This study completed by the Peninsula Medical School in Devon is clearly, as they say, bollocks.

Chiropractic work saved my life. The Handless Poet would not be typing this blog entry pain free if it weren’t for chiropractics. I’ve more often had physical therapy and orthopedists let me down than chiropractors. Only twice in the last 15 years has orthopedic treatment ever helped me, and that was these last two years when I hurt my knee. One was Dr. Kiblinger, an elderly orthopedic surgeon with a hopelessly ill-run office in the Valley. He’d worked with every stuntman in the business, so he had some idea how to fix a bone or two. (And, somehow, his office eventually cleared up all their confusion.) Certainly, I’ve had a couple of false starts with chiropractors, but I’d say I only met two who didn’t help me.

So, sniff and raise your eyebrows, you orthopedic toadies, but you’re WRONG. WRONG WRONG WRONG with WRONG SAUCE.

And speaking of British twats, this one thinks he was a Goth because he painted his toenails black for six months back in the 80s.

Please don’t think this is general Brit bashing. I’m a HUGE Anglophile. I’ve been so since I was a little waify thing. I adore British people, British culture, even the British monarchy. I especially admire the Brits ability to “get on with it.” I even learned my sense of humor from Douglas Adams as a teenager, and later whet my wit on Blackadder. But WHAT is going on lately? I can’t get into some of the new British comedies. Little Britian? Not remotely funny, yet it’s won Best Comedy in the British Comedy Awards for the last few years. The Office? Here, my blasphemies take wide wing, biscuit in beak. Honestly, I don’t like it. I tried to watch the first episode and it fell completely flat. I tried it twice, in fact. I smiled here and there, but nothing about it felt as brilliant as everyone told me it would.

Have I lost my dry wit? My Ben Eltonesque ability to drown in the dark puddles of British irony?

I feel somewhat salvaged by the trailer for Kinky Boots, but I, the diehard Blackadder fan, would much rather tangle with something like Fry and Laurie.

Some of you naysayers will accuse me of falling off the edge of the comedic Empire because I’m in love with a Frenchman. Well, truth be known, as much as I love my Frenchman, I’m still mystified by the culture. Slowly I’m learning about French face saving, the importance of wine, and how they figured out snails were good to eat (and they are). But really, it’s all quite murky. My Frenchman is hilarious, but French humor in general has got to be like Amelie and her jury-rigged lamp socket or I’m a bit left out.

(And to clear up a common myth, the French don’t like Jerry Lewis. They liked the French actor who dubbed Jerry Lewis, who was apparently much funnier.)

Here I’ve gone from bone crunching to bone tickling. Please…I liked it the other way. Before whatever.

I can no longer help but mind the gap.