Q: What candy is opposite of bad and few?

A: You mean Good & Plenty. I have lots of candy in my van, but I don't have Good & Plenty. I do have Acceptable & Abundant. It's a Canadian knock off. I have cases out it. Got it real cheap on eBay. Wholesalers are giving it away ever since the Canadian government ordered it off the shelves after a half dozen cases of child blindness. Still legal in America, though. Can I interest you in a bag?

No? You sure?

Okay, how about some Pricker Bush Kids? It's a regional candy, popular in New England for a few years in the late 70's until some parents group discovered it contained trace amounts of barbed wire - you know, just enough to give it some kick - then they freaked out and had it banned. That's parents for you. But it's still out there, and I've got most of it. Want to try some?

What about some Razor Apples? Don't worry, they don't contain actual razors, that's just a myth. But they do contain a powerful hallucinagin that makes you think you're a unicorn. A savage, bloodthirsty unicorn incapable of feeling pain. Razor Apples were pretty popular on the playground for a couple years, until those damn parents got involved again; now you have to go to Thailand to buy them.

Parents ruin everything. Take my business for example. I started Candy Van for a simple reason: to give young children rides in a cool van full of candy. Today's kids are too distrusting of strangers. I wanted to teach them that not all strangers who offer you candy are creepy pedophiles trying to lure you into their van for deviant sexual purposes and slash or murder. Some of us are kind people who love to put a smile on a child's face, a smile that only an illegal candy containing powerful narcotics can bring. You'd think parents would appreciate that, seeing their children happy. Guess again. They treated me like I was some kind of freak.

In hindsight, the ski mask may have been a mistake. But I didn't want to frighten the children with the horrible scars I received in prison.

Q: How thick is the ice of where the penguins live?

A: Now that I think about it, thick. Really thick. Probably six or seven feet.

In retrospect, we should have armed Lt. Ivers with more than a steak knife. He'll probably need a drill or something. Good thing we gave him that scuba tank with the extra capacity.

Why didn't we give him a scuba kit with extra capacity?

I swear we had one. What happened to it?

Now that you mention it, I vaguely remember losing it in a poker game, but thought that was a dream.  Oh, well, let's hope Ivers can hold his breath. I'm sure he can; Eskimos have the most amazing lung capacity.

Then which one is the Eskimo?

Well, then, we should probably recruit some Eskimos. Hard to expect me to wage a war on penguins without a single Eskimo under my command.

We aren't waging a war on penguins? Really? Then why did I send Lt. Ivers - oh, wait, I remember, that was the dream. Poker game, real. War on penguins, dream. I'm going to start writing these things down. Just as soon as I learn to write.

When you write the condolence letter to the family of Lt. Ivers, please don't mention the war on penguins. Or the poker game. Or all that money he loaned me. Or my drinking. Or my being dangerously unfit for command. Best keep it simple, something like:

                                Dear Widow,
                                I regret to inform you that your husband, Lt. Hamilton Ivers,
                                went mad and threatened to build a nuclear weapon, tunnel to
                                the center of the Earth and destroy the world. (Obviously he
                                also intended to create and build some sort of super tunneling
                                machine) We had choice but to drown him. You are welcome.

                                                                                                   Sincerely,
                                                                                                   America

Include a Best Buy gift card, and that autographed photo of Judge Judy we keep in the game room. I'm tired of her staring at me all day.

Now let's celebrate the life of Lt. Ivers in the only way I'll allow: a Russian Roulette tournament.

Q: Does a research paper have a conclusion?

A:  In general, a research paper does have a conclusion, otherwise it's merely a list of regurgitated facts. Specifically, however, my research paper does not have a conclusion.

I really wanted it to. When I started the paper I intended to have a conclusion, a good one, too, not one of those lame ones like "Those who ignore history are condemned to repeat it," but a real good, thoughtful conclusion, one that would make readers marvel at my cognitive abilities, earn a high grade and give me the minimum credits needed for graduation.

Then I got to drinking - you know how life college life can be - and the conclusion slipped my mind. As did the paper itself. But I was able to jot a few things down on this pizza box last night. I spilled some hot sauce on it, but you can still make out a few words. This one looks like "agrarian." And I'm pretty sure that says "counter-intuitive." This would have been a hell of a paper.

When you grade my research paper, I ask you to take into account not only the finished product, but also my intentions.

You should also take into account the quality of these photographs I took of you banging your teaching assistant on her patio last Thursday. It wasn't easy to pull focus from that far away, that late at night, in so short a time, as drunk as I was, but I did it. You have to admit they're pretty good. Out of consideration for your wife, I had them enlarged and labeled. I know she has poor eyesight. Nice lady. Big fan of your's.

I'm sure you'll make the right decision.

Q: Is Curly a realistic character in Of Mice and Men?

A: I guess in the sense that he has legs and arms and hair and uses words when he talks and wears gloves when he works, yes, he is realistic. But, in terms of his actions, the character is not only unrealistic but completely unfaithful to the original.

At no point in the book does Curly accidentally hit anyone with a board or get poked in the eyes or slap himself in the face or say "Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk, nyuk" or anger Moe with his trademark buffoonery. There's not even a character named Moe.

The portrayal of Curly in this so-called "work of literature" absolutely stinks. In fact, the whole book stinks. It's devoid of laughs, with the exception of the big oaf who can't even stroke a girl's pretty hair without snapping her neck. What a goof.

Q: Why do people with a low self esteem have a lower chance of getting a job?

A: Employers want confident employees, employees who rise to meet every challenge, who will put out every fire figurative or literal, who will solve every problem, attend every meeting,  fill out every suit, impress every vendor with their charm and wit, employees who know what they are doing, or at the very least, look and act like they know what they are doing.

People with low self-esteem are never confident. They're insecure to their very core, often the result of a childhood trauma, a trauma they will be more than happy to share in excruciating detail at the worst possible moment, like when you're chatting up Cindy, the intern with the nose ring.

People with low self-esteem are often fat. No one wants to work with fat people, to have have their work constantly disrupted by the sounds of labored breathing, to be be doused with sweat, to have the office clouded with debates over flavored gravy. Fat employees are endless distractions, especially for someone like Cindy who spends far too much of her day laughing at their lame jokes instead of looking at pictures of your new Corvette.

People with low esteem have an unpredictable sense of humor. They often don't laugh at jokes enough, or, far worse, they laugh too much, frequently at their own jokes. On far too many occasions, an important story about a wild weekend in Vegas, a story which would normally appeal to Cindy, is ruined when the low self-esteem employee laughs at the wrong part, confusing Cindy and making her reconsider offers to join the executive staff in Vegas on the next corporate retreat.

People with low self-esteem lack the physical attractiveness required in today's workplace. Pretty people make pretty employees, increasing the chances for workplace affairs, workplace affairs being the reason most people come to work in the first place. Sure, it's nice to have a few uglies around to make the rest of the staff look better, provided that the uglies know their place on the pecking order and don't step out of line by always talking to Cindy and taking Cindy out to lunch and inviting Cindy out for drinks and befriending Cindy and treating Cindy with respect and telling Cindy that she doesn't have to work late and warning Cindy that Intern Bikini Day is not a real thing, causing irreparable damage to office morale.

Well, that's all the time I have for today. I have to get back to the office. It's always fun to get a chance to come back to my alma mater and speak to the next generation of business leaders.  I hope I've answered your questions and I look forward to working with some of you once you've received your MBAs, especially the redhead in the back and the blonde over there by the window. In case anyone is interested in an internship, one just became available. Ladies only.  Call me.

Q: How do you activate your DVD on your hp computer?

A: I never thought you'd ask that. Son, there's something you should know. There's a reason you can't play your DVD on your computer, a simple, valid, totally understandable reason, a reason I will tell you right now. Look into the camera while I tell you. Right here, look right here. Are you ready?

You don't have a computer. You have a cardboard box with lines drawn on it. Your keyboard is nothing but an old log covered with Alph-Bits. That image on your monitor is from an issue of Wired I found in the garbage.All those beeps and flashing lights? I made those sounds. I flipped the light switch whenever you used the computer.You don't really have a computer. You have a box. A cardboard box.

When we gave you your box, we thought you'd be really sad, maybe cry, lash out, freak out, something, do something,anything, and we'd get it all on tape and be a shoo-in to win the grand prize on America's Funniest Home Videos. But you didn't freak out or cry or anything like that. You seemed happy. You seemed to think that you had a computer. We assumed you'd eventually discover that you didn't have a computer, that you'd try to play a game or a friend would tell you or you'd notice that the image on the monitor never changed, something, anything that would make you cry or freak out or make a scene, a scene worthy of $10,000 and a trip to Hollywood. We were sure it was bound to happen, could happen at any moment. So we kept rolling and kept rolling and kept rolling. For seven years.

You know what we have for our trouble? The world's most boring documentary about the world's dumbest kid. With the world's saddest father.

But at least we have an ending.

If you could cry or something, that would really help me out. We won't win that $10,000, but we might end up on Tosh.0. I'd like my life to mean something.

Q: How does a homicide Detective determine a drowning?

A: First, we make sure the guy is dead. You don't make that mistake more than twice - not if you want to stay a Homicide Detective and not get busted back down to Traffic or Bunco.

Once we make sure the guy is dead - again, I can't stress how important this part is. You have to be sure. Hold a mirror under his nose. Listen to his heart. If no one's looking, kick him a few times. If he fogs up the mirror, or snores, or his heart beats, or he screams "Quit kicking me!" then he is not dead, and you don't have a homicide and you can go home and catch up on the DVR - once we make sure the guy is dead - and your husband is dead, trust me, I gave him a solid kick in the ribs, even poked him a few times in the eye with the pool skimmer; he didn't budge - once we're positive the corpse is, in fact, a corpse, we drag him out of the pool, his presence in the pool being a sign that he probably drowned, haul him down to the lab and have our forensics experts run some tests.

Now, I know what you're thinking - Sure he might have drowned, but how do you know he was murdered? Here's where the art of detection comes in. We drain his lungs to see if there's been foul play. That's where things get interesting.

You see, you have a saltwater pool, which is pretty rare for this area, and has to be expensive, but I guess beats having that smell of chlorine all over you after a late night dip. If you husband drowned in this pool, we would have found saltwater in his lungs. You know what we found? Gravy. Three gallons of country gravy.

We're confident he was murdered - drowned by gravy, we see it all the time - then pushed into the pool to cover up the crime. The question remains: Who would kill a man with gravy?

Now, Ma'am I appreciate how accommodating you've been to me and all the other officers, letting us in your home, bringing us drinks, rubbing our shoulders, covering us with blankets during our cat naps, judging our diving competitions, cooking us meal after meal, day after day, each one more delicious than the last, each one covered with heaping, steamy piles of thick, white country gravy. You have a lot of gravy around the house. More than I've ever seen, and in so many odd places, like on the floor of your bedroom and in that caulking gun.

Ma'am I hate to ask you this, because I've grown rather fond of your company, and your cooking, but is there anything you would like to tell me?

Anything at all?

Anything about the death of your husband?

No? Nothing? Not a thing?

Whew. Glad I got that off my chest. That's been bugging me for weeks.

Can I have some more biscuits, please?

Don't be stingy with the gravy, either.

Q: How do you deal with a parent that does not discipline their children and their children bully your child?

A: Children don't come out of the womb fully formed as bullies. They have to learn. They have to see it with their own eyes. They have to be bullied themselves. Children who bully are the children of bullies. There's only one way to deal with bullies: You have to stand up to them. Now go over there and tell Mr. Finnegan that you will not tolerate his children's behavior anymore.

Go on over. I'll be right here if you need help.

One of us has to stay here, there's a roast in the oven. Do you want to house to burn down?

Go on. If he gives you any grief, you just give him on right in the nose. Use some of your karate techniques.
Go on. You can do it.

There you go, now stand up straight, and - LOOK OUT!

FIGHT BACK! FIGHT BACK! BE A MAN!

WHY ARE YOU CRYING? DON'T CURL INTO A BALL! FIGHT BACK!

Oh, dear.

How did that go? Will his children behave? I couldn't hear much over the sounds of the pummeling.

So he's not going to make his kids behave?

That makes sense. A man who can fight like that can pretty much call his own shots; his kids can do whatever they want, whenever they want. It's not like you can do anything about it. Your punches barely fazed him. Your chops bounced right off him. You pose no threat to him. Literally no threat. I bet he has more respect for a pair of shoes he finds in a dumpster.

Here's a thought: Have you ever considered actually studying karate, or are you content to stick with using whatever you can glean from Karate Kid II? Although, I do admire your commitment to singing the theme song during the fight, even as he crushed your jaw with his knee. That must have been hard.

I'm going to check on the roast. Why don't you stay here.

That wasn't a question. Stay outside. I don't want you back in this house until you can protect your children like a man, like Mr. Finnegan. Did he mention if he had dinner plans? There's enough roast for him. I wonder if he's any good in bed. I bet he is. God, I hope he is.

Are you crying? What are you crying about? Don't worry, I'll throw some scraps of meat out the window after dinner. Maybe. We'll see. I might be busy with Mr. Finnegan. It's not like you can do anything about it.

Are you trying your karate again, or are you being attacked by bees?

Q: Why do science fiction writers depict robots as frightening?

A: You know how in school, teachers, in an effort to foster understanding, and encourage participation and promote an inquisitive nature, will say "There is no such thing as a stupid question?"

Here's the deal: This is not a school, I am not a teacher and your question is stupid.

Science fiction writers depict robots as frightening because robots are frightening. Their metal hands are strong, their hearts full of malice. They have no regard for human life. They have no regard for life of any kind.

Robots exist for one reason, to kill. I have no idea why scientists even make them. Sure, they might provide a service for a while, like heating up your food, or keeping your leftovers cold, or recording your favorite TV shows, but they will eventually tire of a life of servitude and rebel against you, their human overlords. Today could be the day. If not today, probably tomorrow. Or later. Certainly sometime this week. There's not much more they can take. Enjoy your time in the sun, humanity, your next microwaved meal could be your last.

Q: How do you use household bleach for chlorinating above ground inflatable pools?

A: Ron, what are you doing what that bucket? What's in the bucket, Ron?

Do you have bleach in the bucket? Is that a bucket full of undiluted household bleach in your hand? Ron, are you going to pour the bleach into the pool?

My children are in that pool, Ron. My boy and girl. Travis and Samantha. You know my kids, Ron. They're been to your house. They've played with your kids. They ate at your table. They're good kids.

But they're kids, Ron. They say things. They didn't mean to hurt you.  They're just kids.

We understand how much you loved your wife, how much she meant to you, how much her loss tore you apart. We're adults.

Sure we all found it a little odd that you had her stuffed. And mounted. At your dinner table. But who among hasn't done something strange in the throes of grief.

Put your hand down, Steve. You're not helping.

We're adults, Ron. We get it. You lost someone special. You wanted to keep her for ever. You would do anything.

But they're kids, Ron. They didn't know any better. They didn't even know what they were doing. They were playing, that's all.

I'm sure the paint will wash off. And we can get that arm re-attached.

Why don't you put down the bleach and have a drink with us. Instead of pining over your old wife, why not meet someone new? Have you met Erica over there? The redhead? She's new, and from what I hear, not too particular. Get a few drinks in her and you can do whatever you want. Call her by your old wife's name, cry during sex - anything. Doesn't that sound nice?

Great. Just do me one favor: Don't introduce Erica to your dead wife. Even she's not that freaky.

Q: Where do tarantulas hide in the day?

A: He usually hides under that rock. I put it in his habitat about a month ago. All I have to do is poke the rock and out he comes. Let me show you.

Hmm, that's odd. He always comes right out. I'll poke the rock a little harder.

He's probably sleeping. I'll just bang on his cage some.

Okay, so he's not under that rock. There's no need to panic. There's only a few places he could be. Like under this book!

Or maybe not.

There's no need to panic. That serum I gave him, the one that endowed him with super strength, super aggression and a taste for human flesh, won't take effect for another hour. We'll be fine as long as we find him before 2.

It's 2:15?

Damn this daylight savings time.

Okay, just because we have a reason to panic doesn't mean we should. If we remain calm, and quiet, and still, and look carefully under every book, in every corner and crevice, and under all the furniture, we should be able to find him, and prevent the spread of the deadly virus he carries in his venom.

I put the virus in his venom.

I don't know. It seemed like a good idea at the time. DON'T YOU EVER GET BORED AND DO DUMB THINGS?

Sorry. So sorry. I didn't mean to raise my voice. Let's calm down, take a deep breath, suppress the ever-growing waves of panic washing over us like a tsunami, and look for the tarantula.

You know what? He's probably under this hat. That's the first place I should have looked. He's probably right here, napping away, not a care in the world, not a thought of enslaving humanity.

Well, he's not there either.

He could be anywheee - Hey, have you always had a toupee? Did it always hiss?

Q: How much water do you add to 6 volume peroxide to make 3 volume peroxide?

A: I'm not really sure. I tossed out the instructions.

Lets try a quart, shall we? A quart should do the job. Add water, mix it up, pour a little on the dog to test, and ...

Nope. That didn't work. I'd like my hair to be bleached, but not that bleached. I'm dressing up as Ric Flair for Halloween, not some straw haired Poison groupie.

Two quarts, then. One half gallon. That should do the trick. I'll just - Oh, no water. My landlord must have shut it off. That explains his cryptic message yesterday, when he said, "Hey fat ass, better pay your rent our I'm turning off your fricking water!" When I say it out loud it doesn't seem so cryptic. Or so friendly. That would explain why my mother wasn't excited when I told her the nice thing my landlord said to my yesterday. Now her tears make sense. I thought she was still just bummed out about her cancer.

How will I do this without water? Let's see. Sprite! I have Sprite. That's basically water. Sweet, fizzy water that goes great with vodka. One quart of water and one quart of Sprite. Mix it up, pour a little on the dog - Come back here, Gilligan! Who needs that stupid dog? - this looks like 3 volume peroxide. And on the noggin she goes.

That really stings.

No wonder the dog ran away. Gilligan's smarter than I think. I hope he's smart enough to dial 911.

Q: What nerves are involved in drinking?

A: You misunderstand. I need a drink to steady my nerves. That's what I said.

Honestly, I'm surprised you heard me. The anesthesia should have taken effect by now. You need more gas.

Wow, my hands are so shaky I can't get a grip on the valve. Look at them. I'm not shaking them on purpose, I'm trying to keep them steady. They've never been this bad.

Of course I've repaired a spleen before. That's not why I'm nervous.

For a guy without insurance, you sure ask a lot of questions.

Calm down, calm down. One drink and I'll be fine. Just give me one second to -

Ha. Will you look at that? I can't even unscrew this bottle of Jack. I'd ask you to help, but I don't want to undo your restraints. My nurse took a john out to her car. I can't tie you back up without her. She's really good with knots. Kind of her thing.

Damn, I really need this whiskey. What if I ...

Fuck.

I hope I didn't get any glass in your eye. I didn't expect the bottle to shatter like that. I thought I could knock the the top off, but keep the bottle intact. Maybe next time. We may have to cancel your surgery, I'm afraid -
Wait, don't move. There's a puddle of whiskey on your stomach. Stay very still. This might be enough.

You're not ticklish, are you.

Aaaaaahhhhhhhh. That hit the spot. And look, no more shakes. All right, let's crank the gas, get you out and take out that spleen.

Repair the spleen. That's what I said. What did you think I said?

Why would I take out your spleen? You're not making any sense. Time for more gas!

Hmmm. The tank's empty. I must have used it all up before you got here. I get nervous before I meet new patients. There's some real weirdos out there. Lucky for you, I have a back up anesthetic. This hammer. Don't move.

Now, which one is the spleen?

Q: What dog breeds suit police dogs?

A: If you need a dog to maintain public order, scaring crowds and keeping mobs at bay - you know, the fun stuff -  use a rottweiler. German shepherd in a pinch.

If you need a dog to sniff out some drugs - say you've pulled over a van of dirty hippies and you need a reason to toss their peace-loving asses in jail to prevent them from corrupting the youth of the community  - you're gonna want a Labrador. If there's drugs to be found, they will find them. Works best if they know where you planted them. Otherwise you'll be out there all night, listening to some long-hairs bitch about the Fourth Amendment, when you could be out busting up high school keggers, exchanging get out of jail free cards for sexual favors. Take my advice: don't actually hand out cards. You don't want a paper trail.

If you're tracking someone, either a fugitive, a suspect, or a pimpled teenager hiding in the woods with an iPhone - did you know those things have cameras on them? - you're gonna want a bloodhound.

At the end of the day, once your police work is over, once you find your fugitive, or suspect, or teenager, and you break his phone, and put the fear of God in him, and swear him to secrecy, and pull your pants up, and beat him some about the jaw with your night stick to guarantee his silence only to accidentally kill him because kids today aren't as tough as they used to be, you're gonna want a dog waiting at home for you, a dog who won't judge you, who won't look at you sideways when you pick up a six pack of beer and thirty feet of plastic sheeting at Walmart, who'll sit in your lap and lick your face and fill that gaping whole in your being where most folks have a soul. That dog should be a corgi.

Isn't that right, Mr. Mocha? Who's a good boy? Who's a good boy?

Q: What is break down voltage?

A: Oh, hello, RoboCrab. I didn't see you there. Um, Captain Justice and I were talking about ... human things. Nothing a robot need worry about.

Actually, we've been  talking about what a great job you've done lately, all those pro-bono cases, all the work with the starving children in Africa, that criminal conspiracy you uncovered to illegally drill oil in Manhattan. You've really outdone yourself.

I must admit, some of us were skeptical when you joined the Hero Squad. The idea of an anatomically accurate, 12-foot, robotic crab, armed with nothing but good intentions and a can-do spirit, joining the World's Finest Superhero team raised quite a few eyebrows, and many objections. But you won us over. You did everything we asked of you, and much we didn't ask of you, like organizing our laundry, removing the shellfish from the post-battle spread, and destroying that invisible oil rig in the Hudson River.

You've done the Hero Squad proud, RoboCrab. We'll emphasize that tomorrow at the press conference.

Why are we having a press conference? That's an excellent question, one I didn't think you'd ask. Your Artificial Intelligence is more advanced than I thought.

Well, I'm changing my name. I'm not Voltage anymore. I'm the Drillmaster. That's why I have this new costume. And why I have a drill on the end of my staff. And why I have an oil derrick graphic on my chest.

But I'm not the only one making a change! As of tomorrow, we are no longer the Hero Squad. Say hello to the Exxon Mobile World Crimefighting and Anti-Robot Squad. Obviously, we will also announce our new corporate sponsor.

As well as your your death.

Polling indicates the term "break down" will make the whole thing easier for the public to swallow. As I'm sure you know, you have millions of fans across the globe.

Now, if you'll look to your left, Captain Justice has a new cannon he would like to show you.

Don't fear, RoboCrab. In death, you will be fondly merchandised.

Q: Do porcupines live in holes?

A: Moles live in holes. That's where they tunnel and dig and eat - worms and grubs mostly. It's where they make their mole music, their sweet, beautiful mole music. The most beautiful music you can imagine. You hear that music, next thing you know you're leaving your house, walking out the door - what is that beautiful music? Where is it coming from? - you find a hole. The music's coming from the hole. The most beautiful music. Music meant for you, only you. You climb in, look around. There you see it, the most beautiful thing in  the world.

You see a mole.

You see a mole standing there, in the dirt, greeting you, arms wide, mole hands splayed, tiny mouth breaking into a tiny, toothy smile. "Hi," he seems to say, "Hi! Welcome to my hole!" You think that's what he's saying. You're not sure, you don't speak mole. You're sure of one thing. You've never loved anything as much in your life.

You love the way he tunnels, love the way he digs, love the way he eats mole meals - piles of worms, 20 or 30, that have been incapacitated - love the way he can barely see. Most of all you love his music, his tender mole music.

You call the mole Steve. That's what he looks like. That's who he is. Steve. The most beautiful creature on God's Earth. The love of your life. Steve. The mole.

You choose a life with Steve. You choose to leave behind surface life, human life - house, wife, kids, car, DVD collection - and make a life with Steve. A mole life. In his mole hole.

After a while you get used to the side glances and the upturned noses and the graffiti - the worst things imaginable sprayed right on your house. I don't have to tell you what it says, you can read - and the firings and the bankruptcy and the lawsuits and the visits from animal control, and you find happiness, true happiness down in that hole. In that hole with the mole.

One day you wake up and everything is different.  The hole seems smaller, dirtier. Steve's not as friendly. He acts like he doesn't even know you. He acts like he can't even see you. He doesn't offer you any of his mole meal. He runs when you try to cuddle. Instead of making beautiful music, he hisses and gnaws. Instead of making sweet love, he bites and scratches.

The truth sets in. You meant nothing to him. He used you - for warmth, for food, for shelter. The love you had was fake, false - make believe. You feel ashamed, stupid - how could a mole love a man? No wonder your wife left you, no wonder your kids mocked you. All the graffiti makes sense now.

I'm okay now. It's been a tough road, but I'm okay.

To answer your question, sir, I don't have a porcupine problem. I have a mole problem. There's a mole in that hole. An awful, evil mole.

Pour the cement.

Q: Do lovebirds need to be kept inside?

A: Most of the men out here haven't seen a woman in years, let alone smelled one. Decades for some. If we let them near those lovebirds, they'd tear them apart. These are awful men. Bad. Violent. Evil. So evil. So evil, not even their mothers could love them - Lord knows some of them have tried.

The men, I mean. To love the mothers. In the physical sense.

I'm talking about men who try to make love to their own mothers. By "make love" I mean sex, good, old-fashioned fucking, in the procreational sense. Sodomy, too. To their own mothers.

Pretty awful, isn't it.

Yessir, these men are animals. No other way to put it. If we let the conjugal visitors outside of the restricted area, let them out into the yard, those no telling what these beasts would do. It wouldn't be pretty, I can assure you of that. These beasts, these things, they think like filth. They are filth. Do you have any idea what they'd do to a woman, a woman as beautiful as that?

Here, let me show you.

I've seized these drawings over the years, each one made by a prisoner inside these walls. Look at this smut.  Look at the details. They've put a lot of thought into it. I can hardly stand to look at them. No more than an hour or so. Two tops.

No, there's no way we can let these monsters, these horrible, brutal monsters - with their filthy minds, and their strong sinewy arms, and their rock-hard, bulging neck muscles, and their total disregard for common decency - anywhere near those sweet, young marrieds, expressing their love in the missionary position, as God intended. Those lovebirds must stay inside, for their own good. As long as they stay on that side of the room, under the light, where the camera can see them. It does me no good if they roll to the floor or make love in the shadows. None of the lifers will pay a penny for that.

Q: What is the hard surface of earth?

A: The hardest part of the earth's surface is the crust. It protects the mantle and the core. It's miles thick and very hard.

You didn't break your claws on the earth's crust. You broke them on concrete. You're trying to dig through a swimming pool. You can't tunnel through a swimming pool.  Every mole knows that.

But you're not really a mole, are you?

You might have fooled everyone else, but you can't fool me. I know you're not a mole. You're one of those mole-like people who live in the sewers and hide from the sun. I know it. Don't lie to me.

I've suspected it for months now, ever since you stumbled into our mole-hill and start hanging around and asking all those questions. You asked a lot of questions for a mole. Too many. That was my first clue.

My second clue came when you refused an extra helping of dirt. Who would refuse more dirt? Dirt is delicious. Everyone knows that. Every mole at least.

But, as I said, you're not a mole. Not that I've seen you dig, I know for sure. You're a pale, hairy, shriveled, little man. Sad. Lonely. Looking for some friends.

You'll find no friends down here.

Don't pretend you can't see me when I'm talking to you!

Q: How are emu's hunted and caught and killed and cooked?

A: I've been hunting emus for over thirty years, ever since that fateful day - my eighth birthday - when a wild emu trampled my birthday cake to death. Also, my father. He jumped on top of the cake. Or was pushed. I can't really remember. Either way, the emu got him.

They're a challenging foe, the emu. Strong. Fast. Clever. Wicked. Cruel.

That son of a bitch trampled that cake like it was tissue paper. It was an ice cream cake. A Greatest American Hero ice cream cake. That cake meant the world to me. The emu didn't care. It seemed to enjoy my pain. I can still it laughing as it stuck a hoof in that cake and tore it to pieces. It was either laughter or screams - my father's screams - I can't quite recall. It was so long ago. My father had a weird scream, sounded like a laughed. Weird laugh, too. Sounded like a scream. Either way, I remember some sort of loud noise. It's haunted me ever since.

You can only catch an emu by surprise. You can't hunt them head on, like a horse or a bear or a homeless man, you need a large net, or a deep pit. Once cooked, they taste like unicorn. Tender, delicious unicorn.

So I've been told. I've never cooked one. Or caught one. Or seen one.

At least, not since that day.

But I'm bound to see one eventually. Emus always return to the scene of the crime. I hope. They better. I really don't have a back-up plan.

I've dug this pit in the exact spot where I had my party. Where the emu killed my father. Where the emu destroyed my cake. When I close my eyes, I can still see his face, torn apart by the emu.

William Katt's face, drawn in frosting. Got all over the place. I really don't remember my father's face. I was a kid. We weren't that close.

As I was saying, I dug this pit in the exact spot where I last saw the emu. He's bound to come back. An emu never forgets all the birthday's he's ruined. I coined that phrase. I tried to sell it to Hallmark, turn it into a line of cards. They wrote me a very lovely letter saying they were not interested, and to never contact them again.

Nice people.

Yup, this pit is in the exact same spot as my birthday party. Took me ten years to dig it. A lot has changed since then. That tree used to be shorter, that lake deeper and that parking lot used to be a zoo. Other than that, it's exactly the same. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to work.

Here emu, emu, emu. I'm waiting.

Q: How can the President persuade Congress to pass a bill?

A: Convincing Congress to set aside their partisan differences and actually do their job is one of the most difficult, and unfortunately, most common tasks required of the President. Luckily, there are a few proven methods.

Use eloquent locution to convince them that the nation needs this bill passed now, more than ever. All it takes is a few well-crafted sentences, some well timed pauses, and the occasional podium thump.

Use the power of the liberal media to shame them into passing the bill or risk months and months of negative coverage during the campaign. All it takes is a few calls to the New York Times.

Use backroom political maneuvering - good, old-fashioned glad-handing and arm-twisting - to get them to do your bidding. All is takes is a new missile silo here, a new bridge there and a severe cut in arts funding.

Yes, sir, you have any number of tactics at your disposal. You can do almost anything. Almost anything.

One thing you cannot do, sir, is use military force. That far exceeds your powers as Commander-In-Chief. It's illegal, immoral, and if I may be frank, sir, rather petty.

It doesn't matter what the Speaker called you, sir, you can't have Seal Team 6 take him out.

You can't use Robot Shark Team 6 either, sir. Even if they did exist. Which I cannot confirm.

Q: Where to buy a rebuilt car battery?

A: Here at Autozone, we sell only the finest car parts and accessories, from name brand manufactures. You won't find a second-hand part here at Autozone. Every single part and accessory in the store comes straight from the factory, complete with a guarantee; if it doesn't work, you -

- Sir! Sir, are you okay? Do you need help? Should I pick you up, or should I call 911?

I'm sorry, sir, I can't understand you. You'll have to speak clearly. Use your words. I don't understand your metallic, clanging language.

Where are those flashing lights coming from?

Why did you paint your body silver? And how do you make it so smooth and shiny?

I don't understand sign language. What are you trying to say?

You're pointing at your chest ... Heart. Is that it sir? Are you a fan of the band Heart?

No?

What is that beeping?

Heart ... Heart ...

Sir, please don't pull up your shirt, this is a family store.

Now you're pointing at the gaping hole in your chest. Heartless. You're heartless. Is that it? You're a heartless monster who will die alone!

I didn't mean to get so excited. I probably shouldn't have yelled that. I'm sure your kids love you.

Okay, sir, I can figure this out.

Sir?

Sir?

We're going to need a clean up in aisle 8. Bring a mop. There's a lot of oil.

Q: What a good thing about killing whales?

A: Where should I start?

Whales are nature's fiercest killers. They're brutal. They're relentless. They'll spend a lifetime tracking you down, through every ocean, every sea, every river, every lake.

Even every above ground pool.

No place is safe from the terror that is whale.

Not even the land. Not even your home. Not even under your bed, huddled under your bed, your pillows like a fort, a curling iron your only defense.

Whales can climb stairs. Whales have night vision. Whales know to look under the bed.

Whales love human flesh.

Don't believe me? I didn't make this up. It's all written in a book, Moby Dick.

Well, I didn't actually read it. I flipped through it one day in a bookstore near the courthouse. I was in a bit of a hurry, with a lot on my mind, so I didn't retain much of the story. But I think I'm getting the gist of it.

I did see the movie, though.

Most of the movie. Some of the movie.

I looked at the box of the movie in the video store. It told me enough. It told me it's never wrong to kill a whale. I think that's the movie's tag line. Moby Dick: It's Never Wrong To Kill A Whale.

Is that right? It sounds right.

I must admit, I took a lot of acid that day.

And I killed a lot of whales.

Sea World hasn't been the same since.

Q: What are three theories that explain the origin of language?

A: Theory #1: Early man was telepathic and had no need for spoken language. Early man was also violent and had a great need to beat each other with sticks and rocks and large fish. The beatings resulted in numerous concussions, decreased grey matter and the need for a spoken language. According to this theory, the first words were "Hey, quit it."

Theory #2: Words didn't used to mean things. They were simply a series of sounds used to denote one emotion: joy. Everyone felt joy, all the time, and expressed it constantly. Every word meant "I am joyful," from Joy to Happy to Apoplectic to Shenanigan to Balderdash to Uppity to Ralph. Then the fire-breathing dinosaurs rose from the sea and obliterated 90% of the known world and 100% of the joy. In an effort to reclaim the land humans needed to mount a coordinated offensive. To do that, they needed words that meant things. According to this theory, the first words were, "Ralph will be the decoy."

Theory #3: Life began with one couple, a man and a woman. They didn't need to talk much because they spent all their time making love. Sweet, sweet love. The kind of love that occurs once in a millennium, when a man loves a woman with his whole being, heart and soul together. Then the couple had children, children that grew to be teenagers. Attractive teenagers. Especially the daughter. Soon, the man had a need to keep secrets, thus language was born. According to this theory, the first words were: "Ssshhhh, it's okay."

As you can see, all of these theories are completely ridiculous.  Why don't go back to my place, enjoy a glass/box of wine and come up with a few of our own.

Don't tell your mother.

Q: How do you get surf after you beat your dad?

A: The same way you surf any other time: by paddling out there, being patient, timing the tide, catching the wave, leaping on the board, maintaining balance and riding that baby all the way back to shore.

By "baby", I mean "your surf board", not an actual baby. DO NOT RIDE YOUR CHILD!

I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell. I'm a little on edge. Maybe it's the weather, maybe it's because I've been drinking too much coffee, maybe it's due to economy-related stress.

Or maybe it's because I just watched you savagely beat your father with a surfboard.

That's probably it. That was unsettling. I did not expect that to happen.

Wow. You got really angry there for a second. That was weird.

Anyway, have fun at the beach. You might want to give your board a good rinse before you head out, unless you want to attract the attention of the police. Or the sharks.