that women who do lots of
household chores greatly reduce their risks of breast
cancer. Of course the study is skewed, but my smile
originates from fond recollections of moms around the
world doting and playing, kissing and scolding
gorgeous babies. I'm really fucking old, and it shows
don't it?
Britain and Ireland are the foci of this research,
which intrigues me. My chemically and blunt force
eroded thought platforms reveal old Cobal, Fortran and
Basic programming. Through these layers of ancient
code we can identify my race memories of green eyed,
red haired slaves: that's fucking sexy to a Viking. I
was never much into African or Latino fine: more
Northern Europe and Siberian in preference.
Straight up, 'tween you and me out here in the smoking
section of this cat box, the prettiest girls on the
planet are Eskimo or Finnish. Which is interesting.
Only stunningly gorgeous Scandinavian and Eskimo women
find me attractive. Oh sure, I've been hit on by a
million third world temptresses, but they had ulterior
motives aside from romance and companionship.
I've had Russian, Baltic (Latvia, Lithuania, and
Estonia), African and Asian breed stock back up to me
and rub their bumpers on me, spray me with cat eyes
and cat piss, and even propose odd marriage bullshit
and trade their Afro babies for crack.
Don't be that guy. Mail order brides will always stray
from their bleeding huts and I lost my copy of
Jonathon Swift-The Modest Proposal for recipes how to
brine, roast and prepare cooked infants for din-din.
Nup, I'm the luckiest man alive. Statistically, you
too: all you dickheads are dead and long gone in every
parallel universe I visit each time I hork down
industrial bongers of Cully's ghost bud, deadly hybrid
pine chron that lets you see the dead. So what gives?
Some of you have been spit on by AIDS infected
inmates, slugged and punched by HerpHep drunk bitches
and gang tackled nurse diesel and the herp queens over
at Hospital Housing.
I ain't saying names, but ALL of you miscreants know
the game of fetch of stick and chase the bullet. Shit,
a striking number of you graying gunslingers have even
absorbed stray bullets. Now you know how it feels to
be a bullet dump.
If you got 3 lumps in yer possibles pouch, one of 'em
might be stray bullet from an old gun battle. If you
bite into a Snickers Bar at the Post Office, that hard
lump ain't cancer, it's a brain and blood flavored
nutritional Lead supplements.
Thinking of a Dallas Hannah and his burnt mouth and
the hole in the nape of his neck causes me to digress
off the beaten path of intellectual masturbation
towards evermore amusing processes derivative of a
congenital hyperactive and drain bramaged retard
villager.
This stunt you'll like: and nobody gets fucking hurt.
Just for fun, when I phone you killers at fed, state
or local police, Persecutors Office or offices of
fraudulent Child Safety for gun talk, illegal racial
maneuvering around the constitution, and sweet head
shots from before the stroke, I'm frequently asked,
"May I ask whose calling?"
So for fun I make up stupid shit.
"Yes sir, this is Ethan Cooley."
"Yes ma'am, this is Dallas Hannah."
"Good evening there young man, this is Gilbert Hall."
"How do ma'am, this is Carl Schramm."
"Hey asshole, this is Ken Jewell."
Wake up fucks. It's my very own native American code
talk. When you review the police dispatch phone logs,
your thick head is supposed to think, "That fucking
Karl, I wonder what the fuck he's calling for now. I
sure hope he's got some guns for sale. I hope he shot
my wife already, fucker's late on punching her switch.
I wonder if it's time for me to take a nap and let the
dick head go postal all over town."
I imagine other parties review your Dispatch Phone
Logs too. I better quit being such a fucking dickhead
and just send you shit ass penmanship via jizz-mail.
Besides, my politically inappropriate colon kicks and
gonad Spetznats workouts aren't very nice. I doubt any
of you pussies get upset at all my bad words. Yes I
know ain't ain't a word and we are NOT supposed to use
bad words, but something has broken loose.
Tourette's syndrome reminds me of you guys. After
decades of observation, I think I've seen it all. I
seen every phase of every emotion and ridden your moon
bike (menstrual cycle) right next to you-side by
side-and lived to bitch about it.
Explosive anger, crippling guilt, clever cunning and
some pretty darn kind and tender words too. You guys
are the salt of the fucking Earth cuz your successes
are out of the goddamned ballpark and your failures
heart wrenching and emotionally devastating. Most
folks don't get a second chance do over when we cause
injury and death to another human being. Neither do
you. Don't second-guess shit, humans are at the top of
the food chain because of our creative and destructive
volatility.
By just a cunt hair we saved Annie Joule, but lost
that poor sod off the Crowley docks. We lost May
Marlene Thomas and Bessie (what's her name?) in
explosive and noisy deceleration trauma, which no act
of God could have undone, but we saved that kid
stranded out on the ice. See the ROI? Return on
investment balances your score card and absolved
guilt. I've already forgiven you soldiers for
catastrophic losses that ain't even happened YET.
I'm still disturbed by the fact that one girl was
pregnant, until she was separated from her vessel,
leaving us mukes to mop and shovel hunks of meat with
breasts.
Goddamned moment of no hope. Now both mother and child
enjoy a heaven better, Valhalla. You blessed angels
are witnesses to such horror, but like Hercules ya'll
bear the weight of these remote villages on yer
shoulders. Stress that gives you lumpy chicken skin on
yer nut sack.
'Cept this bitch won't have any fun bag tumors until
after you empty yer gun in his ass.
Hard nipples and drippy dick is what I say. Lumps in
yer fun bags don't mean shit, but lumps in wives fun
bags tell me you live in a fucking pigsty. Kidding,
wait until you read my attached articles.
Nup, I ain't dragging my vacuum cleaner and carpet
steam cleaner over to any of yer fucking scraling
grottos, unless ye got lots of cold beer and smokes.
I promise to leave the guns with the Mrs.
Your children and grandchildren really oughta not see
an old Finn act like a complete dildo. My animated
chemical ego is quite amusing and energetic, albeit
funny as shit, but really offensive to the ears of
babes, virgins and bitchy cunt shaped pears. Who let
the Douglass wife out?
Just ask anybody out here past the goats pasture, as
soon as me and Cully, Microdot and Troyous, Marto and
Denz smoke fat chiefs and get chinked, all the
guitars, guns and computers start humming in the wind.
Hyper Europeans get absolutely fucking creative when
surrounded by fellow felons. Marijuana initiative may
be an oxy-moron, but ain't none of you fuckers have
attended a Northwest Acid Test or a Troy Fest up at
Nancy and Baird's hideout down yonder Skagit River.
With racks and stacks of equipment piled all over
stage scaffolding you have chaos. With a man named
Larson chasing cable and eliminating phantom noise and
feedback, you got mayhem. Neuroshima evolves from
2-dimensional boner music to hallographic machinery
emitting unhealthy amounts of sound pressure levels
and macular degeneration.
All the equipment could truthfully be unjust
enrichment, but who gives a fuck? To this day, the
Mulluks and the Capone’s are assumed to be the
culpable parties in the disappearance of truckloads of
PA equipment from the Eskimo Building and the Rec
Center. Real nice stuff, whoever stated, "crime never
pays" must be a fucking poof.
In my nefarious schemes out here on the reservation I
got stung once. I bought a bass guitar from the
Janitscheck boys (traded product), Gold Streaked this
treasure to Seattle for a tune-up and pick-up tweaks.
Fuck me in the goat ass, the music shop I sent it to
ran the serial numbers, phoned the King County
Sheriff's Office, and handed over MY 4-stringed
shredder to the fucking coppers.
Ain't I an idiot? The pricey instrument I'd bought
from a bunch of fucking crooks and thieves turned out
to be stolen.
Who'd a thunk it? Fuck I'm such a dildo.
The rightful owner likely figured out who'd fucked him
by following the path of the loot from Seattle, to
Kotzebue, Alaska, back to Seattle.
I think I may have even marched over the Chief's
office, closed the door and showed him THAT letter
advising me why I lost a grand on that mish. They
thanked me for assisting the police in returning that
brilliant subsonic sound machine back to its owner.
At the end of a complex bit of commerce, all I got is
a letter from a music shop telling me Fuck you buddy,
later.
Despite being the dip shit sucker in that deal, I
feared Columbo or Wallace would fire me. Who wants
clever grifters and accomplished drug dealers working
for a bunch of fucking cops.
What am I saying? You fuckers probably hired me for
just those professional qualifications. As St. Paul
always declares, "there's always more to the story."
Guns don't kill people. Husbands coming home early do.
Well wishes and understanding farewells make your
nasty crime scene clean ups a little easier on your
soul and restores our faith in life, cuz all you
fuckers are still breathing God's air and that is
truly a miracle.
What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger.
If you ain't dead yet, you still got shit to do and
miles to go before you sleep.
Orders. All you boys push, pull or drag yer wives to
hospital for a mammo slam and crap smear. Then put out
yer weak gun hand and let the doc do a complete blood
panel on you too.
The crew of med staff at MMC is killer, so to speak.
Dr. Chuck Luck (Mr. Chin) is down from Barrow and so
is Dr. McCarthy the psychiatrist. Dr. Sanders is also
in attendance on this blessed team. He's a fucking
genius at balancing cholesterol, blood glucose and
pressure. The eye doctor transferred in from a
maximum-security prison, the largest in the country
and he knows all about the infections and injuries you
maggots have suffered.
Oh, the reason I'm aware of the psychiatrist is cuz
he's authoring a study of sick puppies that fail to
respond to Prozac, Depocote, Ritalin, Dexedrine,
Cannabis and Ethane. Oh, and cocaine.
I'm authoring a study of BIA village shrinks that
diagnose and prescribe all sorts of really groovy
shit.
Have drugs can't travel. Take a trip never leave the
farm.
Do a self-check. If you got more than 2 lumps it's not
a tumor, it's a spent bullet. I squeezed the shit outa
Octuck's tits, he ain't got no tumors, cuz he's gotta
clean up his own castle.
Guess ye can turn a whore into a housewife.
Fred Garvin, male prostitute.
---
Housework May Reduce Breast Cancer Risk
Doing housework may decrease the risk of breast
cancer, new research shows.
Over 200,000 women from 9 European countries were
studied by Cancer Research UK for over 6 years. The
study found that:
Housework cut breast cancer risk by 30% among
pre-menopausal women and by 20% among post-menopausal
women. Doing household chores is more cancer
protective than playing sports. All forms of physical
activity combined reduced the breast cancer risk in
post-menopausal women but had no obvious effect in
pre-menopausal women.
Of all physical activities studied, only housework
significantly reduced the risk of both pre- and
post-menopausal women getting the disease. "We already
know that women who keep a healthy weight are less
likely to develop breast cancer,” said Dr Lesley
Walker from Cancer Research UK.
"This study suggests that being physically active may
also help reduce the risk and that something as simple
and cheap as doing the housework can help."
The research was published in the journal Cancer
Epidemiology Biomarkers and Prevention.
Posted Wednesday 3rd January 2007
---
Household chores cut women’s breast cancer risk
London, Dec 30: Women who exercise by doing housework
can reduce their risk of breast cancer, according to a
new study.
The research on more than 200,000 women from nine
European countries found doing household chores was
far more cancer protective than playing sport.
Dusting, mopping and vacuuming was also better than
having a physical job. The women in the Cancer
Research UK-funded study spent an average of 16 to 17
hours a week cooking, cleaning and doing the washing.
Something as simple and cheap as doing the housework
can help Dr Lesley Walker of Cancer Research UK.
Experts have long known that physical exercise can
reduce the risk of breast cancer, probably through
hormonal and metabolic changes.
But it has been less clear how much and what types of
exercise are necessary for this risk reduction.
And much of past work has examined the link between
exercise and breast cancer in post-menopausal women
only.
The latest study looked at both pre- and
post-menopausal women and a range of activities,
including work, leisure and housework.
All forms of physical activity combined reduced the
breast cancer risk in post-menopausal women, but had
no obvious effect in pre-menopausal women.
The women were studied over an average of 6.4 years,
during which time there were 3,423 cases of breast
cancer.
The international authors said their results suggested
that moderate forms of physical activity, such as
housework, may be more important than less frequent
but more intense recreational physical activity in
reducing breast cancer risk.
"We already know that women who keep a healthy weight
are less likely to develop breast cancer,” Dr Lesley
Walker of Cancer Research UK was quoted by a private
TV channel, as saying.
"This study suggests that being physically active may
also help reduce the risk and that something as simple
and cheap as doing the housework can help."
Bureau Report
In my last cackle sesh with Agent Octuck he stated he
needed someone 'fine' to cook and clean for his
family.
Shit, free beer, good food and a classy condominium:
hook me up fucker. I've crashed Patrick's pad, sweet
digs. Dude lays out heavy dinero, and it shows nicely.
As far as me being Octuck's armed maid, chef and
answering service, I don't think he's shopping to add
another swinging dick to his castle, I'd guess he's
more in the mood for some skirt, biscuit and trimmed
lippy.
Shuck, another point: I'm already happily employed as
bun's kept man, asset manager and lumberyard. Besides,
my risks of breast cancer are equal to my risks of mud
flap cancer. So far I've found only 2 lumps in my
trash bag.
Monthly self-examinations are prudent, but greasing
yer crank and con rod daily work real fucking good.
"If you shake it more than 3 times, yer playing with
it" (M. Callahan).
I'm so impressed to find that women who do lots of
household chores greatly reduce their risks of breast
cancer. Of course the study is skewed, but my smile
originates from fond recollections of moms around the
world doting and playing, kissing and scolding
gorgeous babies. I'm really fucking old, and it shows
don't it?
Britain and Ireland are the foci of this research,
which intrigues me. My chemically and blunt force
eroded thought platforms reveal old Cobal, Fortran and
Basic programming. Through these layers of ancient
code we can identify my race memories of green eyed,
red haired slaves: that's fucking sexy to a Viking. I
was never much into African or Latino fine: more
Northern Europe and Siberian in preference.
Straight up, 'tween you and me out here in the smoking
section of this cat box, the prettiest girls on the
planet are Eskimo or Finnish. Which is interesting.
Only stunningly gorgeous Scandinavian and Eskimo women
find me attractive. Oh sure, I've been hit on by a
million third world temptresses, but they had ulterior
motives aside from romance and companionship.
I've had Russian, Baltic (Latvia, Lithuania, and
Estonia), African and Asian breed stock back up to me
and rub their bumpers on me, spray me with cat eyes
and cat piss, and even propose odd marriage bullshit
and trade their Afro babies for crack.
Don't be that guy. Mail order brides will always stray
from their bleeding huts and I lost my copy of
Jonathon Swift-The Modest Proposal for recipes how to
brine, roast and prepare cooked infants for din-din.
Nup, I'm the luckiest man alive. Statistically, you
too: all you dickheads are dead and long gone in every
parallel universe I visit each time I hork down
industrial bongers of Cully's ghost bud, deadly hybrid
pine chron that lets you see the dead. So what gives?
Some of you have been spit on by AIDS infected
inmates, slugged and punched by HerpHep drunk bitches
and gang tackled nurse diesel and the herp queens over
at Hospital Housing.
I ain't saying names, but ALL of you miscreants know
the game of fetch of stick and chase the bullet. Shit,
a striking number of you graying gunslingers have even
absorbed stray bullets. Now you know how it feels to
be a bullet dump.
If you got 3 lumps in yer possibles pouch, one of 'em
might be stray bullet from an old gun battle. If you
bite into a Snickers Bar at the Post Office, that hard
lump ain't cancer, it's a brain and blood flavored
nutritional Lead supplements.
Thinking of a Dallas Hannah and his burnt mouth and
the hole in the nape of his neck causes me to digress
off the beaten path of intellectual masturbation
towards evermore amusing processes derivative of a
congenital hyperactive and drain bramaged retard
villager.
This stunt you'll like: and nobody gets fucking hurt.
Just for fun, when I phone you killers at fed, state
or local police, Persecutors Office or offices of
fraudulent Child Safety for gun talk, illegal racial
maneuvering around the constitution, and sweet head
shots from before the stroke, I'm frequently asked,
"May I ask whose calling?"
So for fun I make up stupid shit.
"Yes sir, this is Ethan Cooley."
"Yes ma'am, this is Dallas Hannah."
"Good evening there young man, this is Gilbert Hall."
"How do ma'am, this is Carl Schramm."
"Hey asshole, this is Ken Jewell."
Wake up fucks. It's my very own native American code
talk. When you review the police dispatch phone logs,
your thick head is supposed to think, "That fucking
Karl, I wonder what the fuck he's calling for now. I
sure hope he's got some guns for sale. I hope he shot
my wife already, fucker's late on punching her switch.
I wonder if it's time for me to take a nap and let the
dick head go postal all over town."
I imagine other parties review your Dispatch Phone
Logs too. I better quit being such a fucking dickhead
and just send you shit ass penmanship via jizz-mail.
Besides, my politically inappropriate colon kicks and
gonad Spetznats workouts aren't very nice. I doubt any
of you pussies get upset at all my bad words. Yes I
know ain't ain't a word and we are NOT supposed to use
bad words, but something has broken loose.
Tourette's syndrome reminds me of you guys. After
decades of observation, I think I've seen it all. I
seen every phase of every emotion and ridden your moon
bike (menstrual cycle) right next to you-side by
side-and lived to bitch about it.
Explosive anger, crippling guilt, clever cunning and
some pretty darn kind and tender words too. You guys
are the salt of the fucking Earth cuz your successes
are out of the goddamned ballpark and your failures
heart wrenching and emotionally devastating. Most
folks don't get a second chance do over when we cause
injury and death to another human being. Neither do
you. Don't second-guess shit, humans are at the top of
the food chain because of our creative and destructive
volatility.
By just a cunt hair we saved Annie Joule, but lost
that poor sod off the Crowley docks. We lost May
Marlene Thomas and Bessie (what's her name?) in
explosive and noisy deceleration trauma, which no act
of God could have undone, but we saved that kid
stranded out on the ice. See the ROI? Return on
investment balances your score card and absolved
guilt. I've already forgiven you soldiers for
catastrophic losses that ain't even happened YET.
I'm still disturbed by the fact that one girl was
pregnant, until she was separated from her vessel,
leaving us mukes to mop and shovel hunks of meat with
breasts.
Goddamned moment of no hope. Now both mother and child
enjoy a heaven better, Valhalla. You blessed angels
are witnesses to such horror, but like Hercules ya'll
bear the weight of these remote villages on yer
shoulders. Stress that gives you lumpy chicken skin on
yer nut sack.
'Cept this bitch won't have any fun bag tumors until
after you empty yer gun in his ass.
Hard nipples and drippy dick is what I say. Lumps in
yer fun bags don't mean shit, but lumps in wives fun
bags tell me you live in a fucking pigsty. Kidding,
wait until you read my attached articles.
Nup, I ain't dragging my vacuum cleaner and carpet
steam cleaner over to any of yer fucking scraling
grottos, unless ye got lots of cold beer and smokes.
I promise to leave the guns with the Mrs.
Your children and grandchildren really oughta not see
an old Finn act like a complete dildo. My animated
chemical ego is quite amusing and energetic, albeit
funny as shit, but really offensive to the ears of
babes, virgins and bitchy cunt shaped pears. Who let
the Douglass wife out?
Just ask anybody out here past the goats pasture, as
soon as me and Cully, Microdot and Troyous, Marto and
Denz smoke fat chiefs and get chinked, all the
guitars, guns and computers start humming in the wind.
Hyper Europeans get absolutely fucking creative when
surrounded by fellow felons. Marijuana initiative may
be an oxy-moron, but ain't none of you fuckers have
attended a Northwest Acid Test or a Troy Fest up at
Nancy and Baird's hideout down yonder Skagit River.
With racks and stacks of equipment piled all over
stage scaffolding you have chaos. With a man named
Larson chasing cable and eliminating phantom noise and
feedback, you got mayhem. Neuroshima evolves from
2-dimensional boner music to hallographic machinery
emitting unhealthy amounts of sound pressure levels
and macular degeneration.
All the equipment could truthfully be unjust
enrichment, but who gives a fuck? To this day, the
Mulluks and the Capone’s are assumed to be the
culpable parties in the disappearance of truckloads of
PA equipment from the Eskimo Building and the Rec
Center. Real nice stuff, whoever stated, "crime never
pays" must be a fucking poof.
In my nefarious schemes out here on the reservation I
got stung once. I bought a bass guitar from the
Janitscheck boys (traded product), Gold Streaked this
treasure to Seattle for a tune-up and pick-up tweaks.
Fuck me in the goat ass, the music shop I sent it to
ran the serial numbers, phoned the King County
Sheriff's Office, and handed over MY 4-stringed
shredder to the fucking coppers.
Ain't I an idiot? The pricey instrument I'd bought
from a bunch of fucking crooks and thieves turned out
to be stolen.
Who'd a thunk it? Fuck I'm such a dildo.
The rightful owner likely figured out who'd fucked him
by following the path of the loot from Seattle, to
Kotzebue, Alaska, back to Seattle.
I think I may have even marched over the Chief's
office, closed the door and showed him THAT letter
advising me why I lost a grand on that mish. They
thanked me for assisting the police in returning that
brilliant subsonic sound machine back to its owner.
At the end of a complex bit of commerce, all I got is
a letter from a music shop telling me Fuck you buddy,
later.
Despite being the dip shit sucker in that deal, I
feared Columbo or Wallace would fire me. Who wants
clever grifters and accomplished drug dealers working
for a bunch of fucking cops.
What am I saying? You fuckers probably hired me for
just those professional qualifications. As St. Paul
always declares, "there's always more to the story."
Guns don't kill people. Husbands coming home early do.
Well wishes and understanding farewells make your
nasty crime scene clean ups a little easier on your
soul and restores our faith in life, cuz all you
fuckers are still breathing God's air and that is
truly a miracle.
What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger.
If you ain't dead yet, you still got shit to do and
miles to go before you sleep.
Orders. All you boys push, pull or drag yer wives to
hospital for a mammo slam and crap smear. Then put out
yer weak gun hand and let the doc do a complete blood
panel on you too.
The crew of med staff at MMC is killer, so to speak.
Dr. Chuck Luck (Mr. Chin) is down from Barrow and so
is Dr. McCarthy the psychiatrist. Dr. Sanders is also
in attendance on this blessed team. He's a fucking
genius at balancing cholesterol, blood glucose and
pressure. The eye doctor transferred in from a
maximum-security prison, the largest in the country
and he knows all about the infections and injuries you
maggots have suffered.
Oh, the reason I'm aware of the psychiatrist is cuz
he's authoring a study of sick puppies that fail to
respond to Prozac, Depocote, Ritalin, Dexedrine,
Cannabis and Ethane. Oh, and cocaine.
I'm authoring a study of BIA village shrinks that
diagnose and prescribe all sorts of really groovy
shit.
Have drugs can't travel. Take a trip never leave the
farm.
Do a self-check. If you got more than 2 lumps it's not
a tumor, it's a spent bullet. I squeezed the shit outa
Octuck's tits, he ain't got no tumors, cuz he's gotta
clean up his own castle.
Guess ye can turn a whore into a housewife.
Fred Garvin, male prostitute.
---
Housework May Reduce Breast Cancer Risk
Doing housework may decrease the risk of breast
cancer, new research shows.
Over 200,000 women from 9 European countries were
studied by Cancer Research UK for over 6 years. The
study found that:
Housework cut breast cancer risk by 30% among
pre-menopausal women and by 20% among post-menopausal
women. Doing household chores is more cancer
protective than playing sports. All forms of physical
activity combined reduced the breast cancer risk in
post-menopausal women but had no obvious effect in
pre-menopausal women.
Of all physical activities studied, only housework
significantly reduced the risk of both pre- and
post-menopausal women getting the disease. "We already
know that women who keep a healthy weight are less
likely to develop breast cancer,” said Dr Lesley
Walker from Cancer Research UK.
"This study suggests that being physically active may
also help reduce the risk and that something as simple
and cheap as doing the housework can help."
The research was published in the journal Cancer
Epidemiology Biomarkers and Prevention.
Posted Wednesday 3rd January 2007
---
Household chores cut women’s breast cancer risk
London, Dec 30: Women who exercise by doing housework
can reduce their risk of breast cancer, according to a
new study.
The research on more than 200,000 women from nine
European countries found doing household chores was
far more cancer protective than playing sport.
Dusting, mopping and vacuuming was also better than
having a physical job. The women in the Cancer
Research UK-funded study spent an average of 16 to 17
hours a week cooking, cleaning and doing the washing.
Something as simple and cheap as doing the housework
can help Dr Lesley Walker of Cancer Research UK.
Experts have long known that physical exercise can
reduce the risk of breast cancer, probably through
hormonal and metabolic changes.
But it has been less clear how much and what types of
exercise are necessary for this risk reduction.
And much of past work has examined the link between
exercise and breast cancer in post-menopausal women
only.
The latest study looked at both pre- and
post-menopausal women and a range of activities,
including work, leisure and housework.
All forms of physical activity combined reduced the
breast cancer risk in post-menopausal women, but had
no obvious effect in pre-menopausal women.
The women were studied over an average of 6.4 years,
during which time there were 3,423 cases of breast
cancer.
The international authors said their results suggested
that moderate forms of physical activity, such as
housework, may be more important than less frequent
but more intense recreational physical activity in
reducing breast cancer risk.
"We already know that women who keep a healthy weight
are less likely to develop breast cancer,” Dr Lesley
Walker of Cancer Research UK was quoted by a private
TV channel, as saying.
"This study suggests that being physically active may
also help reduce the risk and that something as simple
and cheap as doing the housework can help."
Bureau Report
posted by Alaska: Local And State News. at 9:22 PM
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