rocks.

Nicholas Sparks novels notwithstanding.

I’m packing up mah midgets and heading off to the NC shore for a week. I’ll be back on the 11th — try not to stink up the place!

“The Natural History of the Chicken!”

Bonus: All six parts are on YouTube.

1. Part 1
2. Part 2
3. Part 3
4. Part 4
5. Part 5
6. Part 6

Benjamin Franklin once said, “In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.”

I’ll add a Parent’s Corollary:

“And the inevitability of the baby having an assplody episode when you’ve forgotten the diaper bag.”

On to other, less fragrant topics –  did I miss the memo outlining the appropriateness/attractiveness of wearing a racerback/Y-back top and a regularly , brightly colored bra, so that extra attention is drawn to the straps?

Really, ladies: it’s evident that you have to  wear one. Most people get over the inclination to draw attention to that fact once they’re out of junior high.

For two separate reasons.

Reason the first: back on Monday, June 8, my darling son the Carpet Shark jumped off a deck and broke his leg. Because we were in Rhode Island on vacation, and a bit lost, we took him to an Urgent Care clinic. (You’ve heard these pimped as the “next big wave” in health care. I can tell you that in the case of the one we went to, that is complete and utter bovine effluvia: I could have just as easily taken him to a vet and gotten better service. Yes, it was fast, but they also missed one of the breaks.) In the end, the Urgent Care dorks told us that they couldn’t deal with the problem, and sent us on our way to Providence, and Hasbro Children’s Hospital.

Away we went, and they casted him, toe to hip. They also discovered the third, previously undiagnosed, break

Keystone is now trying to argue that the care we received at the Urgent Care Dork Shack was adequate, and that we should not have gone to Hasbro, as the broken leg was no longer “an emergency.” They don’t want to pay for it. Now, we are appealing the shit out of that decision — and the third break is probably going to win that battle for us…but arguing with those fuckers is like taking a cactus to the ‘taint. (Speaking of which, I’d like to apply a cactus to the ‘taint of the bitch I had to argue with. Does anyone know where I can get a Saguaro?)

Reason the second: I open the mail to discover a bill from University-Affiliated Hospital — which all of our primary care docs (Dino for me, Dr. Mole-face for G-Veg and Dr. Bee for the sprogs) deal with. Said bill was for $115,000.00. Yes — one hundred fifteen thousand dollars. The date of service? August 11, 2007.

Remember when I ate a Keystone HealthBastards Case Management Goblin as a tasty post-partum snack? It seems that she officially declared Butter Biscuit as dischargeable — despite the evaluations of the NICU staff and Dr. Tall — a little less than a week before she was actually discharged. So Keystone’s position is that they should not have to pay for that last couple of days — though there are case notes from two separate Neonatologists and her pediatrician to the contrary.

Again, we are appealing the hell out of that shit, and the NICU staff has been more than cooperative in copying documentation — and we will probably win that case, as well.

Still. Motherfuckers amped my agita up into the red zone.

Student Al Koholik: “I did not come to class because when I woke up, I was still drunk from the night before.”

Cranky Professor: “Sorry, but that is not an excused absence. In addition, you had a paper due, which is now three days late.”

A.K.: “But I was still drunk. If I came to class, I would have had to drive drunk what about next weekend?!”

C.P.: “You make it sound as if this excuse is one you plan to use a great deal this summer session.”

A.K.: “Well, it IS summer, and I like to party…plus, my broheims have this totally awesome Shore house with a kegerator. If I leave before 3 AM, I’ll miss the good parts of the party, but if I stay, I get too drunk to come back in time for class.”

C.P.: “Perhaps it might be a good idea to not go to the Shore and get blind, falling over, ralphing-down-your-shirt drunk on a school night, thus ensuring that you can make it to class. Class is only one day a week. If you could restrain yourself for one night, you might manage to pass the course– or not crater your GPA.”

A.K.: “What if I go to Campus Counseling and have them certify that I actually have a disease. Like, say I’m an alcoholic. Will calling out drunk be an excused absence then?”

C.P.: “Are you fu.., sh…., uh, kidding me? Are you serious?”

A.K.: “Hell, yeah! Will it get me out of classes and papers?”

C.P.: “Get out of my office and go see your advisor. Explain this harebrained scheme to him. Right now.”

*Exeunt Student Al Koholik*

*Cranky Professor lays her head down on her desk and weeps*

A former student passed on this link to a very odd series: Junjiri Ito’s Uzumaki. Apparently there was a film made, as well.

I read it mostly to humor the student, but the more I read, the creepier it got, and I was hooked.

Bonus: The Amigara Fault was just as creepy.

In watching the entire media — print, broadcast and Internet — collectively swallow its own neck over the death of Michael Jackson, it occurs that Michael Jackson never had anyone in his life — family members, friends, employees or fans — who loved him enough to say, “no.”

This makes me so very sad.

He had an enormous talent (though I’d argue that he peaked with “Off the Wall” or “Thriller”), and certainly had a huge impact on the music industry, but that lack of discipline was ultimately his downfall. If only people had cared enough to say, “no!”

“NO” is one of the very first lessons that responsible parents instill in their children. As toddlers, a sharp “NO!” may evoke tears; in teenagers, “NO!” may elicit “I hate yous!” and “You just don’t understands!” and “You don’t love mes!”

Bull. “No” is an act of love. It says, “I care enough for you that I would not see you get hurt — physically, spiritually or emotionally. I won’t see you hurt yourself through your own improvident actions.” We say “no” to those we love, even at the risk that they will reject us for it. “No” can be its own sacrifice.

“No, Michael, you don’t need $10,000 worth of stuffed animals from FAO Schwartz.”

“No, Michael, you don’t need to buy the Elephant Man’s skeleton. That’s not appropriate.”

“No, Michael, it is NOT normal for a thirty-something man to have ’sleep-over dates’ or playdates with ten-year-olds.” None of the parents — famefuckers all — stopped to question why a grown man wanted to hang out with their kids? No one in his entourage thought there was something wrong? No — everyone saw the payday. Parents sacrificed their kids to gold-dig; employees looked the other way in favor of a steady paycheck.

“No, Micheal, you don’t need another plastic surgery to fix an imaginary complaint.” We watched (in horrified fascination) as a moderately attractive black man became increasingly hideously disfigured via endless procedures meant to correct defects that did not really exist.

No, Michael, you don’t need a prescription for more painkillers. ” There was no way that any pill invented or yet to be, could heal the amount of pain he was clearly in.

“No, Michael, ‘fiscal responsibility’ should  not be  a foreign concept.” Is there any reason in their world that a man as vastly successful as he was should have had his home (grandiose and ridiculous as it was) in foreclosure, with all of his assets double- and triple-mortgaged to pay for excesses that would never replace real emotional connections?

“No, Michael, you shouldn’t make your kids go about masked and veiled; it’s not good for them.”

No, Michael. No. No. No.

Family members leeched off his fame, rode his coattails and used him.

Friends? I question whether he had any true friends.

Employees? Most looked the other way or actively obfuscated for him in favor of a “star connection,” or a paycheck.

Fans were willing to overlook any oddity or weirdness — no matter how self-destructive.

No  one said “NO!” to Michael, and ultimately, that’s what killed him.

Hopefully he is in a happier place now, content in himself and at peace.

I love watermelon soup. It’s a nice dinner on evenings when it’s as humid and miserable as Satan’s carbuncle-ridden ass crack.

Ingredients:

• 4 cups diced, seeded watermelon
• 1/3 cup thawed apple juice concentrate (like Minute Maid)
• 1 tbsp fresh mint leaves
• 1/2 tsp ground ginger (fresh-ground ginger works best)
• 1/3 cup plain, non-fat yogurt

To prepare:

1. Reserve about a third of a cup of the watermelon for garnish.
2. Toss the remaining watermelon, apple juice concentrate, most of the mint and the ginger into the blender and blend until smooth.
3. Cover it and refrigerate it for at least an hour to blend the flavors.
4. Serve in chilled bowls, garnished with the reserved diced watermelon, a sprig or two of mint and a dollop of the yogurt.

This yields about six servings.

…you just know he’s paying for it. (Like Spitzer — politics seems to attract overwhelmingly unattractive, Gollum-esque homunculii with Napoleon complexes. I’m including females in that description, as well. Attractive politictards are the rare exception that proves the rule.)

I really want to see what his side piece looks like.