Oh Ozzy, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways:

I love your hands that shake involuntarily as a result of drug-induced Parkinson's that no one ever comments on.

I love your non-smoking ways, after 45 years of massive chain smoking.

I love your eyes that bug out when you see yourself in a mirror or on television, presumably the only time they register a sense of recognition of reality.

I love your speech to your children before you let them loose on the City of Angels, grossly underage for late-night clubbing, telling them cigarettes are worse than crack, to stay away from drugs and alcohol and to use a condom if they fuck.

I love to see you cringe when you get your daughters lip gloss on your lips, when you've kissed approximately 2,876,200,567 lips and other miscellaneous strangers' body parts throughout your lifetime.

I love your wife, who is one smart cookie.

I love your son, who wanders out of boredom in camoflauge gear and wielding a machete at cardboard boxes.

I love your teenage daughter who can't get an ounce of much needed teenage attention because her rockstar father has frankly, done it all.

I love that even children of a rockstar legend, with everything money and influence can buy, can still be just angst-ridden teenagers wrestling in the hallway and otherwise beating the living shit out of each other.

I love your utter helplessness when your psuedo Imitation of Christ brand sweater gets tangled when you move your arms.

I love that you hang out with your uncommanding security guard while he should be guarding the house.

I love to wonder what the hell your other daughter is doing, clearly hiding in her room because she opts out of any an all publicity out of embarrassment for your lifestyle - living in the house supported by it - while a camera crew shoots non-stop for days.

I love to watch your nanny futilely try to impose some type of control over your teenage children while you goad them like an older brother.

But above all, Ozzy, I love that you allow MTV to film the whole scene of chaos and dysfunction to prove to America: dysfuction doesn't just come in the form of welfare checks and trailors, it's present in mansions and Grammy's too.

You, Osbournes, are genius.

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