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: 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: 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 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: 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: What is the death rate of children in Victorian England?

A: Hmmm ... That's an interesting question, especially from someone in your position. I don't have the figures at the moment, but I'd imagine they are at par or slightly lower than the rest of Europe. I had no idea you were so inquisitive.

Hold on a moment. I believe my wife is calling. What's that, dear?


I'm terribly sorry. My wife has taken ill. We won't be able to attend the opening of Mr. Wilde's latest play. As such, we won't need a babysitter this evening. I hope you understand.

You can have the tickets. And your expected pay. And these jewels.

Please put down my daughter.

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: How many people in the US die from bear attacks a year?

A: Not enough. Not nearly enough. Last year there were 4. The year before, 3. That's it. More people die trying to catch foul balls at baseball games than are killed by bears each year.*

And that's the problem. With so few deaths each year, people fail to take bear attacks seriously. Bears are celebrated in this culture. Worshipped. You can't walk three blocks without seeing a T-Shirt with a cartoon bear, or a sports team named after a bear, or comic book featuring a crime solving bear in a suit who spends his weekends doing pro-bono work in family court.

Bears should not be worshipped or celebrated or even caricatured. They should be shot. Or stabbed. Or hit with a car. Whatever it takes.

So that you know I am not crazy, let me share a personal story. I used to have a son. I no longer have a son. He was killed by a bear. Bear attacks account for 100% of the deaths in my family.**

And yet no one seems to understand the terror of bear attack. They weren't there. They didn't see my little boy dripping honey, stuck in that wood cage, suspended in the forest, his eyes full of fear as he heard the bear approach. They didn't the bear ripping him apart with its teeth and claws, cracking his skull like some kind of giant, honey-glazed Cadbury egg. They couldn't hear his screams, his cries begging me for help, begging me to drop the camera and save him. No one saw it. And they still refuse to watch, despite all the time and money I have spent editing and scoring the video. I haven't even sold a single DVD.

What will it take for this nation to learn?


*Statistic possibly false.
** Not counting deaths by erotic asphyxiation. 

Q: Can you use a street car on your train set?

A: Sure. Why not?

It's your train set to do with as you wish. You can use a street car or a trolley or a subway or any other train like thing that runs on tracks. Hell, you could even use a goddamn Transformer. It's not like your train set has any artistic unity.

It it were my train set, I'd have a different answer. That answer would be "No." An incredulous, wide-eyed "No" followed by a clap of the hands and a deep disappointed sigh. I'd probably shake my head slowly while looking down at the floor to highlight my disappointment. There's a chance I might cry.

But it's not my train set anymore, is it? No, you had to make sure of that. You had to do whatever you could to take my train set from me. Eating. Sleeping. Soiling. Growing. Always growing. It seems like your whole life has been dedicated to forcing me to spend money on you. To spend money I had to earn money. To earn money I had to get a job. A job that kept me away from my train set.

When your mother got pregnant I knew that there would be sacrifices, that someday I would have to give up my toys and be a man. But I thought I'd have more time. At least more than 16 years.

Congratulations, son. You win. The train set is all yours. Forever. Fill it up with streetcars. Cover it with oatmeal. Do whatever the hell you want.

Just do me one favor. In court tomorrow, when you're called as a character witness, remember all the nice things I did for you. Like the time I gave you my train set. Or that time when I reminded you about giving you the train set. Or the time I let you come up with my alibi. Actually, don't mention that last one. If you do, re-word it so I sound more like a great Dad and less like a premeditated arsonist.

Q: Can you get TB Tuberculosis from touching surfaces or clothing of a infected person?

A: Of course not. What gave you such a silly idea? Just because I am sick with TB, along with your sister, your cousin, our maid, the dog, most of the fish, and even some of the plants does not mean it spreads so easily. Come on now, a disease that lives on counter tops and clothes? Is it spread by little wizards who stay behind and cast sickness spells on anyone who happens to cut meat or wash laundry? Do they have tiny little wands and tiny little pointy wizard hats? You have quite an imagination. Your mother would get a big laugh out of your crazy ideas, if she were still able to laugh. Or breath. Or live. We should probably taker her out back. She's starting to attract vermin.

I have no idea how it happened. One minute she was perfectly healthy, hand washing the sheets from my sick bed while I stood coughing in the corner. The next minute she had come down with TB and was soon coughing blood. Must have been something she ate.

Honestly, I have no idea how TB spreads. All I know is that your tiny wizard theory is laughable and will never be spoken of again. I am not a doctor. I will never be a doctor. I will never speak to a doctor. We'll deal with this outbreak the same way we deal with every problem we've ever faced as a family: Locking the doors, shutting off the lights and waiting until it's over. It got us through the LA riots, it got us through the Rapture, it got us through your uncle being gay, its good enough to get us through a series of strong chest colds. This too shall pass, son. Soon, we'll be on the mend, although it may be too late for some of the plants. And your mother, obviously. But the rest of us will be one big happy family soon. Now come over here and give me a hug.

Hold on a minute.

Ack! Ack! Ack!

 Huuuhhh-chuuuuk!

Eh. Eh. Eh.

Ugh.

Wheeeeew.

I always thought "coughing up a lung" to be a figurative term. At least we have something for dinner. Your mother was getting a bit gamy.

Q: What are the Kroger opening hours on Christmas Day?

A:  They're open all day! Come on, son, let's have a Holiday Shopping Spree!

Huh, that's weird. It's locked. And it looks like no one is here.

Good thing they gave me this key. On Christmas Day, Kroger hands out tire irons as keys. It's a tradition. One good swing ... There we go.

That's candy glass, son. All part of the tradition. DO NOT EAT IT! Sorry I yelled. That candy glass is for the, uh, poor children who have so little during Christmas. Leave it for them. And be quick about it.

That's not an alarm. It's a heavenly choir. They're singing a new song, one you are unfamiliar with. It's a song about a child who asked his father too many questions and didn't get any presents from Santa.

I have some buddies on the police force and I know they love to do all their shopping at the last minute. They're usually grumpy, having to work on Christmas and all.  Let's get out of here before they show up.

We'll just grab a few things that Mom forgot to buy for Christmas. Like ham. And eggnog. And whiskey. And large bags of cash.

Q: How do you get your hp laptop to turn on after hibernating?

A: Pour whiskey on it. If that doesn't work, try calling it a disappointment while shaking it. If your computer still won't wake up, pelt it with lit cigarettes.

I admit, I don't know much about computers, but I do know a lot about sleeping in. That's how my father would get me out of bed.

I'm just kidding.

My father would never waste whiskey. 

Q: How do you find the ghost in Skullduggery Island?

A: Yeah, about that ...

Here's the thing, when your Mom divorced me, I was awarded joint custody. I really would have preferred a custody system based on my mood, my dating prospects, and my interest in that weekend's slate of televised games. But I was overruled. As I result, I get you every other weekend, for the whole weekend, regardless of my own plans.

An old friend of mine was in town this weekend, someone who had been through a tough time. Newly divorced, wondering where she went wrong, full of self-doubt. Vulnerable. When you're older you'll understand a girl like that will do anything to feel loved. And I mean anything.

The last thing I needed was some kid hanging around, laughing and smiling, cheering her up and making her think that maybe her problems aren't so bad. Plus, the 2257 laws forbid the presence of children near an adult film set.

I needed you out of here and I needed you out of here quick. I made up some nonsense about that island in the park being an ancient pirate burial ground full of treasure and ghosts, knowing your quest would take all weekend and end with disappointment.  Along the way, I taught you a valuable lesson about trust.

Don't trust anyone.

There's no need to cry, son. I'll make it up to you the next time you visit. I hear there's a cabin deep in the woods that was built by some sort of eccentric chocolatier. Legend says it's full of candy and sweets and all the treats a boy could want. I'll go out there with you as soon as you get here.

I promise.

Q: How much food did a roman soldier get?

A: Roman soldiers got one turkey leg and half a tomato a day. Now we're talking about the grunts, the guys in the in the front getting their hands dirty, the ones with the swords and the helmets and the chest plates. Those guys. Your Roman brass, though I'm not sure if they were called brass back then, maybe bronze, your Roman bronze, your generals like your Ceasar's and such, and that other guy, what's his name, the farmer who didn't want to fight but was so good at fighting that when Rome was under attack they'd go out to his farm and beg him to come back and lead the army, and he'd do it, and he'd win, because he was wicked good at being a general, and they'd cheer him and throw parades and beg him - and I'm talking down on the hands and knees, crying, pleading real begging with the snot bubbles and everything - I mean beg him to rule them and keep the safe forever, but he'd say NO and go back to his farm ... God, what's his name ... Cincinnatus. That's him. Cincinnatus. He reminds me a lot of me, except that instead of being real good at being a general but not having any interest in it, I feel that way about being a father.

Yeah, your generals like Caesar and Cicinnatus ate better than your grunts. Every day, they got a turkey leg, two tomatoes, and all the horsemeat from the horses died in battle.

So finish your Happy Meal. I don't care if it's cold, you're eating better than Caesar.

Q: Was sand a living thing?

A: Sand is made up of very small rocks, worn down by eons of pressure from the winds and the rains and the hand of man, and has no life of its own.

Sand has no heart no beat, no lungs to breath, no blood to spill, no soul to take. Don't worry, son, you can't hurt sand. When you poured out that can gasoline into the sand pit and dropped in the book of matches, you didn't kill any sand. Sand can't be killed.

People, however, can be killed. People who, for whatever reason, might have been bound and gagged at the bottom of a sandpit, hidden under a tarp. That's what you heard scream.

In your school, have they ever taught you about the word "alibi"?

Great. Let's work on one together.

Q: What would it be like if you won five million dollars?

A: Awesome. It would be awesome. Easily the single greatest moment of my life. Far greater than the first time I had sex, or my wedding, or the birth of my son or even the 2003 playoffs when the Red Sox pulled off the greatest comeback in team sports history against the Yankees and then went on to win the World Series.

I'd buy a boat, a big one, with its own captain and crew and team of bikini models to dance on me as the sun sets, and travel the world from port to port making sweet love to every stripe of the female rainbow.

I'd learn Japanese. Or carry enough yen to convince everyone I met that I knew Japanese. Their warm smiles and nods would be a good feeling and would impress my army of hangers-on, unless one of my hangers-on actually knew Japanese. Remind me not to hang out with anyone who actually knows Japanese.

Obviously I'd changed my name, get a face lift and some lipo to make myself more attractive to the ladies. Not that I'd need to be that attractive; the boat would be very big.

But, before I'd do all that I would divorce my wife, abandon my awful kids and hit the road, finally a free man.

I don't understand why you're crying, son. Your mother's young enough to find a new man for you to call Daddy. If she's smart, she'll find someone who won't find your every move a source of shame.

Now sit down. The pretty lady's about to read the numbers.

Q: What are some magical abilities?

A: Pulling a rabbit from a hat. Picking my card out of a well shuffled deck. Making tiny rubber balls disappear. Any of those tricks would qualify as magic.

Showing me how to save a few dollars on rental cars does not. Your so-called trick doesn't impress me and it certainly doesn't impress the children. When I hired you for my son's birthday party, I was under the impression that you were an actual magician, with a top hat and wand, perhaps a sexy assistant I could ogle - my wife's put put a few pounds since she had the baby and she's blocked all the porn sites - someone who could keep the kid's attention for an hour so I could sneak out back, smoke a joint and chug a beer. If I had know you were a "thrift wizard" I would never have let you into my home.

I don't care what it said in your ad, you should have told me when I called and booked you.

I don't remember you saying anything, and I've got a pretty solid memory. I can tell you the name, address and social security number of every witness at my trial. Even if you did tell me during the call, you should have told me when you showed up and saw all these young faces eager for entertainment.

I don't remember you saying anything. But I do tune you out when you start talking. Your voice is all nasal and whiny, reminds me of my parole officer. Once you get going, I start thinking about how much I'm going to enjoy stiffing you on payment and accusing you of leering at the kids. If you're wondering why I've been smiling, that's why.

Well, you've got about 42 minutes left on the clock, so you ought to get back to it. Here's some matches and a turtle. Figure it out.

Q: What is a lions effect on man?

A: Before I had a lion, I had a wife, I had kids, I had a house, a nice one with three and half bathrooms, enough for everyone to use at once.  I had an important job, as an executive for a growing advertising company. I wooed clients, recruited writers and artists. I wore a suit to work, except on Fridays when I wore a designer jeans and a blazer. I had an expense account.

My son, Reggie, wanted the lion. He talked me into it. He said all the other kids in his class had exotic pets, Mike had an iguana, Tyler's parents bought him an emu, Jake got a orangutan for his 12th birthday. Reggie looked at me, tears in his eyes, snot in his nose, with a quivering lip, and asked "Don't you love me, Dad? Is that why you won't buy me a lion?"

I didn't love him. He had been an accident. My therapist told me I could never let the boy know, not ever, not for any reason, no matter what he did or said, no matter how much he disappointed me, no matter how often his presence reminded me of the beach house in Maui I could not afford thanks to his need for food and shelter and private education.

I bought him a lion. He named it Emmet. I thought that would be the end of it, and I could go back to ignoring him and dismissing his questions with a nod of the head, a raise of the eyebrows, by saying, "That's great, Reg. Daddy's busy."

When I bought Reggie the lion I bought three hundred pounds of ground beef. I thought that was the end of it. The lion ate the beef in four days. On the fifth day Reggie asked me to buy more food. I nodded my head. I raised my eyebrows. I said, "That's great, Reg. Daddy's busy." I finished my drink. I searched the internet for pictures of college girls posing in bathroom mirrors. I was not busy. I did not buy more food.

On the sixth day the lion ate Reggie. On the seventh day the lion ate my wife and my other children. On the eighth day my company's accountant questioned me about my expense account. Had I really bought 300 pounds of ground beef? Had I really bought a lion? I nodded my head, raised my eyebrows and told him I was busy.

On the ninth day I lost my expense account. On the afternoon of the ninth day, I lost my job. I still have the lion. He's stayed with me through it all, through the toughest time in my life. I wouldn't be where I am today without this lion. They say a dog is man's best friend. They lie. Man's best friend is a lion. I've never been so happy in my life. Although that may be shock. The lion took a big chunk out of my thigh a minute ago. Looks like he's coming back for more.

Q: How do you beat twitch in star wars knights of the old republic?

A: Years ago, before you were born, I left my home in Schenectady and boarded a train bound for Milwaukee.  I sat down next to a man who bothered me. I don't know what it was about him, maybe his mismatched socks, one navy, one maroon, his crumb-covered vest, the odor of old feet wafting from his belt, or his uneven beard, but it was something, something I didn't like.  I would have switched seats had I could but I could not, so I sat with my head down, hoping he would depart soon.

He rode all the way to Milwaukee. Along the way, the woman behind me began to convulse. She kicked the back of my seat, slapped me in the head, fell to the ground foaming at the mouth. The whole time, the man in the seat next to me clapped his hands and giggled. "Is that Joan Rivers?" he shouted, over and over again, clapping louder. "Is that Joan Rivers? Is that Joan Rivers? Is that Joan Rivers?" It was not Joan Rivers. It was an elderly epileptic struggling to live. I never thought I'd see a worse case of timing than that man asking that question while that woman writhed in the aisle. Until right now. Until you lept from your seat, shouted your question about Star Wars and ruined your grandmother's funeral.

Congratulations, son, you've asked the most ill-timed, poorly thought out question I have ever heard. You deserve a trophy. I'll leave for Milwaukee tomorrow to pick it up. Hopefully that guy still has it.