Q: What are the Kroger opening hours on Christmas Day?

A:  They're open all day! Come on, son, let's have a Holiday Shopping Spree!

Huh, that's weird. It's locked. And it looks like no one is here.

Good thing they gave me this key. On Christmas Day, Kroger hands out tire irons as keys. It's a tradition. One good swing ... There we go.

That's candy glass, son. All part of the tradition. DO NOT EAT IT! Sorry I yelled. That candy glass is for the, uh, poor children who have so little during Christmas. Leave it for them. And be quick about it.

That's not an alarm. It's a heavenly choir. They're singing a new song, one you are unfamiliar with. It's a song about a child who asked his father too many questions and didn't get any presents from Santa.

I have some buddies on the police force and I know they love to do all their shopping at the last minute. They're usually grumpy, having to work on Christmas and all.  Let's get out of here before they show up.

We'll just grab a few things that Mom forgot to buy for Christmas. Like ham. And eggnog. And whiskey. And large bags of cash.

Q: How do you make a Christmas greeting card?

A: I take a child's birthday card, right out of a child's hand. This method saves a lot of time and money. Why should I have to drive all the way to the store, spend minutes wading through row after row of sappy, unfunny cards when I can just wait until someone else does it, wait until the child opens it and then seize the card from his feeble hands?  Children are not as strong as some might think, and are rarely prepared for sneak attacks.

I cross out all the crap about birthdays and numbers and balloons and Garfield. Cash in the card goes in my pocket. My time's not free.

On the front of the card, I draw a picture of Jesus, a huge smile on his face, giant candy cane in his hand. Sometimes there's not enough room to draw a proper happy candy Jesus because the balloons or Garfields were too big, requiring me to draw a Garfield Jesus or a Savior with Balloon arms. This is not easy work, but it does  makes me feel less guilty about pocketing the money. I have to draw fast, as by now the child is usually crying, in only the way a child ca cry, deep sobbing breaths, eyes squeezed shut, streams of tears cascading down their face and onto the floor, alerting nearby adults.

I cross out the focus-grouped platitudes inside the card, or the heartfelt message from grandma, or any mention of birthday money - I wouldn't want to confuse the child - and  write: "Thousands of years ago, Jesus was brutally murdered by Romans because of his beliefs. Today you get presents. Congratulations!"

I hand the card back to the child. At this point I am usually asked to leave.

Q: How did Kim Jong-il die?

A: Since the death of the beloved dictator, speculation abounds as to the cause of the death, with most stories settling on the vague "heart attack" as if the 69 year old strong man, ruler for life, son of the Eternal President,  champion of the Korean dynasty, greatest lover of the world and  9 time winner of Soldier of Fortune's "Dictator of the Year" award could be felled by something as simple as a heart attack. The Supreme Leader survived half a century of constant American aggression. Clearly there is more to the story. Consider:

 - No trace of Diet Coke was found in his bloodstream or stomach.
 - Nowhere in the vicinity of his body did authorities find one can of Diet Coke.
 - In all  the known photographs or drawings or fan films, the Kim Jong-il is never depicted holding or drinking from a can of delicious Diet Coke.
 - Kim Jong-il never ordered an attack on the US Mainland to seize our supplies of life-saving Diet Coke.
 - In all the news reports following his death, there has been no mention of a link between the dictator's passing and a Diet Coke deficiency.

Now we can't come out and say that failure to drink six to eight cans of Diet Coke a day caused the premature death of the most beloved leader in the world - mostly because our lawyers are the jittery, easy-panicked type - but one fact remains:

Kim Jong-il did not drink Diet Coke, and now he is dead.

We can only hope his son learns from his mistake.

Q: What is an island off of New York?

A: There are a few islands which lie off of New York, but there is none greater than the island where I live. My island is home to the finest artists, writers, actors, directors, scholars, philosophers, singers, crime-fighters, dancers, grifters and comedians in the world.

The people of my island, the creative ones I mentioned above, and the people beneath them, the models and clerks and managers and supervisors and electricians and cab-drivers and baristas and salesmen, and the people beneath them, the thugs and trainers and lawyers and street people and cannibals and mad scientists, are the most handsome people in the world. They say it has something to do with the water. You can't throw a rock on my island without hitting someone extremely attractive. You should not throw that rock; despite appearances, the people of my island can fight. And they will. And only to the death.

There is never a dull conversation among the people of my island, never a misspoken word or an ill-advised or poorly timed joke, or even an awkward pause. Everyone here is remarkably charming. Our candidates for office don't make speeches; that would be tacky, and everyone knows what they stand for anyway, as every citizen of my island stands for the same things: Truth. Honor. Naps.

Naps are mandatory on my island, both before and after lunch, and on Mondays and Thursdays, during. Naps may be received as gifts - they are the only gifts allowed by law - but it is illegal to give a nap as a gift. Christmas has become the most dangerous day on island, and fewer survive it each year.

The mortality rate on my island is high, very near one hundred percent. According to the last census, conducted this morning, I am the sole living person. It didn't always used to be this way. Originally, there were two of us, but after we rowed far enough out to sea and finished securing the shoreline, I killed Chet. He made fun of me for talking to the pretty corpses. For the record, I wasn't talking to them; I'm not crazy. I was making them talk to each other. It's exhausting work - there's so many of them - requiring frequent naps.

My island is made of corpses. Entirely so. You probably guessed from the smell. Despite the smell and the bloating and the carrion, my island is lovely. That's why I call Lovely Island. Feel free to dock here and come ashore.

And you can't hear me.

Maybe the next boat will be closer. I hope so. I'm very lonely. And I could use some help with the female voices.

Q: How do you keep carbon monoxide from coming into your home?

A: Shrink wrap your home, then encase it in three feet of cement, until it's completely air tight. Nothing in, nothing out.

Make sure you wife and kids are inside the home before you start to save yourself from an awkward phone call later.

For best results, encourage one of your children to evolve into someone who exhales oxygen. You're gonna need that in a couple of days.

Q: What do most Romanians eat for breakfast?

A: I would imagine he eats the same as any 8 year old boy, colorful cereals featuring magic leprechauns or nautical heroes.

Oh, but what if they worship leprechauns in Romania? I wouldn't want to offend him. He seems so nice. And hasn't Romania been involved in some awful wars lately? I admit, I don't read the papers much, but I seem to remember hearing something. He does look a little war-scarred. A bowl of Captain Crunchberries might trigger some sort of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The last thing I need this morning is a screaming 8 year old tearing my kitchen apart because the drawing on the box of cereal reminded him of seeing his father ripped in two by collapsing sail. My tee time is at 10. Better hold off on the cereal.

Eggs. Everyone likes eggs. Unless he's allergic. Or his people worship chickens and hold them holy, like some people do with beef and cats. Maybe I shouldn't serve him beef either. I'm certainly not about to serve him Bella DeJour, not after I spend $400 at the vet on her. If he's expecting to come into my house and eat cats, he  better either get good at finding strays or get used to being hungry.

Toast. Who doesn't like toast? Toast it will be. Simple. Easy. Give him butter or peanut butter or jam, even some Nutella so he understands that I am sophisticated.

Oh, I'm all out of Nutella. And jam. And bread. The toast will have to wait until tomorrow.

What can I make? What can I make? Why don't these foreign exchange students come with instruction manuals?

Isn't Transylvania in Romania? I think it is. Maybe he eats blood for breakfast. But how would I prepare it? I'd hate to get it wrong and have him think all Americans are self-involved neurotics completely ignorant of foreign cultures. How do you cook blood?

Wait a minute, what am I saying? Nobody cooks blood.  If he eats blood, he has to take it raw. It wouldn't make sense otherwise. I don't even have to cook anything. Just one little slice and -

Oh boy -

 - That's coming out fast.

Come and get it, Grigore, before it ends up all over the tile.

Q: How did Jefferson Davis want to fight the war?

A: With a plan so ingenious, so original, so powerful, that the Union army would concede victory in a manner of days, allowing the gentleman and women of the South to govern themselves as they saw fit, free of the tyranny of Northern oppressors.

In Davis' plan, dubbed, "Operation Last Cavalry," the Confederate Army would create a new brigade, trained and led by masterless samurai, acquired in exchange for graphic photographs of war wounds and 500 barrels of peaches. These men were called "ronin," and were known for their lack of honor and mercenary lifestyle, but Davis called them, "my secret weapon," and would walk out of the room after making his pronouncement, ending all debate on the topic. Once the Confederate army learned the secrets of the samurai, such as their ability to hide in plain sight, their ability to kill foes at 100 paces with a thrown metal star, and the ability to disorient the enemy with smoke bombs, the South would emerge victorious and Davis would be named President and Automatic Pitcher for Life.

Unfortunately, Davis confused ninjas with samurai. He also confused China with Japan. When the boatload of Chinese immigrants arrived, simple farmers unfamiliar with even basic artillery, unable to hide even in the darkest of shadows, their whimpers and shakes and shouts of confusion always giving them away, Davis cancelled his plan and ordered all mentions of it stricken from the official record. Never one to admit defeat, Davis put these new troops to work in new capacity, but "Operation Ancient Chinese Secret," while producing the brightest whites in U.S. military history, achieved little in real results.

Q: Can inheritance affect your section 8 housing benefits?

A: Traditionally such questions are answered after the reading of the will and by your private attorney, not here, in such a public forum, in front of your extended family, by your late father's executor. But as you have asked the question five times already at increasing higher decibels, have ignored all attempts at shushery and calls to decorum by your fellows in grief, wrote the question on a large placard and waved it about your head whole shouting, "Look here, look here, oh please, old man, why won't you look here," and now hold in your hand a megaphone to undoubtedly ask your question again at a decibel level previously unconsidered, I will depart from tradition and answer your question first.

Your status as a recipient of Section 8 housing benefits may be affected by your inheritance, dependent on the content of your inheritance and its actual value. If you were to be awarded a plot of land or a string of upscale condominiums your Section 8 status would certainly be revoked, which would be of little concern as you could live in one of your unoccupied rentals until such time as you find suitable accommodations or have burned the place to the ground trying to make bathtub rock candy. In your case, I would assume the later to be most probable. If you were to inherit money,  your Section 8 status would depend on the amount and your plans for it. Obviously your father was a very wealthy man and there will be a lot of money handed out today, enough money for even the most profligate man to live multiple lifetimes without every having to worry about working. Inheriting one of those large sums would automatically lift you from your current dwellings in the lower lower lower class to the rarefied air of the upper class, thereby disqualifying you from ever receiving Section 8 benefits again.

I wouldn't worry too much about that if I were you. Now, I don't want to get ahead of myself and spoil everyone else's fun during the reading of the will, but I don't think anyone will mind if I come right out and say it: Your inheritance contains neither money nor property. But, don't fear, your have not been left out. During the reading of the will, you should pay attention to the sections about the care and feeding of your father's collection of Rhesus Macque monkeys. They seem to bit rather fond of biting. I hope they don't cause you any problems with the Section 8 people. Your father would hate to think that you had to care for his hundreds of genetically modified Rhesus Macque monkeys and be homeless. Unless that was his plan all along. You'd probably have a good idea of his intentions if you ever bothered to visit him at Christmas.

Now that I have answered your question, please take down your ridiculous homemade sign. The people behind you can't see, and your father's will stipulates that every family member must be able to see every other family member when I read the sections containing the transcripts of the secret wiretaps he placed on all your phones.

Q: Is throwing an object by a minor at another minor and hitting them considered assault?

A: Throwing the object is assault. As soon as it hits someone, you've entered the magical land of battery. Put them together and you have assault and battery, two great crimes that go great together, like breaking and entering, false imprisonment and kidnapping, and my personal favorite, loitering and mopery.

You're probably too young to remember, but back in '86 we had a rash of loiter/moperies back.  The foot shacks on Bowery sat dormant, the tourists dried up, the myopic were too scared to leave the house. We were a city under siege,  until some hot shot detective figured out the pattern, posed as a blind street flutist and put down roots on 3rd and 3rd, waiting for that sick bastard to show himself. The cop waited for sixteen days, and on the seventeenth, just as he was about to quit, who should come walking up to him but a cheesy vacuum salesman, whistling some made up tune and holding a handful of his dirty junk.

The detective, having found his loitering moperer, took off his sunglasses to reveal he was not blind, took out his badge and his service revolver to reveal that he was a cop, and revealed that the gun was loaded by emptying its contents -  bullets - into the stomach, head, neck and groin of the vacuum salesman.

Time stood still in the park that day, all you could here was the sound of justice, followed by the sound of screams - the moping son of a bitch was still hanging on - followed by more justice in the form of bullets, followed by the tepid applause of innocent citizens saved from a diabolical rampage that many did not know existed.

The word "hero," gets used a lot these days, but on that day, no one said it. No one even thought it,  despite the officer's pleas, not even when he passed out the commemorative t-shirts featuring a cartoon rendering of the detective standing in the 'O' of the word hero.

You might be shocked to hear that I am that police officer. I'll pause now to allow you to take in this new information and compose yourselves.

Take your time. There's no need to feign apathy. It's only natural to feel shocked and begin to doubt the very nature of your existence. If you feel the need to hyperventilate, no one will judge you.

Okay, it looks like, due to the reality-shattering nature of my admission, it may take some time for the shock to kick in. I'll just keep going and hopefully be able to finish before you succumb to the shock.

For the past few months you have all known me as Dennis, the new kid, the one with the mismatched socks, and the divorced parents, and the love of Strat-O-Matic Baseball.  I'm sure you all thought the same thing, "Sure, Dennis might smells a little and run funny and spend too much time talking to that Racquel Welch poster in his locker, but he's basically just like us, a 13-year old kid trying to figure out his way in this crazy world."

You all thought wrong. I'm nothing like you. I've been  undercover this whole time. And I know all your secrets.

You might have thought that by throwing a rock at fellow minor you'd be safe from criminal prosecution, but again you'd be wrong. You didn't throw that rock at any kid, you threw it at a cop. And not just any cop, a highly decorated 51 year old cop only three years from a pension and assigned to our new Jump Street division due to budget cutbacks. You picked the wrong day to pick on Dennis.

Dennis isn't my real name by the way. It's Detective Peter Milligan.

Anyone feeling any shock yet?

Q: What does a s mean in math?

A: An 'S' on a report card means 'Satisfactory'. You have achieved satisfactory results in math. Not the smartest kid in the class, but not the dumbest. You're right in the middle with most everyone else.

But here's the weird thing. Teachers give grades like 'S' and 'S+' and 'U' in elementary school, in subjects like basic arithmetic and penmanship and playtime. You're in the 12th grade. High school teachers traditionally award letter grades, A's and B's and C's, to indicate a specific level of achievement.

In fact, if you take a careful look at your report card, you will see that in every other class you have a letter grade, except in math, where, right on top of a glob of moist Wite-Out, you have an 'S' written in pen.

This means one of two things. One, you received a grade so poor in math that you didn't want me to see it, so you doctored your report card in the hopes that I would fail to see through your ruse. Considering the rest of your report card is C-'s and D+'s, that must have been one poor grade. Two, you failed math so spectacularly that your teacher felt that a simple 'F' insufficiently expressed your incompetence, that the letter wasn't low enough, that he had no choice but to grab your report card from the printer and write, by hand, a new, incredibly poor grade. .

Either way, I'm going to stop saving for your college tuition.

Q: When did hades get a three headed dog?

A: He's always been a long, sir.We've kind of lost count. It's hard to keep track of time down here. You ought to know better than anyone how long he's been here, sir. He is your dog.

Yup, you asked for him and everything. Made a bit of scene if I recall.

We all thought it odd that you would want a giant three-headed dog to guard the underworld, ever patrolling the shores of the River Styx to prevent all souls from returning to the land of man. That seemed like a lot of work for a dog. A lot of long, lonely hours. We tried to talk you out of it. We suggested a titan or a basilisk or a minotaur, something that wouldn't require so much care and attention. But you insisted on a puppy, even though we all knew you'd get bored after a few years and forget all about him. Since you kind of run things around here, we got you your damn dog.

And you haven't fed it once. Or taken it for a walk, or played catch with it, or anything. Do you have any idea how much work it takes to care for a three headed hell hound? We've been out there for centuries, chopping up pedophiles and cat jugglers, using their bodies for food and their heads for sport - he likes when we shoot the heads in the air with a catapult. He tries to see how many he can catch at once. His record is six. We do it all so he feels loved, so he doesn't think that his master doesn't love him anymore. But his master never loved him at all.

I hate to be the one to say "I told you so," because I know you'll banish me to some mountain where I'll be tied to a tree and have my eyes regrow every morning so birds can pluck them out at night. But know that I am thinking it. Already you probably already know that. I think. Sometimes I'm not quite sure where your powers begin and end; the available literature on the subject often contradicts.

We named your dog Cerberus by the way. We weren't about to let you name him, not after the debacle of naming the River. Thank Zeus we were able to talk you out of calling it the River Kansas.

Q: Where are the farming areas?

A: Right over there, across the street, next to the row of birches.  Everything before the creek and after the road is available. Lots are two grand each, 3 for 5. Just so there's no confusion, everything under the house is available, too. We're tearing that down tomorrow.

Now, I know what you're thinking: "Isn't that my land he's pointing at? Did he just say he's going to tear down my house?" Just so we're on the same page, the answer is yes.

Before you start making vacant threats or winding up to punch me take a moment to read over these legal documents. As you can see, I hold title on your land.

While you were at the grocery store, I had you declared legally unfit to own property. Wasn't all that hard to do. Once I showed the judge all those saved episodes of Toddlers & Tiaras on your DVR, he signed the order in what I'm told was record time.

Bet you wish you hadn't gone to the store for those Cool Ranch Doritos.

Q: Can you get addicted to both legal and illegal drugs?

A: You sure can!

Legal drugs are easier to get. Illegal drugs provide a quicker high. If you want to sleep walk through the work day keeping friends and co-workers and loved ones - especially loved ones. Know what I mean, fellas? (Most of the men are nodding. The ones who aren't nodding I assume to be not yet married or newly married.) - distant behind a wall of feel good fuzz and numbness, yet don't want to risk losing your job, legal drugs are the way to go. If being popular with strangers and staying up all night and feeling great about yourself sounds like your idea of a dream weekend, use illegal drugs.

If you want to be popular and disconnect emotionally from everyone around you, use both. There's a theory that suggests the best way to achieve popularity and lasting happiness is to avoid addictive drugs both legal and illegal. I doubt the proponents of this theory have ever been the guy with a pocketful of coke at 4AM when the party's threatening to die due to lack of drugs. Oh, the people you will meet and the places you will go.

As you might have guessed, I choose to be addicted to all drugs - crack, pot, booze, Adderall, Spice, PCP, Oxymorphone, caffeine, nicotine, and whatever horse tranquilizers I can scam from the vet techs in 5C - and I don't regret a minute of it. Not the nine-martini lunches, not sitting in the corner of the the club until the lights come on and I'm asked to leave, not the anonymous sex with ladies of dubious gender, not the restraining order filed by 5C, not the open weeping during conference calls, not the brawl with the bathroom mirror, not throwing the water cooler at Mr. Benson, not losing a fight to Mr. Benson, not the tazing or the pepper spray or the forced oral copulation in the holding cell, none of it. My life's been a non-stop party, and if you don't mind, your honor, I'd like to end this hearing right now and get back to it.

Q: What is the purpose of the Strive Program?

Q: The STRIVE Program helps the terminally unemployed find jobs by teaching them the tools necessary to be a productive member of the modern workforce. We do this by Striking Them Repeatedly with Increasing Violence Everyday until they get off the couch and get a job.

If you have a son or daughter or uncle or brother who spends all day sitting on the couch watching TV, making excuse after excuse about how, "You need a graduate degree these days," or "It's a competitive hiring environment," please give us a call. We will be at your home within hours, subjecting your loved ones to increasingly savage beatings, starting with open handed slaps, continuing with phone books and cherished childhood toys, ending with baseball bats and lead pipes, until they haul their ass down to McDonalds and fill out an application. Their excuses will not work on us, mostly because they will be drowned out by all the screams. And the laughter. We enjoy our work and we're not ashamed to admit it.

We've never had to use the lead pipes. Most people get off the couch once we reach for the cherished childhood toys. There's something about being beaten with a Man-E-Faces action figure that makes them see the error of their ways.

Our program boasts a 100% success rate, as long as you don't count the deaths. Which we don't. Many of those people had heart problems or weak spines. Since they wouldn't offer much to an employer anyway, we refuse to let them taint our statistics. I doubt they'll be missed. I would assume. I wouldn't actually know. We make it a policy not to stick around the house for too long after the beating. People get weird after seeing a family member beaten like that. You'd think they'd thank us, but usually they're too busy crying and calling us monsters and tearing up the bill and threatening to call the police.

We're not monsters. We are businessmen. Businessmen who sometimes dress like monsters in order to persuade someone back into the work force. And if they'd bothered to read the fine print, they would know that they have waived the right to press charges, as well as forfeited all potential royalties from the sale of beating videos.

The videos are huge in Finland.

Q: What is it that all states request from all voters?

A: We, the elected officials of the 50 states, request that every voter, from the newly registered 18-year-old eager to the change the world, to the 81-year-old shut in who votes because it gives him a chance to feel relevant, take the time to learn about the issues at hand. The polling place is not somewhere to ask a lot of questions like, "What does this word mean?" or  "Which one of these guys will take my guns away?" or "What time do you get off? I wouldn't mind stuffing your ballot." That last one isn't even a question, more of a sleazy pick-up, and sleazy pick ups do not belong near a voting booth unless used by a candidate, and only then when whispered or written in a note when the candidate's spouse is in the restroom.

We request that all voters bath and wear clothes before visiting their polling station. Nice clothes, with collars and buttons. None of those ironic T-shirts of Ugg boots.The rest of the world follows our elections and, well, they already think we're idiots, on account of Bush's reelection. And Sarah Palin. And the whole "death panels" thing. Herman Cain's candidicy didn't help. Let's not give them any more ammunition. We cannot stress the part about the Ugg boots enough.

We request that voters cast their votes for real candidates, who have taken the time to make ads attacking their opponents, and spent the money to pay for those ads, and sacrificed many of life's perks, such as extended extramarital affairs or the joys of week long cocaine binges. Voters who write in names, of either real people who probably couldn't raise the money to even get on the ballot and couldn't possibly afford to run a proper campaign, or fictional characters who may be able to hold government jobs in the McDonalds Playland but would be unable to do so in the real world because they have a cheeseburger for a head,  think they are making a statement. They are. The statement is "I am an idiot." Please don't waste our time with your pathetic cries for attention. It is beneath us as a country.

Above all else, we request that voters continue to think that their vote counts. That it matters. That voters hold the safety of the republic in their hands, that we serve at their whim, that they are the voice we must answer to. That they are the fuel that run the engine of democracy. Please keep thinking this.

Because if you stop believing and start asking questions, we're in a whole lot of trouble. And I like my yacht.

Q: How do you get your hp laptop to turn on after hibernating?

A: Pour whiskey on it. If that doesn't work, try calling it a disappointment while shaking it. If your computer still won't wake up, pelt it with lit cigarettes.

I admit, I don't know much about computers, but I do know a lot about sleeping in. That's how my father would get me out of bed.

I'm just kidding.

My father would never waste whiskey. 

Q: Can you list all of the Mark Twain quotes?

A: Of course I can. What kind of stupid question is that. Everyone knows I'm, like, the biggest Mark Twain fan in the entire freaking world. I named my two kids Huck and Tom. My annual budget for wigs and moustache bleach rivals the GDP of most Third World countries. My Facebook, Twitter, Gmail, ATM, and home security passwords are all same: Clemens. As in Samuel Clemens. As in Mark Twain's real name. I'm pretty sure I can list all his quotes. In fact, I guarantee I could.

You want me to do it now?

Oh. Okay.

Do you mind if I log on the computer for a second? I have this terrible tickle in my throat and I want to check WedMD. I might have shingles.

I'm not going to Google "Mark Twain quotes." That would be cheating, and, like I said, I have no reason to cheat because I am the world's biggest Mark Twain fan who may or may not be dying of shingles.

Incidentally, do you know that you're using the word quote incorrectly? Quote is a verb, as in, "May I quote you on that, Senator?" What you want to say is quotation. Do I know all the Mark Twain quotations?

I'm not stalling. I'm correcting your syntax. Most people are thankful for that. You don't have to get all defensive and start yelling at me and making a scene. You should have more consideration for my condition. I could have shingles.

Okay, all the quotes. Every single one. Do you want them chronologically or by subject or anything?

Doesn't matter? Okay, here we go. All the Mark Twain quotes.

Um, let's see ... There's the one about writing: "Write without pay until someone offers to pay. If nobody offers pay within three years, the candidate may look upon this circumstance with the most implicit confidence as the sign that sawing wood is what he was intended for." One of my yearbook quotes. Most people forget the second part, but not me, because my brain is literally bursting with Twain knowledge. Literally. Bursting. You can see the stretch marks right here. Although, that might be the shingles. I really ought to check WedMD.

I'm seriously not stalling. Listing every Mark Twain quote is the easiest thing in the world. Why would I stall?

Fine. I'll keep going. Despite the pain. Here we go, every Mark Twain quote.

There's ... Um ... There's ... Wow, there's so many. They're all kind of running together in my head ... I could use a coffee.

Not stalling.

Okay, yes, yes, I have it. His famous quote about gambling:  "Ever play Roulette? Always bet on black."

Well I first heard it from Mark Twain. It's not my fault if some Hollywood movie steals his material without credit.

I have shingles.

Q: What are three literary elements?

Q: Protagonist: The main character of a story. The hero if you will. He or she must achieve a goal or save the city or find a treasure. He's the one you're rooting for. A protagonist can be anyone, from a simple farm boy about to enter an intergalactic war against an evil empire, to a simple accounts-receivable manager with strong, muscular legs and firm, shapely buttocks from his years on the competitive hip-hop dancing circuit.

Antagonist: The character who impedes the protagonist. What you would call a villain. He's responsible for putting a series of escalating obstacles in the path of our hero. Normally, the antagonist receives the majority of the boos ad hisses and thrown tomatoes. An antagonist could be, say, a former Jedi Knight who has turned his back on his culture and embraced the dark side, or an uptight and unreasonable company president who requires his employees to wear loose-fitting, drab trousers every day of the week.

Conflict: The basis for all drama. Two opposed forces coming head to head. Only one can win. One must win. Some notable conflicts include the destruction of the Death Star, the savior of Endor, and the creation of a new, more relaxed, company dress code.

As you can see, my resignation letter has all three literary elements. In case you don't understand,  I am the protagonist, you are the antagonist and the company's draconian dress code is the conflict.

Our story has reached a climax. You have two choices: accept my resignation, or agree to my demands and declare Friday Tight Pants Day. You have ten seconds to decide. I'll count slowly so you have plenty of time to consider what has to be the biggest choice of your career.

Oooonnnnnnnnneeee .... Twwwwwooooooooo ... Three-

Oh. Okay. Are you sure you don't want to take the full ten seconds? I'd hate to see you rush into a decision here.

No? You're sure. Okay then.

And you're positive you don't want to reconsider Tight Pants Friday?

All right.

I guess all we have left to discuss is my severance package.

There's no need to call security. I feel perfectly safe. These pants are extremely supportive.

Q: What phase is the moon in when you can see more than one?

A: There's never a phase where you can see more than one moons. There's just the one moon. It reflects sunlight, shines real bright, and we see the reflection. There's only one moon.

How are you seeing two moons?

Oh, I know what's going on.

That  big white circle in the sky there? That's the moon. That other bright shining orb? That's a searchlight. Someone must have tipped off the guards about our escape.

Don't wave at it.

Q: What is the main difference between the public and private sectors?

A: In the public sector a certain amount of transparency is required. How you get your money, where it goes, how you make hiring decisions, whether or not you obey laws, who you've punched in the face or sexually harassed - the general public expects to know these things. All that openness and honesty, let's face it, is exhausting. In the public sector you can't even sideswipe a school bus without everyone demanding an apology. Don't even get me started on hiding dead bodies.

In the private sector all that matters is the bottom line. Make enough money to keep the stockholders happy and you can do anything in your personal life. No one will care. Make enough money so the stockholders can retire at 42 and buy their own sports franchise or Third World army and you can do anything, publicly, and no one's going to lift a finger. Sure some idealistic reporter might think they can make their name with a big expose, but those never last. Idealistic young reporters disappear every day. No one seems to mind.

So, do you really want to use those wonderful powers - flight, super-strength, super-hearing, invulnerability - that our sun gives you, to work in the public sector as a champion of the people, the same people who will turn on you in one hot second if you happen to accidentally drop a bullet train on an old folks home, or impregnate a county full of lonely cheerleaders, or do you want to come work in the private sector, where you'll be defending people who really need protection - our nation's millionaire industrialists? Did I mention that you'll be able to get away with murder? Literally? We do a lot of overseas contracting. Don't pretend you haven't thought about how many ways you could dismember someone with your heat vision.

So, what's it going to be? Are you ready to join the winning team?

I knew you'd make the right decision, Clark. You're going to enjoy your new life as Exxon Mobil Man.

Q: What do farmers eat?

A: My dad was a farmer, so I can tell you first-hand what a farmer eats: Beef. Pork. Corn. Sour Mash Whiskey. Dirt. Moonshine. Old Tires. Rubbing Alcohol. Legal Summons. Neighbor's Kids. Pepper Spray. Eviction Notices. Comic Books. Fudge. Results of Court Ordered Psychological Tests. Drywall. Shotgun Barrel.

I assume such a diet was common for all farmers.

Q: What did the troubling aspects of the Watergate scandal include?

A: That the Commutte to Re-Elect the President felt the need to break into the Democratic National Committee headquarters in Washington because of the potential threat of  Democratic nominee George McGovern, a man whose campaign included promises to give Idaho and Arkansas to the Viet Cong, make abortion mandatory for all children conceived via reverse cowgirl position, and require marijuana to be a staple of school lunch.

That the President of the United States conspired with senior White House staff to not only cover up the break -in, but to eventually turn it into an unstoppable trick play for the Washington Redskins.

That a political scandal from the early 70's, centered around the President of the United States, a power-mad  middle-aged white man from California, did not involve any sex. Creepy.

Q: What is unspecified obstruction of renal pelvis and ureter?

A: A fun game I learned at the S&M dungeon. I push something inside you, obstructing the flow of your urine,  and you have to guess what it is.

Since all I have is a Buzz Lightyear, it shouldn't be too hard to guess.

Shoot. I wasn't supposed to tell you. Oh well, you'll still get off on the pain.

Look, for S&M relationships to work, someone has to be the Masochist. The role of the Sadist has already been taken.

Q: How do you find the ghost in Skullduggery Island?

A: Yeah, about that ...

Here's the thing, when your Mom divorced me, I was awarded joint custody. I really would have preferred a custody system based on my mood, my dating prospects, and my interest in that weekend's slate of televised games. But I was overruled. As I result, I get you every other weekend, for the whole weekend, regardless of my own plans.

An old friend of mine was in town this weekend, someone who had been through a tough time. Newly divorced, wondering where she went wrong, full of self-doubt. Vulnerable. When you're older you'll understand a girl like that will do anything to feel loved. And I mean anything.

The last thing I needed was some kid hanging around, laughing and smiling, cheering her up and making her think that maybe her problems aren't so bad. Plus, the 2257 laws forbid the presence of children near an adult film set.

I needed you out of here and I needed you out of here quick. I made up some nonsense about that island in the park being an ancient pirate burial ground full of treasure and ghosts, knowing your quest would take all weekend and end with disappointment.  Along the way, I taught you a valuable lesson about trust.

Don't trust anyone.

There's no need to cry, son. I'll make it up to you the next time you visit. I hear there's a cabin deep in the woods that was built by some sort of eccentric chocolatier. Legend says it's full of candy and sweets and all the treats a boy could want. I'll go out there with you as soon as you get here.

I promise.

Q: Are there schools to study swordsmanship in America?

A: If you yearn to be a master swordsman able to vanquish your foes with a flick of the wrist and a thrust of the arm, look no further than Dan T. Chesterfield Swordfighting and Hazardous Waste Disposal Academy. located behind the condemned K-Mart on US-42. right next to the pile of screaming babies. If your nostrils burn of sulfur, your skin tingles, and your clothes are melting, you're in the right place.

At the Dan. T. Chesterfield Swordfighting and Hazardous Waste Disposal Academy, or the DTCSHWDA for short - we pronounce it Ditschwada, kind of like "dish water", but, you know, with a "t" in there - at DTCSHWDA you'll study under some of the world's greatest swordsmen from Japan, Spain and Italy, many of who still have all their facilities and barely suffer from any of the long term effects associated with exposure to radiation and toxic waste.

Thanks to our method of round the clock teaching, you'll be able to spin, counter, dodge, parry and thrust in now time, or die trying. (The Dan T. Chesterfield Swordfighting and Hazardous Waste Disposal Academy is not liable for any all deaths resulting from sword fights, sword cleaning, sword swallowing, sword dodging, sword catching, sword juggling, sword diving, or exposure to chemicals know to cause cancer in the state of Iowa.)

Upon arrival to DTCSHWDA, our experienced staff will steal all your belongings, beat you senseless, and cut off your ear. If you happen to bring along a mother or girlfriend to wish you well, she will be abducated and forced to wear revealing clothes, but nothing too slutty, as the Dan T. Chesterfield Swordfighting and Hazardous Waste Disposal Academy is a family friendly environment.

Once your possessions have been stolen, your will broken, your body bloody and beaten, you will have one goal in mind: Revenge. We willl hand you a sword and our faculty of award-winning swordsmen or waste disposal technicians (sometimes the swordsmen call in sick) will help you learn the skills required to slay your foe, save your wife, mother or vintage tee, and restore the honor to your family.

Our grading policy is simple: If you gain revenge, you pass. If you fail, you fail. Failure will result in immediate expulsion from the academy and forfeiture of any and all trophies, monies, clothes, pets, spouses, and mothers.

Tuition costs $5,000 and we accept anyone who can pay.

So, do you care to enroll?

Most people say "No" at first. Why don't you stick around awhile, breathe in some of the fumes and reconsider?

Q: What is a way you can end an essay with your conclusion?

A: A writer of an essay has many possible conclusions at his disposal.

He could end with a question, giving the reader something to think about. He could end with a quotation from a famous author that sums up his essay and brings everything together. He could end the essay with the same sentence he used at the start, to bring everything full circle. He could end with a personal anecdote that clearly expresses the themes of his essay. Any of these techniques would have been more acceptable.

But you chose to go a different route and end your essay with a picture of your engorged genitals with the captain, "Prime real estate available!" Your conclusion is unacceptable and I will not be able to award you a passing grade.

I will, however, take you up on your real estate offer. Are there rentals available, or must I buy? And can I bring friends?

Q: What does the idiom just a hair off mean?

A: Usually, it means "Very close" as in, "a hair's width," as in, "you missed your target ever so sightly, but you shouldn't beat yourself up; in fact, you should feel proud for even trying."

But I meant it differently.

When you asked if you had successfully hit the target and I shook my head and raised my hand in front of face, holding my index and middle fingers an inch apart, and I looked at you through the space between my fingers and I said, "You were just a hair off," I was being sarcastic. That's why General McCloskey laughed, and why General Bailey laughed, and why President Percival laughed and then began to cry. Because I was being sarcastic. Because I meant the exact opposite.

Your mission was to bomb Damascus, in Syria. You bombed Cincinnati, in Ohio.

Soldier, you cost us a swing state.

Q: Who owns the phantom of the opera original mask?

A: The famous mask, as worn by Lon Chaney in the 1927 film Phantom of the Opera, has been part of my collection for over thirty years. It was the second piece of movie history I purchased, after the famous wheelchair used by Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window. Over the years, I've added more and more trinkets to my collection, such as the bedouin scarf worn by Peter O'Toole in Lawrence of Arabia, and the sled from Citizen Kane. None of these trophies compare to my prized possesion over there.

What do you think that is?

Wrong. That's what everyone guesses. They think it's the mold of Han Solo in carbonite from The Empire Strikes Back. Ever since I was a child, I wanted it more than anything, turns out George Lucas had it destroyed during a benefit for wealthy fat children in 1994, Fudgecon '94. Since the prop no longer existed, I had to make it myself. What you see there is Harrison Ford encased in carbonite. It wasn't easy, and it wasn't cheap, but it was worth it.

That's what I always told myself, until I saw the last Indiana Jones movie. Now I regret my decision and I want that impostor dead.

Q: How many athletes have died because of injuries sustained in a game?

A: In the millions of games played at the amateur and professional level over the course of human existence, very few athletes have died as a result of game-related injuries.

Until today.

In retrospect, your decision to let a teenage werewolf play quarterback may have been a mistake. But I admit, it seemed like a good idea at the time. In wolf form, he was stronger and faster than everyone on the field, probably stronger and faster than anyone in the history of the game. There's no way you could lose.

And then everything went wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong.

Turns out werewolves are more interested in killing and eating people than they are in running the spread option. In retrospect, maybe you should have benched him after he celebrated his first touchdown by decapitating the other team's safety. Although it was kind of cool when he spiked the kid's head like a football. I remember enjoying that. Then again, I may have been in shock.

But you trusted your gut and kept him in the game. Even after he killed our halfback. And our tight end. And the rest of our team. And the other team. And the cheerleaders. And the referees.

Thank god we let Old Man Winters come to the game. Can you imagine what would have happened if he didn't have those silver bullets? And to think we wanted to have him banned for his anti-werewolf rhetoric.


On the bright side, Coach, you've earned a place in the history books, but probably not in the way you hoped. Instead of being mentioned in the same breath as Bear Bryant and Vince Lombardi, you'll be lumped in with Stalin and Pol Pot. There could be worse things to have on a tombstone than "The Pol Pot of high school football." At least two or three. No one's compared you to Hitler.

Wait. I didn't see that guy's sign.

Q: What would happen if you altered the cells in a human?

A: I'm so glad you asked.

Over the past year, in addition to our assigned work creating a cow that will yield more meat, directly produce milk and lay chicken eggs, some of us in the Genetics Department have spent the better part of our nights and weekends on a little side project. We've kept this project quiet because we didn't want to get anyone's hopes up. but last night we made a breakthrough.

All me to present ... The Perfect Human!

Now, this is only a prototype. The real Perfect Human won't have that smell. Or be that color. And it will still be alive. But look at the muscles and the wings and the claws and the shoulder mounted cannons. You have to admit those are pretty awesome.

Obviously we have some bugs to fix. We need to find a way to either reinforce the skeleton, or reduce the weight of the cannon, so the collarbone doesn't snap. And we'd like to keep the next one alive.

But as you can see, we're making progress.

Now, as our CEO, we need a few things from you. First, we need a significant increase in our department's budget. Second, we need blanket authorization for all human genetics related overtime. Third, we need you to find a new wife. Maybe someone who's a little less feisty. We probably would have finished the prototype earlier if we didn't have to spend so much time hitting her over the head with our shoes. But you can't build the Perfect Human without the right specimen.

You're a lucky man, sir. She's a very beautiful woman. Was a beautiful woman. Who knows, maybe we could bring her back, if we had a big enough budget.

Q: Does a cap gun shoot?

A: I know what you're wondering - in addition to your question about a cap gun, a question I will address in a moment -  you're wondering, "Did he fire all 6 shots or just 5?" Well, in all the excitement, I kind of lost track.

You have to admit, that was pretty exciting. As a hardened criminal you might have done this sort of thing before and find it old hat, but this is my first week on the force and I've never chased anyone through the streets yelling and shooting and pushing people out of the way. That was awesome. I jumped over a baby carriage. Sure, I didn't totally clear it - kind of clipped it with my shoe - but I landed on my feet, unlike the baby. I'm sure he'll be fine. He only bounced a couple of times. His mother didn't seem to mind. As I ran away I saw her pumping her fist and cheering. I assume she was cheering. I couldn't make out much of what she said over all that gunfire, and the sound of heart pumping. I've never fired my gun at someone before. It's exhilarating.

I'm realizing I probably shouldn't have told you that it's my first week on the force, or that I've never fired a gun before, Please don't say anything. I'm still in a probationary period with the department. I'm not "officially" a cop, so I don't really have the authority to arrest anyone or shoot anyone or even carry a real gun. This is just a cap gun.

That answers your first question. A cap gun can shoot. It won't hit anything, but it can shoot. I made the bullets myself. Again, please don't tell anyone; strictly against department policy.

Now, to answer your second question, "Did I fire 5 shots or all 6?" Like I said, in all the excitement - I rolled across the hood of a cab! - anyway, I kind of lost track. So I have a question for you. Do feel lucky?

Well do you, punk?

You should, because I hear sirens and if they see me holding someone at gunpoint, I'll never get to be a real cop. Get the hell out of here. And please, never speak of this to anyone.

Q: Can you commit suicide with antibiotic pills?

A: I take antibiotics to fight my bronchitis. They'll make me better in now time. I have no intention of killing myself. I'm going to be around for a long time.

You seem disappointed. Actually, that makes a lot of sense.

I've begun to notice how you always mention how the wood beams in my ceiling look strong.  "Strong enough for a man to hang himself," you always say with a wink and a smile and a nudge in the ribs. I'm beginning to understand your meaning. And your yearly Christmas gift: enrollment in a noose-making class. Always thought that was a gag gift.

Then there's those scrapbooks you make, full of picture after picture of my ex-girlfriends, with your little handwritten notes  like "She looks better than ever," and "Her new boyfriend probably packs a big one," and "You'll probably never be as happy as when you were with her. What's the point of living?" I assumed they were some sort of dry joke that I just didn't get.  I might have been wrong.

You have been encouraging me to have a lot of "bath toast" lately, which can't possibly be a real thing no matter how many fake websites you send me as proof. I suspect you created those websites. Every one is a GeoCities site. That's clue number one.

Clue number two is you sign your own name.

I thought you were my friend. Why would you want me to kill myself?

Oh.

I guess having an awesome eulogy is as good a reason as any.

Q: What is the definition of hazardous material?

A: Any material that may cause short or long term damage to an employee's health is considered to be hazardous and must be removed from the building. Anyone who knowingly introduces hazardous material to the office will be fired and subjected to any applicable legal action.

Cathy's lemon squares don't qualify. They're rather delicious. I've had three. But this isn't about the lemon squares, is it?

If Cathy doesn't want to date you, that's her decision. You can't have her arrested or fired or deported.

I know that she hurt you. We all know. You've made it clear with your editorials in the company newsletter and your YourTube videos and your ad in the Times and your billboard and your screenplay, Jack and Cathy Go Boning.

I admit I enjoyed the screenplay. I appreciated all the drawings. Helped me visualize all the positions. I'm sure Cathy was flattered. And that twist at the end, where Cathy is revealed to be succubus intent on destroying all men with her sexual charms? Brilliant. I'm sure Cathy loved it, too. I can't imagine why she wouldn't want to go out with you.

That was sarcastic. You can't use that quote in your next ad.

Q: Are girls scouts as prepared as boy scouts?

A: They say they are. They share a motto, "Be Prepared."

Don't believe it.

Most Boy Scouts spend their idle time imaging a day when their parents will be gone, their teachers vanished, their friends mysteriously absent, leaving them all alone in a desolate wasteland. They plan for such a day - secretly hope for it - squirreling away food and supplies and toys in their tree forts or backyard pits. Most Girl Scouts spend their idle time trying to figure out a way to avoid creepy survivalist boys.

Boy Scouts love kung fu movies and pro wrestling and every other sort of pretend fighting entertainment you can imagine. They've picked up a few rather effective moves, along with many comically ineffective moves. But they are ready to spring these vicious attacks on any attacker at any time. They live in a constant of readiness. Girl Scouts live in a constant state of happiness. Except the sad ones. But they mostly keep to themselves.

Boy Scouts are far more prepared than Girl Scouts. If you insist on hunting the most dangerous game - man - but want to start somewhere realistic, your best option is a Girl Scout. Just don't make the same mistake Mr. Paley did and hang one on you trophy wall. Turns out folks around here are a little uptight.

Q: Why did the Egyptians feel like they needed to develop a writing system?

Q: The human memory plays tricks. People tend to dramatize the past, and their role in it, for the sake of a better story. The Egyptians began to notice that the history of their land -  their discoveries in math and astronomy, the heroism of ancient kings, the disagreements that led to agreement and eventual enlightenment - was becoming malleable. Facts would change from story to story, even from sentence to sentence, depending on the speaker.. Fearing that centuries worth of wisdom would be lost, they developed a crude system of symbols which would correspond to words which they all agreed would mean specific things, all in order to preserve their accumulated knowledge for the benefit of their children and their children's children and the children beyond them. With a written language in place, they hoped to prevent future generations from stumbling around the desert wondering what time of year it was, why there were triangles buried in the sand and what animals were more worthy of worship than others.

The ancient Egyptians were fascinating. You can read all about them on my iPad, once I get it back from the Mac store. I dropped it in the toilet.  Until then, let's try and hit that bird with this empty beer can.

Q: What is wattage of ATM Bank Machine?

A: Whatever wattage it needs to run the machine and make the screen glow and light up that little light next to the slot where you put your card. I don't know, 11. 11 watts. Does that sound right?

I'm not a scientist, okay. If I were a scientist, I wouldn't need you to build me a magical ATM card that would let me withdraw all the money in any ATM with a single swipe, I would build it myself. But I'm not a scientist, I'm merely a genius. The genius who not only came up with the idea of a magical ATM card, but who also drew a detailed schematic.

All I need you to do is build it. If I had known I was going to be subjected to a series of stupid questions, I would have just asked my father for money and not gone to the trouble of designing the greatest invention in the history of man.

Now, are you going to build it? Or are you going to let them shut off my cable?

Q: What is a class three surgical candidate?

A: Class three surgical candidates suffer from chronic diseases that, while painful, are not immediately life-threatening. Class three surgical candidates can often avoid surgery with changing to a healthier diet and committing to regular exercise.

Class two surgical candidates suffer from acute diseases that are painful and life-threatening. Class two candidates would benefit from immediate surgery but can also choose less-invasive procedures like radiation or experimental medication.

Class one surgical candidates are on the verge of death and require immediate surgery to repair the heart or the spleen or whatever is bleeding.

Your cat doesn't fall into any of the normal surgical categories, but a new category of my own creation called Class SuperPlus One.

SuperPlus One surgical candidates are sick past the point where surgery can help them, or, as in the case of your cat, have been dead for over 4 hours. Such candidates require immediate surgery to replace their heart, lungs and limbs with parts from an old robot I found in my father's basement after he passed away.

I'm going to be honest. I can't promise that my experimental surgery will bring your cat back to life and allow him to become the cybernetic RoboCat of your dreams, but I can promise you it will be awesome to watch me try.

Q: How much food did a roman soldier get?

A: Roman soldiers got one turkey leg and half a tomato a day. Now we're talking about the grunts, the guys in the in the front getting their hands dirty, the ones with the swords and the helmets and the chest plates. Those guys. Your Roman brass, though I'm not sure if they were called brass back then, maybe bronze, your Roman bronze, your generals like your Ceasar's and such, and that other guy, what's his name, the farmer who didn't want to fight but was so good at fighting that when Rome was under attack they'd go out to his farm and beg him to come back and lead the army, and he'd do it, and he'd win, because he was wicked good at being a general, and they'd cheer him and throw parades and beg him - and I'm talking down on the hands and knees, crying, pleading real begging with the snot bubbles and everything - I mean beg him to rule them and keep the safe forever, but he'd say NO and go back to his farm ... God, what's his name ... Cincinnatus. That's him. Cincinnatus. He reminds me a lot of me, except that instead of being real good at being a general but not having any interest in it, I feel that way about being a father.

Yeah, your generals like Caesar and Cicinnatus ate better than your grunts. Every day, they got a turkey leg, two tomatoes, and all the horsemeat from the horses died in battle.

So finish your Happy Meal. I don't care if it's cold, you're eating better than Caesar.

Q: What type of license is needed to start a lawn care service in California?

A: I don't really think you need a license. If you want to earn a little money so you can take your girlfriend to the movies or buy her a necklace or pay for an abortion - I was a kid once, I understand that things happen; I just don't want to know - if you want a little extra money, for whatever reason, all you have to do is start knocking on doors and letting people know that you are willing to cut their grass or trim their hedges for a reasonable price.

I would assume it would help to have some experience in that sort of thing, not a resume or anything, but a familiarity with the basics of lawn care - you know, what to cut, what not to cut, that sort of thing. People take pride in their lawn and they wouldn't want to hire someone, even someone as young and handsome and obviously fertile as yourself - again, don't want to know - without knowing that they can trust you to spruce up the lawn and not clip their prized rhododendrons by mistake or confuse their beloved cat with a weed and run over it with the mower. What I'm saying is don't tell them about what happened when I let you drive the riding mower. Just keep that to yourself.

You'll also need some tools. Sure most people will have a mower you can use, but you can't expect them to have weed-whackers and hedge-trimmers and lye and insecticide. Some of that you'll have to provide. Or steal. Whichever makes the most sense. Again, please keep me in the dark.

You may not have the experience, or the tools, but you do have a passion for lawn care, and that might be enough. When people hire a lawn care professional, they want someone who is passionate about grass. They'll be willing to overlook a lack of experience and a paucity of tools if you can show them that you are passionate about making their lawn the belle of the block. But you can take that idea too far. Too much passion for grass will turn off even the most desperate homeowner. You understand what I'm saying?

Are you sure? Because it doesn't seem like you understand what I'm saying.

Please stop fucking the grass.

Q: How can a teacher tell if students have developed responsibility?

A: Invite them to join you in a secret society, making clear up front that the goal of the society will be the overthrow of the schools current administration and they will have to do a few things that are not technically legal but are harmless.

Start out small by having them repaint the principal's parking every day, making it slightly smaller each time, until his car no longer fits in his space. Then have them do the same thing with his pants.

Once they've grown accustomed to seeing the school's administration as a target for practical jokes rather than an authority, assign them a new task. Tell them you need them to lure the principal into a seedy motel, seduce him into wild night of cocaine-fueled bondage and videotape the whole thing. Remind them of the importance of secrecy.

If they carry out the assignment, without speaking a word to anyone, and deliver the videotape to your desk by Monday morning, they have developed responsibility.

And you will finally get that raise.

Q: What are the business processes in hospital?

A: When a new patient arrives for treatment, whether for a rodent-rectum emergency or a common elective like mole removal, we have him fill out a complicated admissions form designed to promote an immediate sense of inferiority, letting the patient know that he is in the presence of experts far more dedicated, disciplined and learned than he could ever be; we find making the patient feel stupid and insignificant prevents him from questioning our methods later. Among these admissions forms we hide waivers to prevent malpractice lawsuits.

Once the patient has filled out the admission stack, already questioning his right to even be among such intellectual giants, occasionally stammering, body trembling,  we make sure he can pay. The last thing we'd want to do is spend hours and hours performing life-saving medical procedures only to get stiffed on the bill. The desire to help people and Hippocratic Oaths are just terrific ideas, but you can't buy a summer home in the Hamptons with good will.

After admittance, we stick the patient in refurnished supply closet, (billed as a "private room" costing at $2,750 a day), wheel in every working machine not currently in use, (making sure not to double up on machines - the swifter patients tend to notice), pump the patient full of the newest and most expensive drugs, (a sedated patient is a happy patient), send in every expert and intern available, (all with individual consultation fees), and order the widest variety of tests possible, (tests which require the most lab time to get results being preferable).

By this point, the patient will have been a tenant for at least a week and, thanks to bed rest, an abundance fluids, and time away from his soul-crushing job, will start to feel better. We prescribe the newest drug from the pharmaceutical company that gives us the largest kick back, load the patient with crutches, ace bandages and bedpans, and send him on the way.

Three days later we send him the bill. At this point he will require the services of one of our psychiatrists. They  bill by the hour.

Q: What is your least favorite duty being a bank manager?

A: Making small talk with inept bank robbers with poor escape plans who end up taking me hostage. By far. Not even a close second. Foreclosing on a widow leads to weeks of depression where I walk around the city  wondering what my purpose is on this Earth, wondering what kind of God would create a world where people, good people, would have to earn their money forcing gentle kind old women from houses they've owned for decades, but foreclosing on widows - and this is something that makes me cry and gives me hives - foreclosing on widows is a cherish childhood memory compared to making small talk with bank robbers.

Despite what years of motion pictures may have lead you to believe, bank robbers are not suave professionals  possessed of quick wit, fighting against corporate greed on behalf of the little man. They are lazy, vile, stupid people who lack the basic social skills required to hold even the most menial of jobs. Carrying on a conversation with such people takes the kind of patience reserved for saints and mystics.  If you replaced every word from a bank robber's mouth with the phrase, "I'm don't understand how life works so I punch things," you would be no worse off and have a better understanding of who they are as people, and would save yourself the trouble of having to spend time deciphering the tremors, eye-rolls, grunts, lewd gestures and asinine observations they consider parts of speech.

Sooner or later the conversation turns to bank managing, and what it's like, and how it must be an awful, soul-crushing job to serve as the penny-filled sock of capitalism, knocking the common man out and taking his money. They refuse to accept that bank managing is a job like any other, it has good days and bad days, It keeps me around people and it gives me something to do.

Now that I've answered your question, will you start releasing hostages? Or are you going to wait until all those red dots on your chest reach your forehead?

Q: Was sand a living thing?

A: Sand is made up of very small rocks, worn down by eons of pressure from the winds and the rains and the hand of man, and has no life of its own.

Sand has no heart no beat, no lungs to breath, no blood to spill, no soul to take. Don't worry, son, you can't hurt sand. When you poured out that can gasoline into the sand pit and dropped in the book of matches, you didn't kill any sand. Sand can't be killed.

People, however, can be killed. People who, for whatever reason, might have been bound and gagged at the bottom of a sandpit, hidden under a tarp. That's what you heard scream.

In your school, have they ever taught you about the word "alibi"?

Great. Let's work on one together.

Q: What kind of pain medication do they use for knee problems?

A: Typically something like Ibuprofen, Naproxen or Celecoxib. If you have a good-sized tolerance for meds, they might give you something stronger, like Tramadal or Hydrocodone. If you're real lucky, or you know somebody, you might be able to score some Morphine.

None of those options will work for you.

To suffer knee pain, you need to have a knee. You don't have a knee. Not anymore. What you're feeling is what they call "phantom pain." It's not real. It could go away in a minute, could last you rest of your life, hard to say.

That guy tore your leg right off. We all heard the snap from the sideline and assumed it was bad. We never expected it to be this bad. You, here, on the ground. Your leg, over there in the linebacker's hand. Our scouts were right. That guy is a beast. I've never seen such animal ferocity on a football field. I hate to say this, but in your condition there's little chance you'll remember, but I kind of admire that guy. It's like he doesn't even care that he's crippled a man for life. What dedication.

And now he's eating your leg. They should probably test that guy for drugs.

I'm sure you're in a lot of pain now, but as I said most of it is phantom pain. The pain will go away, the scars will heal, someday you might even walk again - I hear today's prosthetics are incredible - but no matter what happens, you'll always have the memory of scoring a touchdown in the Rose Bowl.

Damn it, I just saw the flag.

All right, enough with the speeches. I can't think of much else to say and you probably can't hear me, judging by the blood coming out of your ears. We need to get you off the field and to the hospital, and fast; the halftime show is about to start.

Q: What is so great about the Nobel Prizes?

A: For over a century, the Nobel Foundation in Stockholm, Sweden has awarded Nobel prizes in the fields physics, chemistry, medicine, literature and peace. Winning a Nobel Prize signifies that you have reached the pinnacle of your chosen field, and stand among the giants of human thought. In addition to a medal, and a place in history, Nobel winners receive a cash prize of over a million dollars.

Past winners of the Nobel prize include Marie Curie, Ernest Hemingway, Albert Einstein, Erwin Rudolph Joseph Alexander Schroedinger, William Faulkner, Martin Luther King, and Teddy Roosevelt.

Frankly, winning a Nobel Prize is akin to winning Super Bowl MVP, an Oscar and a Congressional Medal of Honor all at the same time. It's the greatest award a human being could possibly win.

And I have one.

So, please, Dad, can I sit at the grown up's table on Thanksgiving?

Q: How good are titan pistols?

A: When it comes to protecting your loved ones from the potential dangers of the modern world - home invaders, the Chinese army, socialists, ninjas, zombies, thrill seeking, drugged addicted veterans scarred by the horrors of war - there's no better weapon than a Titan Pistol. 

Titan Pistols kill where they point. That's Titan Promise #1. 

Most companies are afraid to tell you this, but the majority of weapons bought for home protection are used on  family members, either intentionally, to end drunken arguments, or accidentally, when you mistake your son sneaking back in the house after curfew for a burglar trying to rob you over your collection of vintage smut.  At Titan Pistols, however, we are proud of the fact that our guns kill more family members than Smith and Wesson, GLOCK, and Remington combined. 

When you bring home a Titan Pistol, someone's going to die. That's Titan Promise #2.

Unlike other manufacturers, our pistols don't misfire, or jam or cost you valuable seconds of shooting time with a complicated safety lock. Titan Pistols don't have a safety, or a trigger, or a cartridge. The moment you pick up a Titan Pistol, it will fire. If you look at a Titan Pistol, it will fire. If the air around a Titan Pistol reaches a temperature higher than 73 degrees Fahrenheit, it will fire.

You have to work hard NOT to kill someone with a Titan Pistol. That's Titan Promise #3.

Thanks to our three promises - Our guns kill where they point. Once you bring one of our guns home, someone will die. Our guns require constant diligence not to kill - we guarantee that Titan Pistols are the best gun on the market. 

How many would you like to buy to protect your family?

Oh. I see. 

I probably should have warned you to keep your family back before I began my presentation. As I said, Titan Pistols are sensitive killing machines, and as you witnessed, your wife and daughter do not have bullet proof heads.  Don't bother to get up, I'm comfortable cleaning up. This isn't my first presentation. 

Q: What would it be like if you won five million dollars?

A: Awesome. It would be awesome. Easily the single greatest moment of my life. Far greater than the first time I had sex, or my wedding, or the birth of my son or even the 2003 playoffs when the Red Sox pulled off the greatest comeback in team sports history against the Yankees and then went on to win the World Series.

I'd buy a boat, a big one, with its own captain and crew and team of bikini models to dance on me as the sun sets, and travel the world from port to port making sweet love to every stripe of the female rainbow.

I'd learn Japanese. Or carry enough yen to convince everyone I met that I knew Japanese. Their warm smiles and nods would be a good feeling and would impress my army of hangers-on, unless one of my hangers-on actually knew Japanese. Remind me not to hang out with anyone who actually knows Japanese.

Obviously I'd changed my name, get a face lift and some lipo to make myself more attractive to the ladies. Not that I'd need to be that attractive; the boat would be very big.

But, before I'd do all that I would divorce my wife, abandon my awful kids and hit the road, finally a free man.

I don't understand why you're crying, son. Your mother's young enough to find a new man for you to call Daddy. If she's smart, she'll find someone who won't find your every move a source of shame.

Now sit down. The pretty lady's about to read the numbers.

Q: Why do fingers turn black after death?

A: Post mortem black fingers mean one of two things:

1.) The victim died from exposure to the black plague.

2.) The Inker has escaped from Arkham Asylum.

The remains of the a fountain pen in the deceased's hand and the presence of a note by the body saying "I'm back to make crime in Gotham bold again" signed "The Inker" give credence to theory number 2, but the Black Plague is a serious matter and we'd be remiss not to examine all possibilities. After all, this is an election year.

I'll fire up the Bat Signal. You kill all the rats and poor people.

Q: How do you prevent meatballs from breaking up when cooking?

A: Typically you press the meatballs tightly together when making them or use a binding agent like egg whites. I don't think either method would help here.

Meatballs are usually made from ground beef or ground pork or ground turkey with some filler like breadcrumbs or cheese. Rarely do you see meatballs made from shredded wedding photos and Rolos.

I assume your wife did most of the cooking. And the cleaning. And the personal grooming. And the protecting your home from bands of marauding hobos.

The DVDs are alphabetized, so I guess you brought something to the marriage.

Q: How does the hot air balloon effect the economy?

A:  There's an old saying that dates back to the Ottoman Empire: When one's economy is in dire straits, when one's serfs or wenches bristle under rule and speak revolution, one must look to the sky; a craft of wingless flight shall be your salvation.  As you can clearly see, this rule applies as much today as it did hundreds of years ago. There is no better fix for a stagnant economy than a influx of hot air balloons.

Hot air balloons do not make magically appear from the sea or a lantern, they must be built by the hand of man. Construction of a properly magnificent hot air balloon requires miles of heavy duty canvas, industrial strength bellows, and enough strong wicker to hold three men.  The manufacture of one balloon alone would employ thirty men for three months time, and that's not including the wicker.

Not any many can captain a hot air balloon. It takes a special man of skill and pluck and courage and inspirational handsomeness. To teach and nurture and train and groom such men you will need to build schools, write and publish books, and recruit the finest barbers and personal trainers in the world, all of whom will need lodging, entertainment,  food, and legal council.

In addition to their training, hot air balloon captains require shiny, military-style uniforms complete with visor caps and black gloves and sabers, for the fighting of sky pirates. For some reason hot air balloon captains are more effective when dressed as sleek fascists. I'm not sure of sure of the science behind this; I'm not here to improve your standing in the scientific community, but to improve your economy. Anyway, they will need to be dressed and armed and that will require an army of tailors and haberdashers and blacksmiths and, eventually, sky pirates. Few man choose a life of sky piracy, but with the right amount of guilt and blackmail, enough will heed the call to make your hot air balloon captains into heroes.

As you most certainly know, no one attracts the ladies like a hot hair balloon captain. There's another old saying: He who commands the swinging sky chariot has his pick of the swooning harlots. Wise words. Now these women, in order to stand out from the crowd and attract a captain, and thereby lift themselves out of the gutter and make their family proud, will need to look nice. That means new dresses and jewels and hair and make up and those strappy high heels that make their calves look delectable.  In turn this means jobs for dress makers and cosmetologists and jewelers and cobblers and makers of durable and reliable prophylactics.

Hot air balloons are your only hope to save your dying economy. How many would you like?

Great. You'll have the materials for the first batch in a week.

I'd like to take this opportunity to remind you that these hot air balloons should only be used for their intended method, as symbols of national greatness and not for anything stupid like police work or shipping or consumer travel. They can be taken out with a well-thrown rock and rarely land where they are supposed to.

I'd also like to remind you that all sales are final and your deposit is non-refundable. Enjoy your prosperity.

Q: Is rules a house of subcommittee?

A: Welcome to the U.S. House of Representatives. Congratulations on your election. You fought a tough and bitter campaign full of negative ads, push polls, race-baiting speeches and false promises and deserve to be here in the nation's capital. I'm sure you're excited to be sworn in, take the floor of the hallowed House for the first time and start making laws that benefit your largest contributors, but before you do, there's a few things you should know. In the U.S. House of Representatives, rules is not a subcommittee, rules are a way of life.

The first rule of the U.S. House of Representatives is that there are no rules.

The second rule of the U.S. House of Representative is that all rules, including and especially the aforementioned rule are subject to committee, followed by a floor debate, followed by a Yay or Nay vote; rules receiving a majority of votes will be considered passed following approval by the Senate, the House and the Senate together, and the President. Subsequently rules, including the aforementioned first rule are subject to amendments requesting financing for virtual reality petting zoos, super-conducting, super-computing, super-sized fried potatoes, and tastefully erotic photos of female staff.

The third rule of the U.S. House of Representatives is that there are many, many rules. This rule overrides the first rule of the House of Representative. For a full list of rules contact your representative. If you are your representative, go to the Library of Congress, look for the librarian with the withered hand and the one red eye - if you can't find her, ask for Janice - tell her that "The seeds of democracy are best watered with Yoo-Hoo, American's Favorite Chocolate Drink," and read whatever she gives you, except the map to her apartment and drawings from the Kama Sutra; Janice gets a little frisky and refuses to remove said erotica from the Congressional Rules Archive no matter how fiercely we paddle her.The paddling might not be the answer.

The fourth rule of the U.S. House or Representatives is that anything said on the floor of the U.S. House of Reprensentatives stays on the floor of the U.S. House of Representatives. Or is broadcast on C-Span. Either way, it's not for public consumption.

The fifth rule of the U.S House of Representatives is that lunch is at 1:30PM and steak is mandatory. If you are a vegetarian, steak will be provided.

The sixth rule of the U.S. House of Representatives is that the work week contains 3 days, the month two weeks and the year 7 months. You are required to be on the floor for most of the votes during that period unless you're busy with your re-election campaign or you're on a fact-finding mission or you have a cold or you don't feel like it or you have tickets to an important football, baseball, basketball, girls' field hockey or professional wrestling match. Absences other than for the above mentioned reasons require letters from 51% of your constituents excusing you from service.

There are 167 more rules, but that's enough for now. I don't want to overwhelm you on your first day. You'll have the next two years to be overwhelmed, ineffective and a drain on the nation.

Q: Why is evidence placed in a paper bag rather than a plastic one?

A: That wasn't evidence. That was my lunch.

Congratulations, you successfully "destroyed" a turkey sandwich on whole wheat, in a court of law, with the entire jury watching. I had high hopes for this case. With your clean-cut good looks and calm demeanor, the age and senility of the prosecution witnesses, the lack of corroborating physical evidence, and the awesome closing argument I wrote over the weekend, I really thought I had a good chance to win. I've never won a trial before and I thought this could be the one. But even if I didn't win, I knew I would enjoy a delicious lunch.

Thanks for ruining everything.

Q: What are your legal rights when there are rats in your apartment?

A: You have the right to feed the rats. You have the right to befriend them. You have the right to train them to dance, or water-ski, or fly through the sky on the trapeze. You have the right to dress them in matching costumes with those short capes that attach on one shoulder and headbands and sashes. You have the right to name them, individually and as a group, calling them something like The Amazing Ratini Brothers, or, if they do not appear to be brothers or your training leaves them a mark short of Amazing, The Briefly Distracting Dressed Vermin. You have the right to record their performance with a camera phone and upload the video to YouTube. You have the right to parlay the attention you receive from your video of dancing, water-skiing, acrobatic rats into a three picture deal with Paramount, or at least a pilot pickup from Spike. You have the right to forget all about your rats once you make it big in Hollywood, letting the world know that the rats were nothing but a group of lumbering disease-spreading clods who undermined your genius at every turn. You have the right to repeat your success with groups of trained hamsters, Chechnyan freedom fighters and Go-Bots, with diminishing career returns.  You have the right to reunite with the rats in 2023 for a live show in Utica and an interview with Carson Daly.

You do not have the right to withhold rent. I'm going to need a cashier's check or money order by the end of tomorrow. I will not accept rats as payment.

Q: Do you have a Plastic Tank Repair kit?

A: I have the kit. And the experience. And the time. But before you hire me, you should know:

There's no fixing your plastic tank. Your tiny turret is beyond repair, your miniature army will never fight again, those treads will thunder down on enemy troops no more.

There's an old saying in the tiny military: When you wage war on the Chinese, use a real tank. If you are unfamiliar with that saying it might be because of your ignorance of tiny military history, or because I just now made it up. I can't speak to your brain. But the saying remains as true today as when it was first spoke seconds ago; in that saying lay the seeds of your defeat.

I can't fix your tank. If you wish to capture Mr. Ling's Chinese Buffet, seek other means, maybe something other than a toy tank. No matter what you decide, what tactics, what strategy, please remember this one thing:

I really want an egg roll.

Q: Does a chip hurt a dog?

A: I spent eleven years designing this microchip, eleven long, lonely years stuck in a cabin in Nebraska, shunning society, my only friend an invisible Parrot named Mr. Cinnamon, working day after day after day, skipping meals, letting my hygiene suffer, straining my eyes - blindness creeping in - suffering hour by hour, minute by minute to design the perfect behavior modification chip, a chip that would make any dog behave, use the toilet like a man and prepare healthy dinners for a family of four.

I don't think I would have devoted a third of my life making such a chip if I wanted to hurt your dog.

Once I install this chip, and press this button, your dog will become the perfect companion. He will heed your every command, protect your home from intruders, dispose of his own waste, and thrill your guests with his culinary creations. Be aware, due to time constraints he will only know two recipes, Chicken Penne and Grilled Seabass with Wasabi Mashed Potatoes. At the end of the design process, I realized to program more recipes I would need to delete his ability to bark the song Black and Yellow by Whiz Khalifa. I think you'll agree I choose wisely.

Okay, chip's in. The bleeding will stop in a day or two. If it lasts more than a week, let me know. You can leave a note for me in an garbage can in Crescent Park. Trust me, I'll find it. One press of this button and you have the world's best behaved dog. There. He's ready.

Command him to sit.

That's odd.

Try again.

Does he usually foam at the mouth so much? Has he always had so many teeth?

Oh dear.

Please stop yelling, you're only making him angry. You should probably know that the microchip also gives him the strength of twelve dogs and the bloodlust of a Great White Shark.

I figured it wouldn't come up, unless you gave him an order to attack. Why would you ever do that if you wanted a well-behaved dog?

Now is not the time to argue over who misled who. We should stick together and join forces if we want to survive. Luckily I have an ace up my sleeve.

Mr. Cinnamon, attack!

Q: Is air considered matter?

A: On a molecular level, yes. On a useful, super-heroic level, no.

When you first showed up at our headquarters and introduced yourself as Matter-Eater Lad, I admit, we all had a good laugh. Just to be clear, the laugh was at your expense. Can you really blame us? Here we are, the Legion of Super-Heroes, the greatest superhero organization in the universe, and you show up, a fat kid with a ridiculous name. We figured we could make you run errands, trip you in the halls, smack your belly until you cry, then run you out of town, like we did with Metric Conversion Boy. But cooler heads prevailed and someone, probably Superboy, said "Hey, let's give this Lad a chance. His ability to consume all forms of matter might come in useful."

You see what happened there. He assumed you could consume all forms of matter. Planets. Gases. Missiles. Intergalactic telepathic starfish. Sentient supercomputers. Boats. Matter that, when consumed, might prove useful.

But you can't. All you seem to be able to "consume" is air.

You might call yourself Matter-Eater Lad, but you're nothing more than a fat kid trying to catch his breath. Was the name Constant-Disappointment-To-Parents Lad already taken?

Q: What are some magical abilities?

A: Pulling a rabbit from a hat. Picking my card out of a well shuffled deck. Making tiny rubber balls disappear. Any of those tricks would qualify as magic.

Showing me how to save a few dollars on rental cars does not. Your so-called trick doesn't impress me and it certainly doesn't impress the children. When I hired you for my son's birthday party, I was under the impression that you were an actual magician, with a top hat and wand, perhaps a sexy assistant I could ogle - my wife's put put a few pounds since she had the baby and she's blocked all the porn sites - someone who could keep the kid's attention for an hour so I could sneak out back, smoke a joint and chug a beer. If I had know you were a "thrift wizard" I would never have let you into my home.

I don't care what it said in your ad, you should have told me when I called and booked you.

I don't remember you saying anything, and I've got a pretty solid memory. I can tell you the name, address and social security number of every witness at my trial. Even if you did tell me during the call, you should have told me when you showed up and saw all these young faces eager for entertainment.

I don't remember you saying anything. But I do tune you out when you start talking. Your voice is all nasal and whiny, reminds me of my parole officer. Once you get going, I start thinking about how much I'm going to enjoy stiffing you on payment and accusing you of leering at the kids. If you're wondering why I've been smiling, that's why.

Well, you've got about 42 minutes left on the clock, so you ought to get back to it. Here's some matches and a turtle. Figure it out.

Q: Does iron burn?

A: Sure does. Like the fires of hell.

Hot stuff. Hot.

Iron is an excellent conductor of heat. Once it gets hot, you shouldn't even touch it. One second will melt the skin off your hands. Two will sear muscle.

I'm starting to think I made a mistake installing a flame-thrower on my iron exo-skeleton. I'm cooking in here. The smell of roasting human flesh is less delicious than I imagined. I'm starting to wonder if I was right about anything.

Q: What Are The Top Ten Things To Stress Out Teens?

A: When I feel helpless and hopeless after a long day of clock watching and pretending to work at my awful job, stressing out teens gives me a chance to regain a feeling of power. I may not be able to control my own life, but I can briefly control the anxiety of a teen. On most days that's enough. On the rest, there's alcohol.

You can:

 - Steal their girlfriend with the promise of alcohol, which as an adult, you can legally purchase.

 - Pretend to be a big-time college football scout. Call their home. Eat dinner with the family. Imply that his parents have a loveless marriage. Watch highlight videos. Ask if you can get any tape on Mom. Go to the big game. Spend the whole game chatting up his mother. After the game, when he asks how he played, shake your head and say "Can't say. I'm more of soccer guy."

 - Set their house on fire. (Note: This technique will stress out anyone, not only teens.)

 - Pose as their school's guidance counselor. Meet with students individually and ask about their masturbation habits. At first, they will be reluctant to discuss masturbation, but you will soon win their trust, thanks to your scholarly beard and tweed jacket. (Note: Grow beard and don jacket before attempting ruse.) Once they've confided their masturbation habits and frequency, cross your arms, stroke your beard, peer over your glasses and say, "That's all fine, but are you doing it correctly?" Immediately leave the room.

 - Find a victim of cyber-bullying, put your arm around him or her and whisper, "It's okay. These are the easiest days of your life. It gets much, much worse."

 - Hand them a two page block of text without pictures or graphics. Tell them you will give them $10,000 if they can read to the end without sweating or crying.

 - When you see a small group leaving a movie on a Friday night, laughing and joking and quoting their favorite lines, run them down with your car.

 - While wearing dark glasses and using a cane to walk, as a blind person would do, approach a boy in the video game section of Best Buy and him that you are him from the future and you've traveled back in time to undo a life of horrible decisions. Mumble "If only we had know the truth about Facebook."

 - When the cashier at Burger King asks what kind of drink you'd like, say "Whichever one will melt a corpse the quickest."

 - Make eye contact, speak slowly and ask them questions about their day.

I could go on. There are 73 ways to stress out a teen, but you asked for ten. Ten is what you get.

Q: What two things make microwaves more dangerous?

A: Microwaves are death traps. If the door is broken, they can cause radiation poisoning. If you put metal in them, they will explode. They can turn any food into a weapon. To make them more dangerous you'd have to replace the handle with a piece of razor sharp steel, or replace the window with a laser that causes blindness. Only a fool would do that.

On an unrelated note, would you have any interest in buying a microwave? I don't use it any more, but it works great. Trust me.

I'd look you in the eye if I could, but the doctors say I have to keep them bandaged for another month. Let's shake on it. Don't be alarmed by my prosthetic fingers.

Q: Why work in a restaurant?

A: Everyone needs money, at least until we all come to our senses and replace our broken capitalist system with a system based on exchanging hand-drawn back rub coupons for goods and services; what better way to make money than by working at a restaurant, lugging hot plates of greasy food, constantly on the move, your income reliant on the generosity of  strangers too lazy or too incompetent to prepare and cook their own meals?

I see you're starting to form words with your mouth there and I'm going to stop you before you get too far. My question was rhetorical. There is no better way to make money. End of story.

In addition to the money - and I'm talking hundreds of dollars a month, more than enough to support your drug habit or deadbeat boyfriend or elderly parent - working in a restaurant has certain ancillary benefits. You get to eat all the food we throw away at the end of the night. Sure you have to fish it out of the dumpster and knock the maggots off it, but once you do, it's yours. Bon appetit. If  customer doesn't finish his soda, you can finish it. That's like three gallons of free soda a week. Free food, free soda, free sex with the restaurant manager - how much better does it get?

Let me stop you there. No better. None. Rhetorical.

Aside from the free food and drink and sex - and it's good sex; I keep a nice rhythm, and I know just when to pinch and tickle and bite - there's one benefit to working at a restaurant that you can't get anywhere else: If a child gets lost in the restaurant and stays the night, he becomes the property of our employee of the month, no questions asked. You can do whatever you want with him: teach him to sing, to fight, to talk like a robot, to pick pockets, or grift, or act as body armor - anything. Kids get lost in here all the time. Once they enter the playroom, they have a hard time finding their way out, probably because it's shaped like a maze, and we play loud Danish death metal to disorient their sense of direction. And we drug all the kids meals. Whatever the reason, there's a lot of lost kids in that playroom. Enough to build an army. An army of disoriented children, bleeding from their ears and crying for their parents. Just so you don't feel bad, the parents sign a waiver before their kids enter the playroom. It holds up in court.

So, are you going to take the job? Or am going to have to sweeten the offer with some erotic photos from my vacation to Belize?

Great. Welcome aboard. Just sign this start paperwork and you're all set. As a new member of the team, you get the first session of free sex with the restaurant manager. Slip into this panda costume and meet me in the break room. I did mention that the sex, while free and incredible, is mandatory, didn't I?

Oops. Guess you should have read that paperwork. There's a zipper in the back of the costume. It's a one piece. If the smell bothers you, don't worry, you won't have it on that long.

Q: What is a lions effect on man?

A: Before I had a lion, I had a wife, I had kids, I had a house, a nice one with three and half bathrooms, enough for everyone to use at once.  I had an important job, as an executive for a growing advertising company. I wooed clients, recruited writers and artists. I wore a suit to work, except on Fridays when I wore a designer jeans and a blazer. I had an expense account.

My son, Reggie, wanted the lion. He talked me into it. He said all the other kids in his class had exotic pets, Mike had an iguana, Tyler's parents bought him an emu, Jake got a orangutan for his 12th birthday. Reggie looked at me, tears in his eyes, snot in his nose, with a quivering lip, and asked "Don't you love me, Dad? Is that why you won't buy me a lion?"

I didn't love him. He had been an accident. My therapist told me I could never let the boy know, not ever, not for any reason, no matter what he did or said, no matter how much he disappointed me, no matter how often his presence reminded me of the beach house in Maui I could not afford thanks to his need for food and shelter and private education.

I bought him a lion. He named it Emmet. I thought that would be the end of it, and I could go back to ignoring him and dismissing his questions with a nod of the head, a raise of the eyebrows, by saying, "That's great, Reg. Daddy's busy."

When I bought Reggie the lion I bought three hundred pounds of ground beef. I thought that was the end of it. The lion ate the beef in four days. On the fifth day Reggie asked me to buy more food. I nodded my head. I raised my eyebrows. I said, "That's great, Reg. Daddy's busy." I finished my drink. I searched the internet for pictures of college girls posing in bathroom mirrors. I was not busy. I did not buy more food.

On the sixth day the lion ate Reggie. On the seventh day the lion ate my wife and my other children. On the eighth day my company's accountant questioned me about my expense account. Had I really bought 300 pounds of ground beef? Had I really bought a lion? I nodded my head, raised my eyebrows and told him I was busy.

On the ninth day I lost my expense account. On the afternoon of the ninth day, I lost my job. I still have the lion. He's stayed with me through it all, through the toughest time in my life. I wouldn't be where I am today without this lion. They say a dog is man's best friend. They lie. Man's best friend is a lion. I've never been so happy in my life. Although that may be shock. The lion took a big chunk out of my thigh a minute ago. Looks like he's coming back for more.