Q: What happens to a candle when a beaker is placed over it?

A: When the beaker is full of water, as it is in this case, the candle goes out. When the candle goes out we lose our source of light. When we lose our source of light we can't find our way through the catacombs beneath your grandmother's house. When we can't find our way through the catacombs beneath your grandmother's house, we can't warn the rest of the crew that your grandmother has been breeding C.H.U.D.s* for twenty-seven years.

When we can't warn the rest of the crew about your grandmother breeding C.H.U.D.s, they won't be ready to fight the C.H.U.D.s. When our crew isn't ready to fight the C.H.U.D.s, they're more likely to be eaten by the C.H.U.D.s. When our crew is more likely to be eaten by the C.H.U.D.s, they will be eaten by the C.H.U.D.s. When our crew is eaten by the C.H.U.D.s, our documentary about your grandmother's collection of Mondale-Ferraro memorabilia will become a found-footage horror film about a documentary film crew eaten by C.H.U.D.s.

When our documentary about your grandmother's collection of Mondale-Ferraro memorabilia becomes a found-footage horror film about a documentary film crew eaten by C.H.U.D.s, our next of kin will be sued for copyright infringement.

Please don't place the beaker over the candle. My next of kin can't afford a lawsuit. I need the light to see. And the CHUDs will need something cool and refreshing to wash down your spleen.




*Cannibalistic Humanoid Underground Dweller

Q: Is the red velvet cake taste sour?

A: You're still having some problems with the language. I assume you mean "Does the red velvet cake taste sour?"

Yes. Yes it does. I'm no chef, or food critic, or culinary expert of any kind, but I can guess why the red velvet cake tastes sour. Because, instead of two eggs, you used two scoops of sour cream. It was a hilarious mix-up. You, all panicked and hysterical, unable to find the eggs and substituting sour cream in the hope that no one would notice; me, all tense and agitated, my future in-laws waiting for their favorite dessert.

But that's not the only reason the cake "taste sour." You also used sour cream instead of butter. And you used sour cream instead of buttermilk. And you used sour cream instead of flour. Each subsequent mix-up less hilarious than the last. By the end, your red velvet cake was nothing but a pile of sour cream doused with red food coloring. You fooled no one.

Perhaps you noticed that. Perhaps you noticed when my future mother-in-law shouted, "Dear God, what is that thing?' and my future father-in-law vomited on the table at the first whiff and my fiance began to cry and then pushed me away when I tried to console her and then slapped me when I tried to defend your behavior and then screamed at me for "harboring an idiot man-child who uses his foreign birth as an excuse to torment those he claims to love." Her words not mine. Perhaps you noticed the departure of my fiance and her parents. Perhaps you noticed when she threw her engagement ring at my face. Or perhaps you noticed nothing. Perhaps you were too busy making a suit of armor out of a phone book and doing the Dance of Joy.

Don't "Cousin Larry" me. I have a name. My name is Larry. I'm not even sure we're cousins.  Call me fucking Larry.

No. No. Just Larry.

Just Larry.

Larry. Only say the word Larry.

Good. Thank you.

It is not time for the Dance of Joy.

Seriously. No.

I'll have you deported.

I'm not being ridiculous. You're the one who is being ridiculous.

Q: What is the proper landing angle of an aircraft?

A: Anything below forty-five degrees will get you near the ground. From there a series of small adjustments gets you to right around three degress, a nice angle for your landing. Clean approach. Safe. Comfortable. Conservative. Boring.

Seems to me people have forgotten the awesome majesty of air travel. When I'm in the cockpit I make it a point to remind them.

I make my initial approach at one-hundred-thirty-eight degrees, an angle your average passenger finds terrifying. Most people expect to be looking down, at the ground, at the end of their flight, not up, at the vast expanse of the sky. It rattles them. They question everything. I hold there, for a moment,  so they may contemplate their lives, their choices, the roads not taken, the rings not seized, the lovers they let walk away. When I say "moment," I'm really talking ten, fifteen minutes. Folks make a lot of choices. I want to give them the chance to question all of them. In the middle of this painful reconsideration of their lives, I make a slight adjustment. Ninety degrees, straight down. You would not believe the screams.

I don't think I have to tell you that I'm something of a movie buff. Plane movies in particular: Airport, Airport 1975, Airport '77, The Concorde ... Airport '79, Air Force One, Turbulence.  These films offer a portal to another word, a world behind our own, a world where the Storm Gods wage ragged battle, with metal and lighting and flesh and water and wind and air, against all that is weak and soft and human.

Know this: I have crossed through the portal. I have seen the battles. When The Storm Gods fight the world shakes, the seas boil, the mountains crack; the whipping winds bring razor-sharp raindrops, and the cobblestones clog with blood and brain matter. And there are screams. Screams of the newly wounded, screaming for revenge. Screams of the long wounded, screaming for mercy, Screams of the wicked, screaming for joy. Ten thousand Storm Gods snapping, slashing, cracking, choking, decapitating. Ten thousand Storm Gods screaming, screaming in one voice, screaming  for victory.

It was the most horrible thing I ever heard. You can't even imagine. But it is a Christmas carol compared to the screams in the main cabin when I jack-knife my baby down to ninety degrees. A thousand different voices crying out at once, like something pure has been taken from this world. There is shrieking, sobbing, shouting, tribal chanting, maniacal laughter, soul-clearing bursts of prayer. When I close my eyes I can still hear her, the woman in 27B, clawing at her seat back, screaming "Why? Why? Why? Why is it taking so long? Why won't they let us die?."

Their behavior doesn't shock me. This is who they are. This is who they are when they have nothing left to shield them. I'm shocked they don't act like this all the time. One unexpected descent leads to this? This is all it takes? There exists in the world a madness ready to be unleashed at the slightest provocation. No wonder there's so much violence today. Everyone's on edge. We're traveling on a round, organic bullet that weighs so much that I don't even know how to say how much it weighs; it's a 6 with the 10th power and then 24 more of those exponential guys. It's very heavy. And it's traveling at 67,000 miles an hour. And shit, terrible shit, can happen at any time. Why is anyone ever calm?

Now, I'm not a mad man. I'm not going to kill anyone. I just make them think they're going to die. Once they believe, I mean really believe, I pull out of the plummet and even my baby out at a flat one-eighty. My passengers have earned their reprieve. They've glimpsed the Storm Gods. They know what exists on the other side. They're calmer now, stronger. Now that they've been jostled and soiled, had their faith tested and their appreciation for the miracle of flight restored, I bring them in  for the smoothest landing they will ever have. 99 times out a 100. 98 times. I forgot about Cleveland. But you'll hear more about that at the deposition.

This is the deposition?

How am I doing?

Q: How many cells in a giant sequoia?

A: Nine today. More or less the same tomorrow. You know how it goes here at The Giant Sequoia Experimental Penitentiary for the Criminally Obsessive Compulsive. Things tend to stay pretty much the same. Once you've carved out your cell from the trunk of that giant sequoia, and settled inm and defended your routine, each day looks, thankfully, like any other.

I may be biased here, but they have dramatically undersold the lifestyle benefits of prison for the modern obsessive compulsive. I have a little space that's all my own. I get to dress the same way every day. I never have to check to see if I locked the front door. If I had a place like this growing up, I'd probably never allowed my obsessive compulsions to flourish in a such a criminal manner.

Yes, life at Giant Sequoia Experimental Penitentiary for the Criminally Obsessive Compulsive is almost exactly how you'd like it. Almost.

There is still the matter of the cells, the nine cells, the nine cells. Nine. Not ten. No, not the-far-more-perfect-in-every-way number ten, no god forbid we had even sides for basketball. Nine. Not eight, not the far-less-perfect-than-ten-but-far-more-perfect-than-nine eight, no why should we have the right about of chairs at he lunch table. Nine. It has to be nine.

Some nights I think about taking my old hatchet and carving out another cell, a tenth cell. But then I remember that a piece of toilet paper touched the blade of that hatchet and I had to set it, and the cell of the guy in the cell next to me, and the guy in the cell next to me, on fire.

Then I remember when there was ten cells.

Q: Are mice long?

A: No. Nor do they have fangs, nor scales, nor a forked tongue. Mice do not slither. Mice do not shed their skin. Mice do not lay eggs. Most importantly, mice are not poisonous.

Snakes, however, are all of those things. You gave your brother a snake. That's why he was so surprised. That's why he screaming so much. That's why he went into all those convulsions.

Before you ask, no, your brother is not just sleeping.

Q: What obstacles did Kevin face?

A: Fear, shame, doubt, the potential ridicule of his peers, his family's legacy of failure, his own abysmal self-esteem. Those are the obstacles he faced. Metaphorically.

Literally, he faced hurdles. Ten of them, one every eleven meters. Turns out those were the most significant obstacles. And the most dangerous.

I really should have bought him the good prosthetics.

Q: How do you behave appropriately?

A: Every social situation, from a back-alley craps game to a State Dinner, has its own set of rules and codes. Navigating these rules, many of which are unwritten, many of which are contradictory, can be a challenge, even for the most talented social chameleon. But now, thanks to O.B.S.E.S.S.I.O.N., my simple social acceptance program, anyone, from any social class, can fit in anywhere.

When you find yourself in a new situation, unsure of how to act or what to say, take a deep breath, count to fourteen, and remember to:

O: Observe the situation.
B: Bomb a nearby car, van, rickshaw or building.
S: Secure cover from the blast.
E. Evaluate the survivors.
S: Secure a private conversation with a recent widow or adult orphan.
S: Seduce the recent widow or adult orphan.
I: Implicate your new lover in the bombing.
O: Offer to disappear for a substantial fee.
N: Never speak to anyone in this social group again.

By following the steps of the O.B.S.E.S.S.I.O.N. program, you'll always fit in, and always make out, no matter what new identity you've assumed.

Q: What are the three most common elements of life?

A: Obviously there are many elements that make up a life. But there are three clear elements that everyone, from the shuffling homeless man on the street to the pretty girl in Apartment 3C who smiled at you one time when you dropped your groceries, shares.

1) Fear - As my mother used to say, "If you are not afraid, you are not paying attention." She was an anxious woman. Government shutdown, the constant yet somehow forgotten threat of nuclear annihilation, bad drivers, young people standing on the street who laugh when you pass by, global warming, under-cooked cheeseburgers, feral cats, unemployed neighbors, satellites falling from the sky - there is something to fear wherever you look. Fear is what makes us strong. Fear is what keeps us alive. Fear is what motivates us to work harder, work longer, work better, sacrifice personal relationships, betray our friends, to make more money to buy the nice house with the big yard in the gated community with the security guards so that you'll have nothing to fear but eventual disease and inevitable death.

2) A Constant and Almost Painful State of Sexual Arousal - This one requires no explanation.

3) Shame - As my father used to say, "If you're not ashamed, you probably haven't left the house today." He was something of a shut-in. To be alive is to make choices. To make choices is to make mistakes. With each mistake comes regret, and, soon, shame, a kind of shame that will literally bring you to your knees and literally make you cry out in pain and literally make children throw onion rings at you and literally leave the manager of Dave and Buster's no choice but to call the police if you don't pull yourself together and go back to your own booth. Yes, everyone may be pointing and whispering or pretending to whisper but really speaking at a normal conversation volume to make their friends laugh, and many children will still be throwing onion rings, and you'll want to crawl into a cold, dark hole and never see another living person again, but that's what shame feels like. And shame means you're alive. Until the disease sets in.

Q: What are some good books to read before taking the acceleration test?

A: When it comes to test preparation, there's only one book you'll need:

The Bible.

It's thick enough to hold several cheat sheets. 

Q: Are there any natural disasters in Oregon?

A: There's your hairdo. HEY-O!

Sorry, I couldn't resist. You look like Yahoo Serious fucked a light socket. Have you slept or showered or been around a mirror or a person in days?

Yahoo Serious. He's an Australian comedian from the 80's. Don't you have Google?

Seriously, though, Oregon does have natural disasters, just like everywhere else. In fact we had an earthquake a few days ago. A minor one, nothing significant. The only way a place would have been damaged is if it was directly on top of the epicenter of the quake. Other than that, you wouldn't have even felt it.  Coincidentally, the epicenter was close to here. If you stand on this chair and look over that tree you can the small chasm it created.

It's right over there, right ... Well, right where your house used to be. I guess that explains your haircut. And why you can't use Google.

Q: What are small rocky planets close to the sun called?

A: Those are not small rocky planets. They are small rocks. They are not orbiting any sun. They are flying at and bouncing off my son Carl.

Please stop throwing rocks at Carl.

I don't see how any of this is science.

The lab coats prove nothing.

Q: Does Coke Zero contain wheat?

A: Let me check my notes. Coke Zero contains carbonated water, aspartame, caramel color, phosphoric acid, potassium benzoate to protect taste, natural flavors, citric acid and caffeine.

I don't see wheat anywhere. Are you sure you're allergic to gluten and nothing else? There's no other reason your face and neck are swelling?

Are you sure?

Wait, I see what's going on. There's a second page of notes.

Ah, yes, in addition to the previously mentioned ingredients, Coke Zero also contains chlorine, bayou water, rice, wheat - there you go - assorted meat fats, unnatural flavors, and finely ground pieces of broken glass to promote quick inclusion in the blood stream.

At this time I would like to draw your attention to the Coke Zero sign on my food truck. You will notice that says Coke Zero with the number '0' and not Coke Zero with the word 'Zero' spelled out. I even drew a line through the zero and everything, so you wouldn't think I was selling something called Coke O.

I would also like to draw your attention to the sign beneath it that says 'All food and beverages consumed at your own risk.' You will notice the word 'beverages' is underlined for emphasis.

You will also notice the sign beneath it that says "No Refunds."

Q: Do guinea pigs sleep in cages or aquariums?

A: When guinea pigs sleep, they sleep in cages or aquariums or laundry baskets or between couch cushions or baseball gloves or piles of unread literary journals.

That's when they sleep. When they're not sleeping they can be found in shoes and Christmas trees and showers and washing machines and serving bowls and at the gun range  and inside cooked turkeys about to be sliced for Thanksgiving and in car engines that won't start and standing outside your bedroom door at 3AM and building a couch fort in your hallway while the fire rages.

They sleep about 3 hours a day. I spend the other 21 hours praying that they fall asleep. Seldom are my prayers answered. Nor my letters begging for help from the police. It seems the pigs have learned to read.

No wonder that lab offered them to me so cheap. And why the scientists laughed when I drove away. And why that one scientist, a lady, tracked me down a mile from the lab, looked into my eyes and said, "Your life is in danger." I thought she was criticizing my driving. You know how dramatic lady scientists can be.                  

Q: What are 3 power point tips?

A: There are many power point tricks and tips that could improve your presentation, help you close your sale, and set a course for a safe financial future. But three you requested, so three you shall get.

Number One: Power Point presentations should be short, effective and to the point. Anyone should be able to understand the message of each slide. They shouldn't have to find a clue, or solve a riddle, or decipher a complex code. Word problems are best avoided. Several members of the board have had strokes.

Number Two: Photoshopped images of old movie posters have no place in a power point presentation. Granted, Driving Miss Daisy might have been a more exciting movie if Miss Daisy had been driven by The Rock, and Fletch Lives might have been more compelling if Fletch had been played by The Rock, and Precious might have been the biggest box office movie of the decade if Gabourey Sidibe had been replaced by The Rock, but none of these things happened. Your business plan has nothing to do with movies. The "what if" game is a killer, but here's one "what if " you should entertain. What if I replaced the slides with movie posters with three minutes of complete silence? Would I regret it? Would I have as many ash trays thrown at me?

Number Three: Avoid racial epithets. This is a general rule for life, not just for power point. If you're going to use a racial epithet, at least know your audience. I understand Korean slurs play well to certain Japanese crowds, for example. Certainly don't list all the racial epithets you know, alphabetized  with illustrated examples. You're bound to offend everyone. Even the racists will be appalled by your lack of focus.

I hope that helped. Please incorporate those tips, and any others anyone tells you ever, into your presentation. I know you only asked for three, but here's a fourth one. Ask for power point tips before your presentation, not during.

Okay, let's see the rest of it.

Q: What are the best undercover names?

A: Choosing an undercover name is an important part of an agent's career. The right name can lead to fame and fortune, secretly of course, while the wrong one can get you exposed, or worse, featured in an unflattering portrayal in Undercover Attitudes, the Magazine for the Undercover Community.

When I began my career as an agent, we did not choose our names; they were assigned to us. Do you think I'd choose to go by Count Reginald Von Vorhees? Do you think I stayed up all night, thinking it over, scribbling names in a notebook, saying them softly to myself, trying them out like ball gowns until I had the perfect one, the one that fit my face and mannerisms and finally settled on Reginald Van Vorhees? No. It was assigned. I had no choice in the matter. That's how it was in those days. Then the unions got involved - and the self esteem movement - and now everyone is a special little prince who must be handled with delicacy. Gone were the days of Count Reginald Von Vorhees or Lady Allison Montgomery-Max or Fats Happenstance. No everyone wants to be a gangster, everyone wants to be Dutch Manners or Tommy Fists. Terrible. Terrible names.

When it comes to your name, I suggest something that fits your personality - obviously the last thing you want to do is blow a three month sting because you've been using the name Kenta Kobayashi and you are very much Caucasian - but also something that speaks to nefarious intentions as well as trustworthiness. You want your prey to see you as a bad man, and accept you as such, but not question your identity. Names like Lord Nelson Badguy and Duke Dustin Notacop are solid names, and might serve you well for a number of years. But do they suit you? Let's be honest. They do not.

Looking at you, I see one name that fits. One name that will insure entry to the criminal underworld will securing safety for yourself and your loved ones.

That name is Adolph Hitler.

How soon can you grow a moustache?

Q: What is your first impression of the narrator?

A: Well, he's tall. I like that. And he's good looking. I am comfortable enough in my sexuality to be able to compliment another man on his appearance. He knows what he's talking about. He has something to say about every slide. That's no easy thing. He's presentable,  well dressed and clean. There are no crumbs on that man's clothes. As someone who always has crumbs on his clothes I admire someone who does not. I have no idea how he does it. He must wrap himself in a sheet of plastic before meals, or be a wizard or something. Perhaps he's on one of those all-soup diets. That would explain the lack of crumbs. Although if he did only eat soup he'd have stains on his tie, and his shirt, and his coat, and his hands. Trust me, I know. I tried an all-tomato-soup diet for a few weeks in my 30's.  I got soup everywhere. After a few days, my co-workers called the cops. They thought I was murdering co-eds in my RV. Can you imagine? The cops were pretty embarrassed once they realized it was only tomato soup. It was an awkward situation for all involved, but it did allow me to murder co-eds in my RV for several years without fear of detection. But I digress.

Q: What is the cost of getting rid of the land mines?

A: Let's see here. You have 40 mines on three acres, all armed.

Right, 39 mines. How could I forget? This is awkward. Have they been able to find your wife's wedding ring? Or her hand? Or any identifiable part of her.

No, huh. Well, don't give up hope.

Anyway, 39 mines over three acres. When do you want them out?

Immediately. I can do immediately. But it's gonna cost you.

39 mines over three acres, taken out immediately ... I assume you want them disarmed and moved off site?

You don't have to shout, sir.

Okay, I'm going to have to call in some favors and bring in some extra staff, but I can get this done today. All it's going to cost you is $859 per mine. That's less than half what I charged you to put them in.

By the way, payment is due on the mine installation. Don't insult my intelligence and tell me your wife dealt with the money and had it all on her at the time of her tragic explosion. I've heard that one enough times. This isn't my first day in the land mine business. It's my third.

Q: Does credit union verify funds on a check via phone?

A: As a high end retailer of sharks, barracudas, mer-men and other dangerous and exotic creatures of the sea, we must protect ourselves from entering into an agreement with unsavory individuals who might want to use these creatures for non-ornamental reasons, or who simply might not be able to afford the cost of the care and maintenance. While most people would love to own a killer shark or a an army of piranhas, not everyone can.

Should these beautiful creatures be misused in any way, in the staging of elaborate undersea heists, plots for world domination, that sort of thing, or merely abandoned, set loose in a public swimming pool once their owner starts getting his bills from the remote tribes who sold him villagers for food, the blame will not fall on the customer, I can assure you. No, the blame will fall on the good people of Poseidon Specialties.

To protect the company, employees must follow a few safeguards. We can't just hand one of our prized beasts over to everyone who wanders in off the street. No, first we assess the customer and answer a checklist of questions we memorized during training.

Questions like: Is the customer attempting to pay by check? Has the customer repeatedly asked about our check verification process? Is the customer's check written on a slice of pizza? Are there three or more  words misspelled on the pizza-check?  Has the customer asked which animal will best dispose of a dead body? Has the customer mentioned revenge as a motive for his interest in one of our creatures? Is the customer covered in blood? Does the blood appear to belong to someone else? Is the customer crying? Has the customer mentioned his experience making chum from scratch? Has the customer ended any statements with a sinister laugh? Has the customer inquired about our return policy? And so on. You get the picture.

A "Yes" to three or more of these questions, and I cannot make the sale.  Five or more and I'm required to call the police. Eight or more and I press this button here, opening the trap door beneath your feet, sending you into the Great White Shark Tank.

You're a "Yes" to fourteen questions.

Fourteen.

I don't know what I'm supposed to do here. I never read that far in the employee handbook.

Q: How do you get the princess skirt in club penguin?

A: I don't understand why you want to spend all that time getting a fake princess skirt in a video game when you have a dozen real princess skirts hanging in your closet. Don't you like them anymore? Are they not good enough for you?

What's the matter, princess? Why are you crying?

Look, if you don't want to wear the skirts or get called "princess" anymore, I understand. You're a big girl now, and that's a completely logical wish. But maybe you should have thought of that while you were mincing around in the pocket and throwing those interceptions in State Quarterfinals. Daddy lost a lot of money on that game. Do you understand? Do you see what I'm saying?

Good.

How about we make a little deal? I'll keep calling your princess and buying you skirts and making you play children's games and you'll do it.

How does that sound? Now, before you answer, you should realize that you have no other options.

Great. I'm glad we had this chance to talk.

Now, go put on your favorite skirt and go play in the yard. Daddy sold some tickets.

Q: How do you check the brakes on a Toyota Tacoma?

A: You could crawl underneath with a flashlight and look for yourself, or get that truck on a lift and bring over a friend and tap and poke and hope you find something, or you could just trust the guy who worked on the car and tells you that your brakes are fine.

Your brakes are fine. I know what I'm talking about. I know how important a reliable set of brakes are to a guy like you, with a good job and a nice home and a beautiful family and a lovely, lovely wife. The last thing you need is to find yourself alone on a dark highway, your lovely, lovely wife waiting at home, and you see a deer or a homeless person or a pile of old furniture blocking the road, forcing you to slam on your brakes. Only your brakes don't work and you've got a windshield full of deer or shattered office furniture, furniture that appears to have been pre-scored and sharpened so it's more like a wall of spears. And now you're dead and your wife, who by the way is very lovely, you are a lucky man, she's all alone and grieving and, somehow her grief has only made her lovelier, and she's looking for answers - "How could this have happened? Was there something wrong with the breaks or was it driver error?" - and she's worried about her future - "Who will provide for me and my family?" She turns to a man who can answer both questions, a man who had recently seen her husband's brakes and knows that nothing is wrong with them, a man who has a good steady job, a job that will pay the bills. Someone who will hold her tell her that her husband probably wanted to die, at least didn't deserve to live if he was willing to leave her at home while he went joyriding on the dark roads above the reservoir. Someone who will love her like she's never been loved before. Someone who will always care for her and never leave her fate or the fate of her family up to some stranger because he never learned how to do the simplest tasks with his hands.

This is all hypothetical of course. Your brakes are fine. Have a great weekend.

Hey, if you're ever in the mood for a relaxing drive late at night, try those dark roads above the reservoir. They are  particularly beautiful at 10:45. Go real fast. It's worth it.

Q: Can the executor of an estate drive the deceased's car?

A: I chose you as the executor of my estate because you are an honorable man, you are a smart man, and because I trust you. When I am dead, you may do whatever you please. When I am dead.

You can drive my car. You catch watch my TV. You can wear my suits. When I am dead.

You see, I will be dead, deceased, passed on from this world onto the next. There's nothing I can do or say about anything. I won't care. I will be dead. When I am dead.

You can even make love to my wife. I won't know or care or be able to do anything about it. Sure, my body will be there, mounted and stuffed in my favorite chair as stipulated in my will, but I won't be there.  It won't be me watching you, but an empty shell, a simulacrum of the man I was. If it excites you to pretend that it is really me, still alive, watching you, then by all means please do so. I think my wife would appreciate it. God knows my death will be tough on her. Especially once she discovers that I've left her nothing.

That's going to be an awkward conversation for you. When I am dead. Which I am not yet.

Please get out of my bed.

Q: Why do you think you would like to enter the casino industry?

A: Well, that's a direct question, one that deserves a direct answer. You'll pardon my hesitation in providing the answer as I am working it over mentally to insure that I get it straight.

Just give me one second.

Okay. I'm going to be honest here. As you have done me the honor of being direct, I shall return the favor. I wasn't prepared to answer that question during the interview. If I may continue my candor, I wasn't prepared to answer any questions during this interview, except for possibly "When can you start?" and "How much do you want?" To be frank I didn't expect an interview at all.

With my skill set and resume and references and demeanor, dress, and appearance, I assumed I would be hired on sight, lavished with perks and immediately placed into a senior position within your casino. As you know, or at least should know, from reading my cover letter and resume, I have been wildly successful in many industries - energy, finance, real estate, branding, film, television,  Formula-1 racing - in multiple positions. All of my skills translate to your industry. I am the most qualified candidate you will ever meet. I am more qualified than you and everyone you report to and everyone they report to. Truthfully, I should be given the position of CEO or higher.

You find that funny? That makes you laugh? Well they laughed at me when I started digging for oil in the backyard of my elementary school, and they laughed at me when I invested all my money into a start up company that made high definition photographs look like Poloraids, and they laughed at me when I said my reality show, "Slowly Suffocating Housewives" would win a Nobel prize. You'll notice that no one is laughing now. I pay them not to. All of them. I am that rich. Some of them I pay to polish my Nobel prize. They are allowed to laugh, softly and to themselves on Thursdays in March.

Even though I have conquered every field, become captain of all industries, I have yet to achieve my true dream: to enter the casino industry, rise to the top through a combination of wits, cunning and treachery, and rule with an iron fist. If that statement sounds familiar, you might recognize it as the objective on my resume.

I'm starting to wonder if you even looked at it.

This dream to rule casinos is not a recent dream, no, nor a sudden fancy; it is a lifelong dream. As a child of eight, I watched my father spend a frenzied night in a casino, a casino much like yours. As the evening drew to a close, my father, pale, drunken, sweating, took his final chip from his pocket and sat down at a blackjack table. A chip and a chair, that's what they always say. That's all you need. He had that final chip. He had a chair, once he steadied himself on it. He had the dream. All he needed was one hand, to win one hand. One would become two, two three and soon, in moments, he would be back on top, back in the game. But it was not to be. The dealer informed him that this table had a $100 minimum, and my father's chip was of insufficient value. I'll never forget the look on his face as he slumped away from the table, put his arm around me, and led us back to our luxury suite.

Since then I have dreamed of a day when I could reclaim my father's honor and humiliate every casino employee in sight. Parking spots will disappear over night. Uniform requirements will change hourly. One week I will announce that, in an effort to appeal to our disabled customers, only dealers and pit bosses who willingly amputate a limb will be kept on. The next week I will fire everyone who can't juggle. Their lives will be hell. They will know, trust me they will know, what it feels like to be helpless, truly helpless. They will understand what they did to my father.

Now I realize that's quite a lot to write on your little questionnaire. If you need to keep it short, you can just write "revenge."

Sooooo ... When can I start?

Q: How do you get back your son from his grandmother who has temporary custody?

A: It's important to remember that her custody of your son is only temporary, much like your recent run of insanity. Not permanent. Not forever. Temporary.

You didn't spend your whole life running through the village, urinating in all the mail boxes, riding small dogs and picketing stop signs, did you? No. It was only a few years. It was temporary. Eventually you came to your senses, pulled up your pants, climbed off those dogs and let the stop signs be. All it took was a few court orders and some tear gas. It passed. It is now over. Nobody even remembers it. These days most people know you as the guy who talks to the old washing machine under the bridge.

Nobody sees that billboard. Hardly anybody. How many people even use that road anymore? How many people even use roads? That billboard has no effect on the unemployeds, on the shut-ins, on the agoraphobes, on the houses arrested. That has to be like half the county, any one of whom might be the judge at your custody hearing.

Okay, obviously the billboard is a problem. It's hard to move on from a bout of temporary insanity when your face is twelve feet high and smiling and holding half a chicken and that half of the chicken is the bottom half, which is kind of weird and draws you in and draws your eye right to the slogan, which is a very good slogan. "Crazy Once, Crazy Forever."  Yup, that really hurt you in the election. And on those blind dates. And all those job interviews.

But, look, just because you have no job and no income and no one who loves you and nothing in your life except a washing machine and you are famously crazy doesn't mean you can't win back custody of your son. You have something his grandmother doesn't have: A father's love. And you have something else she doesn't have, something no one has: a sexually submissive relationship with an old washing machine. I wouldn't mention the latter in court.

Q: What is the difference between a responsible minister and a minister responsible?

A: "A responsible minister" is a type of minister, one who carries out his office as best he can, who follows moral and ethical guidelines, who maintains the public trust, who keeps his personal feelings out his his professional affairs, who sacrifices his wealth and and fame for the betterment of his constituents.

"A minister responsible" is the clause often used to identify a previously unknown government official and to explain the nature and severity of his crimes. Examples of this clause include, "Miles Higginbottom, a minister responsible for embezzling public funds to finance his failed career as masked vigilante Tire Iron Tim, refused to comment on the sudden surge in tire iron related attacks over the past week" and "Miles Higgenbottom, a minister responsible for telling a group of second-graders that Santa Claus is an elaborate hoax perpetrated by their parents, set fire to a center for recovering burn victims while attempting to demonstrate the improved response time of the volunteer Fire Department" and "Miles Higgenbottom, a minister responsible for the mandatory public rickshaw system, drove through a church today." Those clauses might seem familiar as they are all from recent nightly news broadcasts, and as they all feature you, Deputy Minister of Transportation Miles Higgenbottom.

You've had a busy week.

Q: How do you change the glass in a car window?

A: Brute force and a hammer. If you don't a hammer, use whatever you have at hand,  a rock or a bowling ball or a small wooden badger.

See? that wasn't so hard.

Why are you crying? Why would you need the cops? I changed the glass. There used to be glass. Now there's no glass. Change.

Oh. I see.

You meant "replace." Maybe you should be more careful what words you use when you shout at a homeless man carrying a small wooden badger.

Well it sounded like shouting to me.

Q: Are gamma rays and x-rays the same?

A: Common question. Had it myself. Being the "can-do" type, (as evident by my homemade alarm system, a bag of cats suspended over every door,) I decided to conduct my own experiments to discover the answer.

One experiment really. While my son slept, I bombarded him with x-rays to see if he would turn into the Hulk or some Hulk-like being. If x-rays and gamma rays are the same, my experiment would be an immediate success. Where once I had a son who cried at the sight of squirrels, now I would have an eight-foot tall green monster able to swing trains cars like baseball bats. With a son like that, it's doubtful the soccer moms would continue to reject my advances.

As you might imagine, not all experiments go as planned. Instead of adding three hundred pounds of muscle and gaining the ability to leap three miles at a time, my son sat around all day crying and wheezing and complaining that his insides burned. Thankfully, the crying stopped after three days. Unfortunately, so did the moving, and the breathing and the general condition known as "being alive."

I guess it's back to the drawing board.

That's my little euphemism for prison.

Q: How is Tim McGraw revolutionary?

A: He overthrew the government, burned down all the banks and executed anyone with a post-graduate degree. It doesn't get more revolutionary than that.

Don't call me crazy. It's all right here in this newspaper. This newspaper dated July 14th, 2021.

Oh. Yes, well, this is one of my newspapers from the future. That old German man who lived on the corner gave them to me. I mean, he didn't really give them to me, I kind of took them after he was arrested and tried and hanged for being a wizard. But he would have wanted me to have them. As long as you pretend he didn't know that I was the one who betrayed him to the authorities.

Anyway, enough about what happened last week. Let's focus on tonight. You better get dressed. The Tim McGraw concert is in an hour. I strongly suggest you go.

Q: When did you discover the dolphin?

A: Only after systematically eliminating every other possible source of the clicking sound. Ceiling fans, ice maker in fridge, leaky faucets, electronics, loose windows or doors ajar, my teeth, pets, family, neighbors, strangers, police responding to 911 calls, helicopters,  press covering the melee, the aglets on my shoelaces.

Only after all that was gone, and I was alone, did I realize that the source of the clicking sound was the dolphin. She was probably starving. It had been days since I fed her.

In retrospect I should have looked in her tank first. But it was hard to think straight with all that clicking.