BOOBQUAKE, 2010: Shake 'em! You won't break 'em!

The following column is not mine. It was written by The Mother, (who's a mother AND a doctor) and due to my own fascination with, uh, advancing scientific research, I'm reprinting it here. I should point out that on any given day there are an average of 1,370 earthquakes on planet Earth, (and probably a few on Io, too). So you can blame them on whatever you want, and they'll still happen.


A critical thinking experiment in real time

I’ve been talking a lot lately about teaching kids critical thinking. I’ve been pretty hard on the schools, for stressing memorization and regurgitation, and ignoring the process

But on Monday, April 26, we all have a chance to strike a blow for critical thinking on a global scale.

Let me explain.

Over the past six months or so, a variety of garden-variety idiots have variously attributed tectonic plate phenomena to cosmic wrath.

Pat Robertson explained on national TV that the Haitian earthquake was caused by retribution for the Haitians’ “pact with the devil” over the bloody slave revolt in 1790 (wow, did that take the deity a seriously long time or what?).

Rush Limbaugh blamed the Icelandic volcanic eruption on cosmic wrath over the American health care bill (because the best way to seek vengeance against the American liberals is to seriously inconvenience John Cleese).

And Iran’s Hojatoleslam Kazem Sedighi announced that “Many women who do not dress modestly … lead young men astray, corrupt their chastity and spread adultery in society, which (consequently) increases earthquakes." (We are women, hear us roar–our boobs have unimaginable power.)

This last inane statement, unlike the first two, is what we science types call a “testable hypothesis.”

And it is going to be tested. Oh, yes. A critical thinking experiment is being planned in real time. The brainchild of Jen McCreight, who blogs at Blag Hag. BOOBQUAKE is designed to test the concept that immodest dress causes tectonic plate disruption.

Women are asked to wear their lowest cut, most immodest blouse on April 26th. If you happen to wear a short skirt, too, I can’t imagine that that would skew the results.

I have a see-through t-shirt that should do nicely.

To drive the lesson home to our kids, though, it’s important to make sure they understand the working hypothesis of the experiment. Then park them in front of CNN for the day, and let them watch, like we did when Katrina was leveling New Orleans.

I’m going to pop popcorn.

Great office moments

Dr. Grumpy: "Have you had any problems having an erection?"

Mr. Backtrauma: "Uh... I'm not sure, I..."

Girlfriend Backtrauma: "You ass!" (kicks him) "No, you haven't! I just went down on you last night! Doesn't it fucking mean anything to you when I do that? You sure forgot pretty fucking quickly!!!"

And she stomped out.

"Sir, can't you wait until next week? Sir? Sir?"

I'd like to thank my reader Marc for submitting this.

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Wednesday afternoon

The following is verbatim. The patient involved is NOT considered to be mentally impaired (because if he was, this wouldn't be that weird). If anything, he reminds me of David Puddy.


Dr. Grumpy: "Where are you working now?"

Mr. Fedex : "A shipping company."

Dr. Grumpy: "Oh. Do you like it?"

Mr. Fedex: "We do shipping there. You know, to ship stuff. I work in sales."

Dr. Grumpy: "Do you need a Depakote refill?"

Mr. Fedex: "Yeah. Hey, doc. Who does shipping for your office, anyway? I imagine you have to ship boxes of stuff all over the world? Are you looking for a new shipping company?"

Dr. Grumpy: "Uh, no. I mean, as a neurologist I really don't ship anything. Maybe mail a few pages of records or forms out."

Mr. Fedex: "Really? What does a neurologist do, anyway?"

(long pause)

Dr. Grumpy: "I treat patients."

Wednesday morning, 5:45 a.m.

Dr. Grumpy: "This is Dr. Grumpy, returning a page."

Mr. Clock: "Hi, I need to cancel my appointment for tomorrow at 9:15."

Dr. Grumpy: "Your appointment is today at 9:15."

Mr. Clock: "Cool. I'll see you then. And just cancel the one for tomorrow, I guess I don't need it now."

Sentence Structure- It means something

I get all kinds of flyers dropped off at the office. An open house at Dr. Somebody's new office, announcement of a new physical therapy place or MRI facility, etc.

Today a flyer was left about a rescue pets event, featuring a fundraiser and cookout contest. I can't put it up here, because it had too much info in it. So I'll do my best to tell you about it.

We don't go to these. We already have 3 rescue dogs, and if we went we'd want to bring them all home. Mrs. Grumpy and I are softies for dogs.

But it sure caught my eye.

It could have said: "Adopt-a-pet: fundraiser and barbecue" or "Fundraiser for Homeless Pets", or "Local Homeless Pet Shelter Event"

But no.

It said, in big letters, "HOMELESS PET BARBECUE NIGHT".

In other notes, it listed the participants at the bottom, including: Local Greyhound Rescue, St. Bernard Friends, Humane Society, etc. At the bottom of the list was "Local Rat Rescue League".

Fail!

Dr. Grumpy: "What time was your seizure last night?"

Mrs. Etoh: "Around 10:00, as we were leaving the bar."

Dr. Grumpy: "I thought you'd stopped drinking?"

Mrs. Etoh: "I did, but last night we had a round after our AA meeting."

Dear Insurance Company,

I received your letter yesterday that you're raising my annual office policy rates.

I don't know if I'll be able to afford the increase, but will do my best. I know you're doing your utmost to try and keep my rates down, as evidenced by the fact that you spent 44 cents per letter to mail this to several thousand offices across the country.

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In times like these an increase of this magnitude might be devastating, but Mary and Annie have heroically chipped in to pay for the increase, with some money they found in the cushions of the waiting room chairs.

What the HELL does this mean?

The Science Marches on Department sent me this remarkably confusing (and, in my opinion, bizarre) abstract from the Journal of the American Psychoanalytical Association. Don't believe me? Here's the original.


The absence of the paternal penis.

“Girls’ experiences of object loss, in conjunction with female anatomical structure, may lend themselves to a particular genital anxiety regarding openness and emptiness. The relational void in giving up the mother as love object may lead to an internal self-representation of a “hole” to be filled, much as the mouth sucks the pacifier in the absence of the nipple. This image may then be extended to the genital representation. In turning to the father, a girl may find that she lacks a relationship with him in the relational space opened up by the loss of the mother; the penis is symbolically withheld from her in the father’s relational distance. This lack of sexual and relational gratification, it is proposed, may be schematized by a female as her body being empty of something. The father’s absence–the absence of the paternal penis–may lead to an absence of the mental representation of the vagina and to an inhibition of the role the vagina then plays for a woman in sexual desire. Vaginal repression may serve to disguise object hunger that might otherwise be experienced as vaginal longing. An abbreviated clinical vignette, revolving around a masturbatory fantasy, is offered in partial illustration of the thesis.”

I'VE GOT THE POWER!!!

I am now GRUMPY! THE GREAT AND POWERFUL!!!

I was informed by certified mail last week that I've been approved for my state's substance abuse monitoring program, being able to look up ALL my patients' controlled substance scripts from all pharmacies and other doctors.

I activated my incredible new all-seeing powers this morning. And within an hour had fired 3 patients that we were suspicious of.

Mary and Annie are making up wish lists of people for me to check. It's like Christmas, in April.

JUNKIES! YE SHALL TREMBLE BEFORE ME!!! I AM GRUMPY, THE OMNISCIENT!

Tomorrow I'm going to start wearing a cape to work.

Monday Morning

Mrs. Grumpy wanted to go for a carb-laden meal at La Enchilada Grande last night, so I'm very sluggish this morning. And all I could think of while driving in was this.

Interestingly, it wasn't used as an ad. It was done by students in a college film program, and won an award. I actually first saw it in a movie preview, when I took the kids to see Shrek vs. Rocky LXXIIIV.

FRANK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So, those of you who follow me on twitter (or read it on the feed down there on the right) know I got woken up early this morning.

Frank had a birthday last week, which as all kid's presents do, involved a lot of cardboard and styrofoam packaging.

Last night, using that peculiar line of reasoning that comes to the human brain in the wee hours, he decided that it would be cool to have snow. Since summer is coming it would have to be fake snow.

And after turning the idea over he realized he could make some himself. Out of Styrofoam.

So in the middle of the night he went out into the garage, dug the slabs of styrofoam out of the trash, brought it into the kitchen, and began shredding it with a butter knife.

At some point he realized he'd covered the floor and table and everything else with little white pieces of styrofoam and began frantically trying to vacuum them up. Which is where I came in.

My Readers Write

Karen, who says she works for a California neurologist, sent this in. It makes me glad to know other neurology offices have as much fun as we do.


Karen: "House of Brains, can I help you?"

Mystery Caller: "You called me."

Karen: "Okay, what's your name?."

Mystery Caller: "I'm John."

Karen: "And... a last name, please?"

Mystery Caller: "Bozo."

Karen: "Okay, what can I do for you?"

Mystery Caller: "YOU called ME!"

Karen: "I'm sorry, I didn't personally call, but will try to help. Was a message left?"

Mystery Caller: "Yes."

Karen: "Who left the message? What did it say?"

Mystery Caller: "I don't know. I didn't listen to it. I just saw your number on the caller ID."

Karen: "Why don't you listen to it, then let me know who called and I'll connect you to them."

Mystery Caller: "Can't you help me?" (This is a loaded question, huh?)

Karen: "Hang on... Mr. Bozo, you aren't in our system. I don't think you're one of our patients."

Mystery Caller: "I'm not. My girlfriend is."

Karen: "Okay, what's her name?"

Mystery Caller: "Cindy Datingabozo."

Karen: "All right. But privacy regulations require that I confirm we have permission to speak to you. Can you hold while I check our records?"

Mystery Caller: "This is stupid! I could have listened to the message in less time than it's taking you to figure this out."

(click)