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.