25,000 facebook stalkers later and ...

Just some proof that FaceBook is evil.

Greg Yorke (aka Red) has stated that if 25,000 people join this Facebook group that he will get a tattoo of ATV anchorman Bruce Frisko somewhere on his body.



Well, now he has to put his butt cheek money where his mouth is.

"As of right now the tattoo is planned for Saturday, May 12th at Bubbles Mansion! ... The Frisk himself will be there, and lots of media. Cheap drinks too! More details to come!"

Proceeds from the event will go to a good cause, so I guess it isn't that evil.

Another reason The Boy will need therapy.

I was reminded of a story.

I have to tell you another story first, like a setup. Otherwise this one won't make sense.

When The Boy was about 3 I was trying one day to get his attention. Calling his name over and over and he was completely ignoring me. Finally he turns to me with the snootiest look on his face, like some kind of royal prince and said, "You will address me as Chuck." I kid you not.

For about a month, he would answer to no other name and referred to himself in the third person. "Chuck would like a cookie." Or, "Chuck will be watching TV in his room." Always using that same snooty tone. He would also not wear certain clothes, saying they were not his, they were The Boy's. That sort of thing. He was three.

Eventually he got bored and dropped it.

Fast forward.

When the boy was 6 or so he was being a real demon. Spouting shit like he didn't have to be a good boy. I was not the boss of him, and I couldn't make him do anything. If I touched him he would call the police. (Even then he watched too much Oprah)

Anyway I was about at the end of my rope. When I finally grabbed a hold of him by the front of his shirt, pulled him close so we were face to face and said in my best Clint Eastwood, Dirty Harry voice, "You used to have an older brother. His name was Chuck!"

The look on his face was priceless. I could see that he vaguely remembered a mention of someone named Chuck, he just couldn't remember where.

He was an angel....for about a week.

Careful what you wish for.

My friend Bunnie was wondering why she never makes the blog. To tell you the truth, I could have a whole other blog with nothing but Bunnie. The material from her day to day could fill three blogs. She is what you would call a huge personality. Everything it huge with her, dramatic. Her work, her health, stress level, kid trouble even going for coffee is a drama. (I will have to remember to describe that whole experience.)

I don't know how else to describe it but its huge, grand, dramatic. The kind of stories you have to tell in an Italian accent with a lot of hand and arm movement. Just BIG. I don't know if I can do it justice in print. You really need to hear it with the voices. She actually whines, not the annoying kind of whine but the one that makes you go, 'awwww that is so pitiful'. And then laugh your ass off. It is a good thing that she doesn't take herself as seriously as she seems to. She does understand that she sounds pitiful and can laugh about it. Well hopefully she can.

But we will leave Bunnie out of this (mostly). Tonight it is all about her daughter. She calls her The Lump.

Anyway. Last night The Lump was sick and had to be taken to the emergency room. In our neck of the woods it is called The Out Door or Out Patients.

Right off the hop, you knew she was sick. Judging from the way she was dressed leaving the house. She is 16, she does not take a dump unless she has makeup on. And around here, you just don't go to the out door unless you are near death. It is just not the place to be. It's not like the TV show, you could be there for days. Unless you are bleeding from the jugular, and even then they will ask you to try not to make a mess on the floor.

At one point a woman walked by us carrying a toothbrush. She entered one of the rooms, (I peeked) she looked like she had moved in. She had probably been there so long they foreclosed on her house. I looked at Bunnie and nodded. "Lifer."

The Lump had been throwing up since early that morning and I was having a little trouble with it myself. She hadn't eaten all day, so there was nothing to throw up. I wish I could describe the sound. The best I can come up with is the Lion from Wizard of Oz. Not so much a roar as a gurgle. Yuck! I hate hearing anyone lose their lunch. I am the most unsympathetic person you will ever meet in that situation. Hell, I used to have to get my mother to come over if the Boy threw up. I see vomit, and I vomit. Suddenly its the restaurant scene from Monty Python's Meaning of Life. "Part VI: The Autumn Years"

Unlike the TV show no one is ever rushing. EVER. Nurses, doctors, orderlies, all moving at a snails pace. Like the floors were just mopped and they were scared they might slip and break a nail or something. I think their policy is, if we leave them alone long enough one of two things will happen. One, they will get better or Two, they will die. Either way we won't have to do a fucking thing.

At one point they had taken the Lump off the IV and over to x-rays, and left her there. Finally I said, Fuck it and wheeled her back myself. Mind you she did not enjoy the ride, it was my first time driving one of those big-ass beds, so I did knock her around a bit. But we got there in practically one piece. And no one noticed.

Bunnie and I went for a smoke. Surely by the time we came back, her IV would be back in? After all, didn't they make a big deal about changing it. Made is seem like a miraculous concoction of potassium and sugar. Like a banana split, only gross. Surely they would rush to have her back on this wondrous drip?

NOT. We were starting to get the feeling that we would have to treat this like a buffet, cuz the service sucked.

We return from our smoke and the IV is standing at the end of the hallway. Did I mention that all this was happening in the hallway? No room for the Lump. She had to be sick as a dog in the hallway. The poor thing was hacking up a lung every 10 minutes. How do I know it was every 10 minutes? Well at one point the nurse says, "Ya, we were around the corner timing it." Oh, so you were at least doing something productive. Can I get in on the pool?

So, I walk up to the IV and loud enough for one of the three nurses standing around having tea to hear. I start handling it and say, "I could probably hook this shit up myself. How hard could it be?" I get nothing from the nurses. Maybe they thought I would actually attempt it, thus saving them from having to do anything. That's when Bunnie snapped. She walks up to one of the nurses and says, disgusted, "Uh, the doctor wanted that hooked back up." That got the bitch moving.

An hour later she is feeling a bit better. When the IV goes back in the Lump begins to whine that it is hurting her. This is when I start to mess with her a little. After all she is feeling better, and I am getting bored. I start inspecting the IV, reading the instructions and inspecting the tubing for bubbles.

"Hmm, is there supposed to be so many bubbles?" Her eyes fly open. "Relax. I was told there had to be 6 inches of air before it would ever kill ya. I wonder if they meant 6 inches total or...?"

Then I drop the tubing and she squeaks. "Owww, don't move the tube, it hurts." That is when I recall Bunnie telling me about how the Lump had pulled a horror show the other day and was verbally abusive with her Grandmother.

I pick up the tubing again. "That's for being mean to your Grandma."

She looks at me and says, "She deserved it." I drop the tubing. "OUCH! Oh my God, Mom, where did you find this psycho?" I pick up the tubing again. Florence Nightingale I am not.

Finally the doctor shows up, I think it was hour 5. He is old, and looks like he was rode hard and put up wet. The best he can do is say it was 'flu like'. If she gets better, she gets better. If not, he lets the sentence trail off. We waited 5 hours for those pearls of wisdom.

THINGS YOU DON'T WANT TO HEAR WHILE BARFING YOUR GUTS UP IN THE ER:

"Oh my God, Lump. Look at that boy, he is gorgeous!"

The cleaner walks buy, she has a quizzical look on her face. She begins talking to herself. "What is that smell?" If you don't know, I don't know who does.

When asked what the diagnosis could be, the nurse replied, like we had asked her the meaning of life. "Who knows, who really knows?" Well, Bitch, since you are the medical professional we were sorta hoping it was you!

Hour 3 a nurse walks by the retching Lump. "She doesn't look that great." Is that your professional opinion, asshole? If that is how you feel, maybe you should do something? Apparently not, she didn't even stop for a closer look.

Upon hearing the ambulance sirens approach the nurse says, "Listen to that. The bastards." Ya, they might ask you to actually do something tonight.

Ok, Bunnie, your next.