When Ozzie Osbourne screams, the world grabs a handkerchief.

I have an admission to make.

Before I took up residence in these shallows of mud and recycled brine, I lived in a place called Birmingham. Not the one in Alabama.

When people at parties ask me what Birmingham is like, I tell them it’s like Detroit without the fun. For Americans, that seems funny. For those of us who were born there, it’s the reason we eat live bats.

Which one of our more famous sons, Ozzie Osbourne, he of gloomy Sundays, cheery reality shows and slightly senile guttural slurring, used to do on stage to get over an insecurity that he might not be loved.

I was therefore very concerned (and not just for my local bat community) when I learned this morning that Ozzie is very upset.

The cistern of his pissiness seems to be North Dakota’s equivalent of Ozzie’s devious red-haired wife, Sharon.

Sheriff Paul Laney of Cass County, North Dakota, would describe himself, as would Sharon, as an original, creative man.

He invited 500 people with outstanding warrants to a party in a Fargo nightclub.

In order to entice them, he timed his invitation with a concert that was happening nearby- featuring the very classical ensemble of Ozzie Osbourne and Rob Zombie, whose real name is the very Birmingham-like Robert Cummings.

And he mentioned Ozzie’s name in the invitations.

The man who brought us such classics (no, really) as Paranoid and War Pigs wants no part of arresting people.

He wants no part of the fact that 30 quite stellar halfwits were starstruck enough to accept the Sheriff’s invitation.

He wants no part of the fact that 3 more alleged villains actually called the Sheriff and told him that as he was being so “creative” they would, quite naturally, hold up their hands and let admiration be their fuel on a trip to the slammer.

You see, Ozzie’s from Birmingham. Our streets are so mean that our grandmothers rolled dough with an Uzi barrel.

We don’t grass people up in Birmingham. We might hit them over the head with an empty Ansells beerglass. But inviting them to a party that is really their own wake?

There are many who would refer to such a thing as batshit.

Yet Ozzie has reacted with something so ridiculous that he may have finally vacated his last marble.

He has asked the Sheriff for an apology.

Those who have spent their lives being the burning furnace of Metal aren’t supposed to suddenly turn all Nancy Pelosi.

Apologies are things that are demanded by entities like Ben Affleck and the Sudanese Government.

Not someone who gave us Diary of a Madman and Suicide Solution.

Ozzie, a man born not a mile from my own place of birth, is suddenly sounding like Joan Rivers asking for her old face back.

This cannot happen.

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In order to obtain the appropriate Metal-honoring restitution, Ozzie knows he should pay Sheriff Paul Laney a visit.

I have taken the liberty of penning some words, in the Birmingham inflect known as Brummie, just in case Ozzie freezes at the sight of an authority figure:

“Nao, look ere, you foookin’ pansoi. Oi dawn’t approiciaite some foookin’ bumpkin piglet taykin’ moi name in vayin. Sao naow you’re gonna git wot’s cummin’ too ya.”

(It is such a shame this is not a podcast, because I could give these words their true aural value.)

Ozzie might then be at liberty to secure the Sheriff to his swivel chair and release any number of flying animals (bats, vultures, Canadian geese, Richard Branson etc) into the room.

Of course, Ozzie would have have chewed on these animals first, just to give them a pleasant freshwater quality.

I am sure the people of North Dakota, home of Louis l’Amour, would appreciate the rather Frontier Gothic nature of this response.

If, for some reason, Ozzie was not in the mood to wander over to the Sheriff’s Cass County office, he could always effect a meeting by sending him an invitation to a party.

Naturally, he would have to wait until Reba McEntire came to North Dakota.

It’s amazing how people are taken in by celebrity these days, isn’t it?

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