WARNING: The Surgeon General has determined that reading the following entry may cause drowsiness, headaches, dizziness, irritability, depression, obscene muttering/rambling, hallucinations, sudden loss of manual dexterity, and various other conditions that can get you busted down to Surgeon Private faster than you can grab a scalpel to fend off the green-coated giraffes sent by the goddamn President himself to buSt yOu!

     Another traumatic day in what seems to be an unending series of them.  This one seems to have had way more than its fair share of medical emergencies.
     The first involved my cat, Jester.  Jester suffers from chronic diarrhea, but I thought we'd found a way to manage the problem with a combination of Pop Tart corks, bowel motion detectors, and sewer worker boots.  Alas, no.  I knew something was wrong when we were driving home this morning from the grocery and saw two fire trucks and a heavy rescue squad at the neighbor's house to our west.  Fortunately they managed to pick our neighbors from their roof before the sea of brown was much above their necks, but still - we really worked up a sweat coming up with a list of reasons for why our cat could not possibility have been responsible.  Thank goodness every judge in the county refused to issue the police a warrant to search our premises for "any and all miscellaneous shit."  I can only wonder when our luck will run out along with everything else....

     The second emergency came via the phone.  Seems a close twin of mine had been rushed to the hospital around noon with a severe brain attack.  CAT scans revealed an almost complete blockage of the imagination, probably caused by years of mental inactivity and a steady diet of "One Life To Live."  Doctors performed an immediate angioplasty on what's technically known as his "noggin", but they had an awful time threading the balloon past an ego hideously enlarged by certain New Age books still readily available in every bookstore without a prescription.  All attempts to deflate it with massive injections of pure humility and constant exposure to funhouse mirrors failed miserably.  In fact, they may have done some collateral damage when they raced to pull out the balloon and plug the hole in time for "One Life To Live" (which many of the staff seem to be secretly addicted to themselves).  All in all, pretty scary, especially since this twin of mine is only a couple years older than I am.

     The third emergency came just about an hour ago when I was out on my patio, trying once again to learn from my role models, the ants, a few more of the subtleties of aimless running around.  (Or "scurrying without a cause" as the Professors of Meandering called it when I was in college.)  
     I idly noticed one ant had stopped scurrying and bent down to check on him.
     Big mistake, and I knew it as soon as he'd bit into my finger and had dragged me halfway into his hill.  For whatever reason - maybe the stress of the above two emergencies - I'd forgotten Rule #1: If an ant is in a position such that you might touch or catch him, it's probably because he's ill. 
     And if he's ill, it's quite possible he's ill with the dreaded ant rabies. 
     Talk about your "Oh shit - oh fuck to the nth power!"
     It was all I could do to break free of the dirty little diseased bastard's mandibles, hightail it to my CD player, and frantically attempt to reduce the rapid swelling of my worries with a quick application to my ears of "Sacrebleu."

     "Sacrebleu" is the latest release of Dimitri From Paris.  It is, in my estimation, his best yet, but then it is the only one I've heard, so I might be a little prejudiced in its favor.  Nonetheless, it remains a truly fabulous mix of the acute social commentary of "Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey" and the existential angst of the Baja Marimba Band. This stimulating mix was concocted by Dimitri himself - the top DJ in France - which many suspect explains the presence of his name on the cover of this CD. 
     I especially like the 36-second-long "Prologue."  In fact, I could listen to it all day if this didn't require me to push the replay button on my CD player's remote about 2400 times.  And if this also didn't mean that I'd miss out on such other delights as "Monsieur Dimitri Jou Du Stylophone," "Un Termede," "Une Very Stylish Fille," and "Le Moogy Reggae."  I'm not sure what any of these titles translates as, but that last cut's repeated phrase that I believe goes "Let's get funky naked!" is NOT to be missed.  I've already stated in my will that I want it played at my funeral, and I hope you will, too, since my executors stand a better chance of finding your will among the papers on my desk than they ever will of finding mine.
     Anyway, where was I?  There was something else I wanted to say...  Hmmm...  It seemed important at the time.  Wish I had made a note!  Oh, well, I'm sure that if it had really been important I would have remembered it.  I'd probably not be able to read any note, anyway, what with all this froth flowing from my mouth now....
     What a bother!  Guess there's only one thing to do: Slather more first-rate Dimitri into my ears and forget it!
     Maybe I'll start with "Un Woman's Paradise" this time, just to be different.  Or maybe "Un World Mysteriouse"....
     Oh, what the hell - let's go for hitting that replay button 2400 times!  It's not like I'm going to be able to do much else today, what with this sudden dizziness, depression, and goddamn urge to ramble setting in.
     Hope pushing the remote that many times doesn't aggravate the swelling in my finger.  Huh - looks like an ant bite.  Now where the fuck did that coMe frOm???