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.