Q: How much does a pool in a condo building add value to the units?

A: Our central pool is a modern infinity pool, sleek and luxurious, and offering some of the greatest views in the city. The pool maintains a temperature of 72 degrees, allowing for year-round use. Six feet at it's deepest and two feet in the shallows, our pool also features six built-in chaise lounges for tanning, relaxing or chatting with friends. Our state-of-the-art media center features inputs for iPod, iPad, PS4 and XBox One. We have a water-proof high definition projector as well as a 204" screen that rises up from the pool at the push of a button. In under three minutes our pool can become your private screening room, discotheque, or personal oasis.  A pool like this will increase the value of your unit by at least $33,000. Once we clean out all the dead bodies.

Until we clean out all the dead bodies, the value of the units will remain where they are, which is very, very low.

Cleaning out all the dead bodies won't be as easy as you might think. As you can see there are hundreds of them, in various stages of decomposition. Removing so many dead bodies, quickly and quietly, would leave us deeply in the red and thus unable to offer such amenities as wifi in the common room or breakfast tacos every Thursday. The breakfast tacos might not seem appealing now but wait until we've removed all the bodies. When not accompanied by the overpowering stench of death, they'll be rather delicious.

Once we clear out all the dead bodies the vultures will leave. At least that's what the consultants tell us. We've hired a very well-regarded, very expensive firm, and while they're can't guarantee that the vultures will leave once all the dead bodies are removed - they are consultants after all, not prophets - they made a convincing power point presentation that suggests the vultures will leave once we remove all the dead bodies. Apparently, the bodies are a prime source of food for the vultures. According to the consultants, once we remove all the bodies, the vultures will abandon the pool in search of a new food source. Unless the vultures start eating the rats.

Getting rid of the rats will be rather difficult. Even if, sorry, when, when we remove all the dead bodies the rats are unlikely to leave. The dead bodies have been here so long that the rats have, well, I don't know how else to put this, the rats have settled in. They seem to have formed a society, with laws and commerce and government. They even elected a president. I'm not sure how you feel about rats, but I have to tell you, once you get over the fact that they're living and breeding in a pile of rotting corpses sitting in a condo pool, you have to admire them. The rat presidential debate was one of the cutest things I've ever seen. They built little podiums and everything. They made them out of human ears. You should have seen it, the two of them standing behind those rotten ears, shrieking back and forth, while the thousands of rats in the audience sat in rapt attention. I guess you wouldn't find it as cute if the ear they used had belonged to a loved one. But as far as we can tell these dead bodies don't have any loved ones. That's one of the benefits of living in a condo building designed for and marketed to single people: no loved ones cramping your style. I guess the downside is that no one cares if you die. But there's a good and bad side to everything.

So, how about we go back to my office and start filling out that application?

Q: Where can you buy a Hollywood size bed frame and mattress?

A: Baby, you can't buy a Hollywood bed frame and mattress. In this town, you gotta earn it. You know what I mean?

Oh, you don't? What I mean is that you gotta be willing to get dirty, real dirty. Know what I'm saying?

Still nothing? The wink didn't help or anything? Okay, this time I'm going to say something real slow-like, and raise my eyebrows and nod suggestively and make that "tick-tick" sound out of the side of my mouth after I say it. Baby, if you want a Hollywood bed frame and mattress, you gotta do whatever it takes, and I mean what-ever it takes.

Still nothing? It's like I'm talking to a mannequin.

Shit. I am talking to a mannequin. I should probably get back on my schizophrenia meds.

Q: Why do people not believe in the greenhouse effect?

A: Because they are smart. The so-called "greenhouse effect" was conceived by a group of Berkeley drop-outs in 1967 as a way to stifle American innovation, cripple the economy, and secure life-long government employment.

You should come inside if you want to continue talking. I'm wearing SPF 175 and that only last five minutes at this time of day.

You see, these hippies hated cars. Hated them with a passion usually reserved for people who talk during movies or borrow books and never return them. The hippies rode bikes and bikes only and believed that the rest of the world should live as they live; thus cars must be outlawed.

The air quality is rather terrible today. You should put on this gas mask if you wish to remain conscious for the rest of this conversation.

As I was saying, they hated cars, and wanted them gone, but it's not so easy to turn public opinion against cars. People like cars. Faster than walking. Safer than catapults. Cleaner than rickshaws.

Don't feel obligated to keep you coat on. Or your shirt. Or your pants. It's stifling today. Supposed to go as high as 140. Feel free to strip down to your boxers, as I have. We might as well be comfortable/

Turning people against cars would be no easy task. You can't frame a car for murder. You can't get a car drunk, fill it with naked children, and take pictures. Even telling them Hitler designed the car didn't work.

Please don't touch those books. It's been rather humid lately,  for the past twelve years, and the books have grown  moldy. Some kind of toxic mold, I've been told. At least that's what I think the man said. They were his dying words after all. He wasn't exactly enunciating.

So, how do you make people hate cars? The hippies thought and thought for years, until one day, probably in one of their drug-induced hazes, they stumbled on the perfect idea. Emissions. Tell people that the emissions from cars rise up to the atmosphere where they magically create an invisible shield that traps in all the heat and turns the Earth into a kind of giant greenhouse. Have you ever heard anything so foolish?

I'd offer you something to eat, but it's impossible to find food these days. The Kelly's down the street used to be a good source,  but I ate the last of them two weeks ago.

A greenhouse effect? The Earth growing hotter and hotter by the year, melting the polar ice caps, raising the oceans, causing incredible storms and heatwaves? That's what they came up with? That was their story?

You should move over to that other chair. You're getting a little overcooked on your left side.

Funny thing was, people bought it. People started to believe this whole greenhouse effect nonsense. In retrospect I shouldn't have been so surprised. People believe in all sorts of silly things. Evolution. Love. Memory. Gravity. But the real funny part? It didn't work. Cars stayed. Cars became more prevalent than ever. They made bigger cars, faster cars, cars that burned more fuel and created more dangerous emissions than ever before. So, yes, in a way, a small way, the hippies won. But in a real way, in a big way, we won. All eight of us who remain.

Say, before dinner, would you like to take a look at garden? It was washed away in the mudslides of 2019, but if you close your eyes and tie this rope around your wrists and pour this marinade over your back, you can still picture it.

Q: Why do people want to be an astronaut?

A: To test the limits of the human body, for one.  To see the world from a new perspective. To fly above the birds and the trees and clouds and the planes and everything we call Earth. To enter the eternal emptiness that is space. To feel closer to God, to feel like God must feel, to feel supreme.

I guess that's what drives most people. For me, it's a little different. You see, I was a lonely child; dad drank and mom wandered. I wasn't one of those kids who  "made friends easily." I wasn't "cute," or "pleasant," or "precocious," or "likable," or "happy," or "good at sports," or "able to escape into the fantasy world of Dungeons and Dragons," or "book smart." I was kinda just weird.

I spent most of my time hanging around the movie theater, reading the posters. Money was hard to come by in those days. Watching a movie was out of the question. But reading the posters, that I could do all day. At least until the assistant manager chased me off with a rolled up newspaper or a hot cup of coffee. But that was rare; he was slow and fat. I could hear his labored breaths from 40 feet away. With the right combination of hiding, ducking, blending into crowds and fleeing, I was able to stare at posters for three or four hours a day.

Most of the posters have faded from my mind, Dim memories of the faces of long dead actors or blue light washing over boats or well-dressed men holding guns, draped in beautiful women. I remember the posters did their job. They entertained. They enticed. But I saw them for what they were: Lies. Fantasies to lure in the squares and get them spending that popcorn money. To some they were the promise of a better world. To me they were false promises in two dimensions. I could look at posters all day and still feel empty inside.

Still, standing around at looking at the posters was better than hiding in the woods or building a fort in the living room out of cases of Old Grandad or trying to find mom. So I kept coming back and I kept looking at the posters. That was my life, day in and day out, winter, summer, spring and fall. I expected it to be like that forever. I'd accepted my lot, made peace with myself. Nothing was ever going to happen to me, and that was okay. This was how it would be, and I could live with it.

Until the day it happened. Until the day I saw the poster that changed my everything. It was a simple poster. Black, with some kind of demonic egg hovering in the center. The egg cracking, leaking some green goo. And beneath the cracked egg, those words, those wonderful words. "In space, no one can hear you scream."

In space, no one can hear you scream.

They were the most beautiful words I had ever read. It was the most beautiful idea I could imagine. A place so large and bleak and empty that your very existence, your very terror, would go unnoticed.

My mind raced.. If no one could hear you scream, then no one could hear you beg. No one could hear you apologize. No one could hear you shout for help. No one could hear you whimper. No one could hear you stumble for basic conversational phrases. And that's when it really hit me.

In space, no one could hear you cry.

From that day, I knew what I had to do. I had to get to space.  I hit the books, did some studying, built some catapults, bought those shoes that made you jump higher. I even had my bones removed and replaced with the bones of a condor. Anything to reduce drag and increase my chances of flight.

I don't have to tell you that everything failed. You've read the press clippings. You've watched the documentaries. You know what I've been through. So here I am, at the end of the line. My last chance to get to space. I'm here to be an astronaut.

The past 35 years have been full of disappointment, shame, broken bones and public humiliation. Through it all I held my head high and went about my business. I never gave up on my dream. But it was a lot of disappointment. More than any one man should have to take.

I look around this room and I see men and women more qualified than me. Men and women with advanced degrees in mathematics and physics and engineering. Men and women with thousands of flight hours under their belt. Men and women who can look a stranger in the eye and have a casual conversation without collapsing into a blubbering mess. Men and women with strong coping skills and no history of mental disorders. But I don't see anyone who wants it more than me. I don't seen anyone who needs it more than me. I don't see anyone who deserves it more than me.

If possible, I'd really like to get to space today. There's 35 years of tears buried in here and I don't think I can hold out much longer.

Q: Is grandma an adverb?

A: For the fifth and final time, your grandmother is a noun. A noun with feelings. A living, breathing, dying, decaying, wilting, judgmental, evil noun. A noun who sacrificed her life to make my dreams come true. When those dreams turned out to be little more than standing on the street corner yelling at cars with out-of-state plates and whistling at the girls from the girl's school as they walked home, she sacrificed her life to make your dreams come true. When your dreams turned out to be little more than throwing empty beer cans at cars with out-of-state-plates and exposing yourself to the mannequins at Kohls, she switched gears and began sacrificing chickens and goats and stray cats and mail-order brides and rare plants she grew in her garden in the alley in the hope that she might summon some long-forgotten god who would punish us for our wicked ways.

Your grandmother is a noun. And it's about time you started showing her a little respect.

No, not right now. I didn't mean drop everything and start paying her respect this instant. She's edgy today and any attempt at respect will be misinterpreted as an attack. Then it's pepper spray and throwing stars and the bolo with the wire dipped in broken glass. I just hosed down the deck this morning. I'm not doing the same work twice in one day. No, we can pay our respects later, once she's been bound and  sedated and put back in her cage.

Oh. Boy. She must have been listening. She's perking up now and it looks like she's talking to some of her rats. That's never good. Those conversations never result in a a rat pyramid or an all-rat reenactment of the famous Stanford-Cal kick return. Those conversations always end in murder by rat. One time I'd like to see them try something new. The rats are so creative and she's really holding them back.

They're coming now. And grandma's shouting, "Murder!" Damn, she even made a sign.

I guess this is it. One of us should create a diversion and the other one should run down the block and finish the Mad-Lib. At least one of us should be mildly entertained. We'll shoot for it. Paper. Rock. Scissors.

Ready? One. Two. Three. Shoo-

And you're running away.
And here come the rats.
They are so well organized.

Q: How did specific battles affect President Lincoln's political decisions?

A: The Battle of Fort Sumter convinced Lincoln that, due to the opposition in the South to many of his policies, his plan to personally visit every Southern citizen for an evening of coffee, bacon sandwiches, and honest debate about the future of the nation should be scrapped and replaced with a long and bloody war.

After the Union's devastating defeat at the First Battle of Bull Run, Lincoln canceled Executive Order 214C-1.2, which had required all Union soldiers to stand, wave, shout "Heads up, bullets coming!" and count to ten before firing.

When news of the Battle of Awesome-Sauce reached the capital, Lincoln removed Eugene Carson, a skulking forty-three-year-old man-child and distant cousin of Lincoln's wife, from his position as Director of Civil War Battles and Ice Cream Parties. Carson was later tried, and convicted, of Very Silly Treason.

The Battle of Wilson's Creek, another decisive victory for the rebellion, forced Lincoln to reconsider his entire war strategy. Early the next morning, he sent Col. Thomas Mapother on a secret mission to Japan. Mapother would secure a small, deadly squad of samurai warriors to join the Union effort. Lincoln believed the sudden emergence of samurai warriors on a Civil War battlefield would lead to swift victory for the Union, and also provide a breathtaking visual for those in attendance.

Two months later, Lincoln received a letter from Mapother containing only the words "Oh my God Sake!" The Colonel sent no further correspondence.

Despite his disappointment in Matpother's failure, Lincoln forever clung to the idea of a small group of samurai warriors winning the war for the Union. As the war wound down, Lincoln worked around the clock, turning his notes into a four-hour stage play which he called The Last Cavalry. The play became his obsession. He was sure this play, more than saving the nation, more than passing the Thirteenth Amendment and ending slavery, would be his legacy. On the evening of April 14th, 1865, Lincoln attended a production of Our American Cousin with a copy of The Last Cavalry in his coat pocket. He hoped to corner noted Washington, D.C. theatre producer Arthur Wilde after the show and use all his charm, guile, and the considerable powers of the presidency, to convince Wilde to produce the play. An ad-lib by actor John Wilkes Booth resulted in cancellation of the meeting.

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.