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.