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: 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: Is it a crime to collect rainwater?

A: Getting the water the way you did is within your legal rights. Doesn't matter that you used a rusty bucket. Doesn't matter that you plan to use it to fill up water balloons. Doesn't even matter that what you collected isn't even technically rain water. It's flood water. The law doesn't differentiate.

What the law does have a problem with is your illegal streaming of the latest Hollywood movies and UFC events. That's why the cops are here and that's why you're going to prison. Has nothing to do with the rain water.

I admit, the timing is suspiciously coincidental. If I were a betting man, I would wager that someone tipped them off to your criminal activities while you were off collecting the water. Probably someone with his own bookmaking related legal troubles looking to make a deal and also settle a personal grudge.

As you know, I am a betting man. And a cinephile. Maybe you'll remember that the next time you invite half the neighborhood over to watch Magic Mike.

Q: What should be prescribed for a cat that has a runny nose and is lethargic?

A: I had the same problem about eight years ago. Drove me crazy. Couldn't solve it. Stayed up all night trying everything I could think of, every home remedy and old wives tale. every long shot strategy, every wild plan randomly chosen from the Bible. Nothing worked. My son still laid on the ground, still and cold and dead as the day that garbage truck ran him over.

I probably should have said this sooner, but when I said "I had the same problem," I meant, "I had a similar problem, expect instead of a cat it was my son and instead of having a head cold and being lazy, he was dead and grey matter leaked from the fractures in his skull." But otherwise, exactly the same.

Anyway, as you understand, seeing a loved one in pain or dead can be a terrifying experience. You feel helpless, like the whole world's crashing down on you.  But I was not going to give up and take my son's condition lying down. I knew what I had to do:  travel to Haiti to try and harness the power of voodoo.

The trip was a bit of a disaster. I angered a local voodoo priest who drove nails into my scrotum and poisoned me with voodoo drugs, turning me into a zombie. They made a movie about it. Maybe you've seen it. RoboCop.

Obviously they changed a few things.

Once I got back to the states, I used all my acquired voodoo knowledge to revive my son. By this time, he was in a bad shape. My wife turned off the cooling system and he began to rot. The vermin got to him. And the neighbors. And the neighbors pets. There was a thunderstorm. We had some flooding. When I got home he was less a son and more of a black son puddle that gave off fumes that would blind you. He was not responsive to the voodoo.

Now, I had two choices: I could stay in that basement, feel sorry for myself, and slowly go blind. Or, I could suck it up, scrape my son sludge off the floor and get on with my life. I chose option B. I got on with my life. Just because I couldn't bring my son back didn't mean I wasn't a father. I had a new son. And another. And another. I didn't stop until I had fourteen children by twelve women. That's how you deal with grief. Once I was done fathering, I left the kids with their mothers, bought this pet shop and settled in for the good life.

It's time for you to face the truth. Your cat's not going to make. Sure I could give you some medicine and some fancy wet food to improve his health and boost his energy. But how long will he last? Ten years? Twelve maybe? Best say goodbye now and move on. What better way to move on with your life than by buying twenty cats?

Please buy the twenty cats. They're only five hundred bucks each.

Ten? Please?

Do you have any idea how much I pay in child support?

Q: What films have money in the title?

A: For recent films, there's One For the Money, starring America's Sweetheart and famed appreciative collaborator Katherine Heigl. She's the girl from Knocked Up. No, not the one married to Jud Apatow, the other one. Yes, she's still starring in movies. I have no idea why either.

Of course, there's Moneyball, the story of how math turned the Oakland A's into a team that doesn't make the playoffs into a team that makes the playoffs once or twice, only to lose.  And Wall Street 2: Money Never Sleeps, the long awaited sequel to 1987's Oscar winning Wall Street, starring Michael Douglas and Shia LaBeuf, who is contractually obligated to appear in every sequel under the mistaken assumption that people want to see him do things other than get punched in the face or shoved into a tire and rolled down a hill into a pit of asps.

If those three films don't satisfy your "films with money in the title" craving, take a trip to the video store and rent Money Train, Money Talks and Two For the Money. After that triple feature, you'll never want to see another movie with money in the title again. Or any movie. Or people. You'll probably want to turn off the lights, crawl into your closet and have a nice long cry while your consider that the people responsible for those movies continue to get paid to act in and make movies despite the clear and overwhelming evidence that acting in and making movies are things they are bad at.

Or you could save yourself some time and some damage to your soul and watch my movie, Please Give Me Money. I made it specifically for my parents, but anyone can enjoy it.

My parents cut me off after grad school. They said that after 14 years of college, it was time for me to make my own way in the world. They said the same thing after I got my PhD in Philosophy six years ago, but when I didn't get a job with one of those big philosophy firms, they kept supporting me. I assumed they'd do the same this time. But they seem to be keeping their word.

My movie's pretty good. Here, let me show you some of it.

Here I am starving. There's me panhandling on the bus. My mother will be horrified. When I was eight she made me promise never to ride the bus. I've got some great footage of me rooting around a dumpster for food, too. And then there's the climax: Scenes of me calling all my Dad's old mistresses and telling them that my Mom is really sick and my Dad is all lonely and in need of affection. They should drop by any time.

This might turn out to be the biggest movie ever made.

Q: What are some factors that endanger the future of the Chesapeake Bay?

A: For starters, commercial expansion. This area used to be pristine. Clear water. Nice beaches. Air that filled the lungs, made you feel capable of anything.  Then the office buildings moved in. Everyone wanted a bay view to impress the clients. Everyone needed places to park and places to eat. Soon the whole Bay became one slab of concrete, broken up by the occasional golden arch.

With the expansion came the pollution. Cars dripping oil. No-bid sewers mucking up the water. Restaurants burying their rotten bacon in the sand.

Honestly, even with the expansion and the pollution, it wasn't that bad. You could still get out on the water for some parasailing or jet skiing. Still some spots on the beach where you could set up a towel to tan or read a book or woo a potential lover, as long as you avoided the bacon graves. Simple tip: look for the assembled carrion and move away.  We still had a nice, quiet beach community.

Then the Civil War  reenactors came and it all went to hell. Someone decided that Chesapeake Bay would be the perfect place to reenact great naval battles of the War Between the States. I was unaware that the Civil War had naval battles, but I'm not exactly a huge Civil War buff. Had no idea they had submarines, either, but apparently they did. I doubt the actual submarines were tinfoil-wrapped canoes weighed down with cinder blocks, but that's all the reenactors could afford. Probably should have sprung for a real submarine. Or at least some scuba gear. I thought the beach full of rotten bacon smelled bad. That was nothing compared to a bay full of floating bloated fake Confederate corpses.

The Bay's seen better times, but we're a strong community and we could have pulled together, fished out the corpses, poured quicklime on the beach, driven off the office drones with calculated violence, burned everything to the ground and started over. We would have done it, too, if that that damn Cowboy Godzilla showed up. Now, we don't officially know if that's his name, or if he's a Godzilla, or even if he's a cowboy - there are no giant horses in sight - but he's big, green, scaly, he breathes fire, he rose right up out of the ocean, and he's wearing a giant steel cowboy hat. The name seemed to fir.

I've been living on the Bay for 56 years and I've never seen anything endanger it's future like that Cowboy Godzilla. On the bright side, the bodies of the drowned reenactors have formed a dam that have slowed him down and kept him from reaching the shore. Hopefully, it holds up until Tourist Season. I had a bunch of Cowboy Godzilla Spring Break t-shirts made that I'm going to sell over at the hot dog stand. They have a drawing of Cowboy Godzilla lighting a bong with his fire breath on the back. I think they'll be pretty popular with the college kids, and even more popular with the people who want to be popular with the college kids. Which is everyone.

Q: Are horses killed for glue?

A: That's a myth. It's been years since horses have been used to make glue. Paste, maybe. A cheap brown paste used to wallpaper shanties. Or gruel. But not glue.

But your horse wasn't killed because of what we wanted him to be. He was killed because of what he was. A loser.

There's no rule that says a horse can't play football. And there's no rule that says if he's going to play, he better damn well be good. Things like that are understood.

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: Who owns the phantom of the opera original mask?

A: The famous mask, as worn by Lon Chaney in the 1927 film Phantom of the Opera, has been part of my collection for over thirty years. It was the second piece of movie history I purchased, after the famous wheelchair used by Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window. Over the years, I've added more and more trinkets to my collection, such as the bedouin scarf worn by Peter O'Toole in Lawrence of Arabia, and the sled from Citizen Kane. None of these trophies compare to my prized possesion over there.

What do you think that is?

Wrong. That's what everyone guesses. They think it's the mold of Han Solo in carbonite from The Empire Strikes Back. Ever since I was a child, I wanted it more than anything, turns out George Lucas had it destroyed during a benefit for wealthy fat children in 1994, Fudgecon '94. Since the prop no longer existed, I had to make it myself. What you see there is Harrison Ford encased in carbonite. It wasn't easy, and it wasn't cheap, but it was worth it.

That's what I always told myself, until I saw the last Indiana Jones movie. Now I regret my decision and I want that impostor dead.

Q: How many athletes have died because of injuries sustained in a game?

A: In the millions of games played at the amateur and professional level over the course of human existence, very few athletes have died as a result of game-related injuries.

Until today.

In retrospect, your decision to let a teenage werewolf play quarterback may have been a mistake. But I admit, it seemed like a good idea at the time. In wolf form, he was stronger and faster than everyone on the field, probably stronger and faster than anyone in the history of the game. There's no way you could lose.

And then everything went wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong.

Turns out werewolves are more interested in killing and eating people than they are in running the spread option. In retrospect, maybe you should have benched him after he celebrated his first touchdown by decapitating the other team's safety. Although it was kind of cool when he spiked the kid's head like a football. I remember enjoying that. Then again, I may have been in shock.

But you trusted your gut and kept him in the game. Even after he killed our halfback. And our tight end. And the rest of our team. And the other team. And the cheerleaders. And the referees.

Thank god we let Old Man Winters come to the game. Can you imagine what would have happened if he didn't have those silver bullets? And to think we wanted to have him banned for his anti-werewolf rhetoric.


On the bright side, Coach, you've earned a place in the history books, but probably not in the way you hoped. Instead of being mentioned in the same breath as Bear Bryant and Vince Lombardi, you'll be lumped in with Stalin and Pol Pot. There could be worse things to have on a tombstone than "The Pol Pot of high school football." At least two or three. No one's compared you to Hitler.

Wait. I didn't see that guy's sign.

Q: Does a cap gun shoot?

A: I know what you're wondering - in addition to your question about a cap gun, a question I will address in a moment -  you're wondering, "Did he fire all 6 shots or just 5?" Well, in all the excitement, I kind of lost track.

You have to admit, that was pretty exciting. As a hardened criminal you might have done this sort of thing before and find it old hat, but this is my first week on the force and I've never chased anyone through the streets yelling and shooting and pushing people out of the way. That was awesome. I jumped over a baby carriage. Sure, I didn't totally clear it - kind of clipped it with my shoe - but I landed on my feet, unlike the baby. I'm sure he'll be fine. He only bounced a couple of times. His mother didn't seem to mind. As I ran away I saw her pumping her fist and cheering. I assume she was cheering. I couldn't make out much of what she said over all that gunfire, and the sound of heart pumping. I've never fired my gun at someone before. It's exhilarating.

I'm realizing I probably shouldn't have told you that it's my first week on the force, or that I've never fired a gun before, Please don't say anything. I'm still in a probationary period with the department. I'm not "officially" a cop, so I don't really have the authority to arrest anyone or shoot anyone or even carry a real gun. This is just a cap gun.

That answers your first question. A cap gun can shoot. It won't hit anything, but it can shoot. I made the bullets myself. Again, please don't tell anyone; strictly against department policy.

Now, to answer your second question, "Did I fire 5 shots or all 6?" Like I said, in all the excitement - I rolled across the hood of a cab! - anyway, I kind of lost track. So I have a question for you. Do feel lucky?

Well do you, punk?

You should, because I hear sirens and if they see me holding someone at gunpoint, I'll never get to be a real cop. Get the hell out of here. And please, never speak of this to anyone.

Q: Why does Chaucer portray himself as a knight in the Canterbury Tales?

A: For centuries, writers have written themselves into their own work. Take a look at The Bible, written by God. God puts himself at the center of everything: he's either in every scene, or the subject of every scene. In the sequel, his ego fulfilled, God took a step back and focused more on his son, much to the delight of millions of  fans.

Writing is hard, lonely work, often unrewarding. Writers love to remind readers that the words on the page did not magically appear, nor were they written by an elf or fairy, nor are they result of an infinite number of monkeys banging away at an infinite number of keyboards for infinity; human beings write books, humans with hearts, with souls, humans looking for attention, humans looking to get laid. What better way to woo a potential lover than by writing a story where you appear as a knight, or a wizard, or a crime-fighting cyborg from the future?

The tradition of writers putting themselves in their own work continues to this day, as seen in the works of M. Night Shymalan, portraying a writer whose work will change the world in Lady in the Water, Quentin Tarantino, portraying a former hitman with a loving wife in Pulp Fiction, and George Lucas, portraying the role of inter-galactic crime boss, Jabba the Hut in Star Wars.

By the way, did you happen to read that story I gave you about the crime-fighting cyborg from the future named Ryan? Pretty sexy stuff, huh?

So, how about we grab dinner and maybe I'll let you find out if I'm really half-man, half-machine?

Q: Is Curly a realistic character in Of Mice and Men?

A: I guess in the sense that he has legs and arms and hair and uses words when he talks and wears gloves when he works, yes, he is realistic. But, in terms of his actions, the character is not only unrealistic but completely unfaithful to the original.

At no point in the book does Curly accidentally hit anyone with a board or get poked in the eyes or slap himself in the face or say "Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk, nyuk" or anger Moe with his trademark buffoonery. There's not even a character named Moe.

The portrayal of Curly in this so-called "work of literature" absolutely stinks. In fact, the whole book stinks. It's devoid of laughs, with the exception of the big oaf who can't even stroke a girl's pretty hair without snapping her neck. What a goof.

Q: Is media is a source of morality?

A: The media provides entertainment, in the form of scantily clad women, posing as doctors or lawyers or teachers, who solve crimes or heal the sick or teach kids to be who they are, as long as the"who" in question are attractrive twenty-somethings with great teeth and great hair, or slightly overweight girls with glasses who would be the hottest chick in 9 out of 10 high schools, because of their great hair and teeth.

The media also provides news, with the help of attractive men with great hair and teeth and some of the most gorgeous women in world, also with great hair and great teeth.

As you can see, TV is in the business of entertainment and education, not in the business of sending messages.

If you want a source for morality, all you need is a little book I like to call The Bible!

The exclamation point is part of the title. I added it when I rewrote the book. I kept the stories the same, for the most part, aside from a few minor changes: Instead of a pillar of salt, Lot's wife turns into a supermodel. Instead of losing everything he owns and everyone he loves and having his body covered with painful sores, Job stubs his toe, and loses the 3rd disc of The Wire, season 4. Instead of dying on the cross for the sins of man, Jesus frees himself, snaps the cross in half and and beats the holy Hell out of Judas, Pontius Pilate and all the Romans. Except, instead of "Hell," I  call it "Jesus and Dad Steamy Underground Workshop For Meanies." Stuff like that.

I also added a bunch of pictures, mostly of TV leading ladies stars and female sportscasters. When you spend eight years of your life writing a book, you damned sure want someone to read it.

Q: What does you got it from a horses mouth mean?

A: You're thinking of the expression "Straight from the horse's mouth," as in "I got this straight from the horse's mouth," an expression that means "straight from the source," or "directly from an involved party."

That's not what I said.

I said, "I got this Boba Fett action figure from a horse's mouth." Then I held up the action figure. Then I pointed to the horse, so there would be no confusion. I think the meaning is pretty clear: I got this Boba Fett action figure from that horse's mouth.

My father gave me this Boba Fett action figure on his deathbed. He told me it was the most important thing in his life - even more important than me, his only son. Then he laughed for nearly an hour. Then he told me to send in the nurse, the redhead with the legs. It was the longest conversation we ever had.

This Boba Fett action figure meant the world to me. I kept it clean, safe, protected from the world. Now, it's ruined - covered in horse saliva and what I can only hope is chocolate.

It's not chocolate.

You already knew that. You could have warned me before I licked it.

I don't even want to know what happened to my Millennium Falcon.

Q: Can an elephant flip over a semi truck?

A: That truck was like that when I got here.

I'm pretty sure that truck's always been there. I'm pretty sure that truck's always been like that. 

It looks less like a recent accident and more like a fossil, a relic of a bygone era when semi-trucks ruled the land and men of all ages worshiped truck drivers like heroes, a time when a man was judged not by the color of his skin, or the quality of his character, but by the size and bushiness of his moustache, a time when women wore little tiny denim shorts over sheer panty hose and no one had a problem with it, a time when a man could have a chimpanzee for a best friend and no one would look twice, a time when every man, woman and child over the age of 6 had a CB handle, a time when people used words and phrases like "breaker" and "ten-four, good buddy" without irony, a time when a group of friends, posing as paramedics, could steal an ambulance, enter a cross-country race and -

 - Yes, that's my elephant. Are you going to let me finish my thought, or are you going to keep asking me a bunch of rude questions? 

Q: Would you violate any copyright laws if you approached a major network with a TV show pitch using music that you have not yet bought the rights to?

A: The music rights won't be a problem. You're pitching a show and throwing out some ideas. You're not expected to have everything locked down. Once you sell the show, the network can go out and buy the rights.That's not the problem.

The pitch itself is the problem.

The details of the pitch. The characters. The ideas. I've heard them before. They're not new.

The alcoholic former ballplayer who opens a bar in Boston, a bar full of wacky characters - like like his absent minded former coach, or the sex-obssessed barmaid, or the fat, sardonic alcoholic loved by all, or the obnoxious know-it-all/public servant, or the over-educated poet, left at the alter by her mentor - a bar where "Everybody Knows Your Name."

Yeah, that's Cheers. People remember Cheers. It was very popular.

You should rip off something else, something nobody remembers, like Small Wonder.

Only make the robot sexy. You know, for the nerdy pedophiles.

Q: How do you buff a car?

A: Apply the wax to the shammy. Run the shammy over the car in a clockwise motion. That applies the wax. Now, move the shammy counter-clockwise. That removes the wax.

Wax on. Wax off.

Wax on. Wax off.

Why are you stopping?

There seems to be some misunderstanding. When I saved you from those teenagers, I did so under the assumption that you would be my servant, that would would buff my car and paint my fence and do odd jobs around the house. Why the hell else would I save you?

Why would I teach you karate? What the hell kind of freak do you think I am?

Q: Why does a mouse bind its head?

A: When that mouse came into the village, he came on a mission of peace, on a fact finding mission. He came to do no harm. He came to observe. What he saw made him sick.

He saw other mice mistreated, abused, slaughtered. He watched his best friend die, blown to pieces by a landmine. He had his new found love die in his arms, a victim of a bullet meant for him. He saw corruption and sadism on a grand scale. He saw a land where life had no meaning.

That mouse had enough. He decided to stand up for those who can not stand, fight back for those who can not fight. That mouse decided to wage a one-man war against tyranny and oppression.

That's why he tied his boats real tight. That's why he slid that knife into the sheath so hard. That's why he donned that red bandanna.  A mouse binds his head because he means business. That mouse means business.

We should probably kill him before he fires that flaming arrow.