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 types of physical features are in New York?

A: Obviously there are the buildings, tall and close and grey. Streets packed with yellow cabs and town cars and carriages, horns and shouts and pleas for alacrity. The cold wide sidewalks, littered with waste or slick with mud. The people, the missile  launched locals, the post worker bankers, red faced, tie loosened, three drinks into their night, the lawyers, wigless, gaunt, the buckles of their shoes straining against overplumped feet, the students, young and huddled and passionate about everything, the angry homeless lurching toward with palm outstretch, the eugenics robots hovering eighteen inches of the ground scanning the swarthy and the tan, the tall foreign blondes, thin and scraved, running from casting to casting, and of course the stacks of corpses used to buttress the gates of the city against the Mongol hordes.

If my answers confuse you, please understand, I am a time traveler and have visited this city at many times, in many ages. Not being one to keep accurate notes, the times blend together. What year is it, anyway?

Good. Good. Many years before the Mongol hordes arrive. Plenty of time to get a gyro.

Q: What is 3 challenges in Puerto Rico?

A: As a traveling businessman in Puerto Rico, you will face the following challenges.

Challenge Number One: The language barrier. Many Puerto Ricans are stubborn and insist on speaking in Spanish. Often, they will pretend that they can't speak or understand English, making it near impossible for them to understand your demands, no matter how loud you shout while waving your gun.

Challenge Number Two: Local Law Enforcement. The Puerto Rican police operate under a Shoot-First-Ask-Questions-Later-Then-Shoot-A-Few-More-Times-Just-To-Be-Safe policy. Such a policy can impede the day to day business of the typical entrepreneur abroad. More than once I have been in the middle of a complex negotiation, about to reach a break through, only to have the police arrive and ruin hours of hard work with their sirens and gunshots and bullhorn-amplified demands that I release hostages.

Challenge Number Three: Geography. Puerto Rico is an island, limiting escape routes. No matter which way you run, or how man cars you commandeer, you will eventually reach the ocean. And that means a lot of swimming. On a map, it might seem like Puerto Rico is right next to the Dominican Republic, but maps, like informants, lie. The Dominican Republic is dozens of miles away, too far for even the strongest swimmer, even when he is not burdened by bags of gold and small, attractive hostages.

These challenges nay seem insurmountable, but I assure you that with the proper planning and execution, they can be overcome. The rewards are worth it. Now put on this ski mask and get out of the van. The guard just fell asleep.

Q: How long did they stay on the moon and where did they land?

A: Details are scarce. Most of our equipment malfunctioned during take-off when Mitchell spilled his can of Jolt on the control panel. Radio contact was limited; we had no way to monitor their health, nor their progress. The giant electric map we commissioned to track their approach to the moon took D batteries. Would have been nice to know that when we picked it up from the cartographer. Someone won't be getting his "I Helped Put a Multicultural Team of Americans on the Moon and All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt" T-shirt. Actually, no one will be getting them. The manufacturer left town with our down payment. I'm sure people will enjoy a hastily scribbled Post-It with the same message just as much. Remind me to make those.

Obviously, we have no idea where they landed, but we can assure you it was on the moon. We suspect somewhere near the top and around toward the back. That's were Frank threw the dart on our scale model. He's got pretty good aim. According to the flight plan, they will drive their moon rover, a converted golf cart loaded with dumbbells, directly to the Sea of Tranquility, where they will destroy all traces of previous moon expeditions and claim the moon for our county. This all depends on the moon rovers, but we assume they'll work fine. We spent all last weekend on them, tying down the weights and covering them with decals. Gene could barely lift it once we were done, and he's the strongest guy in the space program.

Earlier, you asked "How long did they stay on the moon?" Your question, being in past tense, makes me think you believe the team is back on Earth, their mission completed. Such a belief is mistaken. They're still up there. We can't really say how long. All the clocks in here stopped working once we pulled out the D batteries and everyone had their cell service shut off due to non-payment. Those are the kind of sacrifices you make to send a man into space. The weekly celebratory keg parties don't pay for themselves. That money has to come from somewhere.

Don't worry though. Our team will be back soon enough. They have everything they need to get back home. Parts. Fuel. Instructions. Everything. All they need to do is build a new rocket from the spare parts of their lunar module, find a heat source, and, using Professor Bernheimer's formula, convert moon rocks into rocket fuel. The only way the plan could fail is if they damage some of the parts or lose the formula. And there's no way they would be dumb enough to -

Oh boy.

Heh. Heh.

How about that? While  answering your question, I reached into my pocket for my grocery list - after our conversation I'm going to the grocery store - and I couldn't find it. But I did find the slip of paper with Professor Bernheimer's formula. Which means our team on the moon will try make space fuel with a list of toiletries and fruit.

Man, that is a gutbuster.

Don't tell anyone about this, okay? This could be a real black eye for the Berkshire County Space Program. And we'd been doing so well.

Q: How did Kim Jong-il die?

A: Since the death of the beloved dictator, speculation abounds as to the cause of the death, with most stories settling on the vague "heart attack" as if the 69 year old strong man, ruler for life, son of the Eternal President,  champion of the Korean dynasty, greatest lover of the world and  9 time winner of Soldier of Fortune's "Dictator of the Year" award could be felled by something as simple as a heart attack. The Supreme Leader survived half a century of constant American aggression. Clearly there is more to the story. Consider:

 - No trace of Diet Coke was found in his bloodstream or stomach.
 - Nowhere in the vicinity of his body did authorities find one can of Diet Coke.
 - In all  the known photographs or drawings or fan films, the Kim Jong-il is never depicted holding or drinking from a can of delicious Diet Coke.
 - Kim Jong-il never ordered an attack on the US Mainland to seize our supplies of life-saving Diet Coke.
 - In all the news reports following his death, there has been no mention of a link between the dictator's passing and a Diet Coke deficiency.

Now we can't come out and say that failure to drink six to eight cans of Diet Coke a day caused the premature death of the most beloved leader in the world - mostly because our lawyers are the jittery, easy-panicked type - but one fact remains:

Kim Jong-il did not drink Diet Coke, and now he is dead.

We can only hope his son learns from his mistake.

Q: What is an island off of New York?

A: There are a few islands which lie off of New York, but there is none greater than the island where I live. My island is home to the finest artists, writers, actors, directors, scholars, philosophers, singers, crime-fighters, dancers, grifters and comedians in the world.

The people of my island, the creative ones I mentioned above, and the people beneath them, the models and clerks and managers and supervisors and electricians and cab-drivers and baristas and salesmen, and the people beneath them, the thugs and trainers and lawyers and street people and cannibals and mad scientists, are the most handsome people in the world. They say it has something to do with the water. You can't throw a rock on my island without hitting someone extremely attractive. You should not throw that rock; despite appearances, the people of my island can fight. And they will. And only to the death.

There is never a dull conversation among the people of my island, never a misspoken word or an ill-advised or poorly timed joke, or even an awkward pause. Everyone here is remarkably charming. Our candidates for office don't make speeches; that would be tacky, and everyone knows what they stand for anyway, as every citizen of my island stands for the same things: Truth. Honor. Naps.

Naps are mandatory on my island, both before and after lunch, and on Mondays and Thursdays, during. Naps may be received as gifts - they are the only gifts allowed by law - but it is illegal to give a nap as a gift. Christmas has become the most dangerous day on island, and fewer survive it each year.

The mortality rate on my island is high, very near one hundred percent. According to the last census, conducted this morning, I am the sole living person. It didn't always used to be this way. Originally, there were two of us, but after we rowed far enough out to sea and finished securing the shoreline, I killed Chet. He made fun of me for talking to the pretty corpses. For the record, I wasn't talking to them; I'm not crazy. I was making them talk to each other. It's exhausting work - there's so many of them - requiring frequent naps.

My island is made of corpses. Entirely so. You probably guessed from the smell. Despite the smell and the bloating and the carrion, my island is lovely. That's why I call Lovely Island. Feel free to dock here and come ashore.

And you can't hear me.

Maybe the next boat will be closer. I hope so. I'm very lonely. And I could use some help with the female voices.

Q: What do most Romanians eat for breakfast?

A: I would imagine he eats the same as any 8 year old boy, colorful cereals featuring magic leprechauns or nautical heroes.

Oh, but what if they worship leprechauns in Romania? I wouldn't want to offend him. He seems so nice. And hasn't Romania been involved in some awful wars lately? I admit, I don't read the papers much, but I seem to remember hearing something. He does look a little war-scarred. A bowl of Captain Crunchberries might trigger some sort of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The last thing I need this morning is a screaming 8 year old tearing my kitchen apart because the drawing on the box of cereal reminded him of seeing his father ripped in two by collapsing sail. My tee time is at 10. Better hold off on the cereal.

Eggs. Everyone likes eggs. Unless he's allergic. Or his people worship chickens and hold them holy, like some people do with beef and cats. Maybe I shouldn't serve him beef either. I'm certainly not about to serve him Bella DeJour, not after I spend $400 at the vet on her. If he's expecting to come into my house and eat cats, he  better either get good at finding strays or get used to being hungry.

Toast. Who doesn't like toast? Toast it will be. Simple. Easy. Give him butter or peanut butter or jam, even some Nutella so he understands that I am sophisticated.

Oh, I'm all out of Nutella. And jam. And bread. The toast will have to wait until tomorrow.

What can I make? What can I make? Why don't these foreign exchange students come with instruction manuals?

Isn't Transylvania in Romania? I think it is. Maybe he eats blood for breakfast. But how would I prepare it? I'd hate to get it wrong and have him think all Americans are self-involved neurotics completely ignorant of foreign cultures. How do you cook blood?

Wait a minute, what am I saying? Nobody cooks blood.  If he eats blood, he has to take it raw. It wouldn't make sense otherwise. I don't even have to cook anything. Just one little slice and -

Oh boy -

 - That's coming out fast.

Come and get it, Grigore, before it ends up all over the tile.

Q: Are there schools to study swordsmanship in America?

A: If you yearn to be a master swordsman able to vanquish your foes with a flick of the wrist and a thrust of the arm, look no further than Dan T. Chesterfield Swordfighting and Hazardous Waste Disposal Academy. located behind the condemned K-Mart on US-42. right next to the pile of screaming babies. If your nostrils burn of sulfur, your skin tingles, and your clothes are melting, you're in the right place.

At the Dan. T. Chesterfield Swordfighting and Hazardous Waste Disposal Academy, or the DTCSHWDA for short - we pronounce it Ditschwada, kind of like "dish water", but, you know, with a "t" in there - at DTCSHWDA you'll study under some of the world's greatest swordsmen from Japan, Spain and Italy, many of who still have all their facilities and barely suffer from any of the long term effects associated with exposure to radiation and toxic waste.

Thanks to our method of round the clock teaching, you'll be able to spin, counter, dodge, parry and thrust in now time, or die trying. (The Dan T. Chesterfield Swordfighting and Hazardous Waste Disposal Academy is not liable for any all deaths resulting from sword fights, sword cleaning, sword swallowing, sword dodging, sword catching, sword juggling, sword diving, or exposure to chemicals know to cause cancer in the state of Iowa.)

Upon arrival to DTCSHWDA, our experienced staff will steal all your belongings, beat you senseless, and cut off your ear. If you happen to bring along a mother or girlfriend to wish you well, she will be abducated and forced to wear revealing clothes, but nothing too slutty, as the Dan T. Chesterfield Swordfighting and Hazardous Waste Disposal Academy is a family friendly environment.

Once your possessions have been stolen, your will broken, your body bloody and beaten, you will have one goal in mind: Revenge. We willl hand you a sword and our faculty of award-winning swordsmen or waste disposal technicians (sometimes the swordsmen call in sick) will help you learn the skills required to slay your foe, save your wife, mother or vintage tee, and restore the honor to your family.

Our grading policy is simple: If you gain revenge, you pass. If you fail, you fail. Failure will result in immediate expulsion from the academy and forfeiture of any and all trophies, monies, clothes, pets, spouses, and mothers.

Tuition costs $5,000 and we accept anyone who can pay.

So, do you care to enroll?

Most people say "No" at first. Why don't you stick around awhile, breathe in some of the fumes and reconsider?

Q: Does a hot air balloon drop you off where it picks you up?

A: I have to admit, I'm not as familiar with hot air balloon protocol as I would like to be.

Sometimes when I'm up here, all alone, gazing into the windows of the girl's dormitory on 8th - the high rise -  I chide myself for my lack of knowledge.

Sometimes I even kick myself. Figuratively. I literally kick my dog. I'm not stupid enough to actually kick myself. My legs are strong; I kick hard. If I got injured, who would fly this balloon? Certainly not my dog. He can't fly anything, at least not since his untimely death.

I'm not sure how it happened, one second I'm kicking him because of my hot air balloon departure-arrival coordination ignorance and the next second  he's dead. I've thought about getting to the bottom of this mystery, maybe enrolling in some detective glasses at the community college, buying a magnifying glass, reading up on forensics, but I barely have time to eat, use the facilities, pilot this balloon and watch co-eds undress as it is. Taking detective classes and solving the Mystery of the Beloved Pet Who Asked Too Many Questions and Defecated All Over the Gondola and Whose Bark Alerted the Co-Eds will have to wait.

Maybe I could hire a detective to snoop around and ask some questions, but to do that I'd have to know how to land this thing.

That reminds me, I have no idea how to land this thing. If you want me to drop you off where I picked you up, you're going to have to build some sort of time machine, or create a false memory of where I picked you up. For instance, if you tell yourself that I picked you up in those high voltage power lines you'll be thrilled; that's where we're going to land.

Q: How long would it take to sail from Los Angeles to the Dominican Republic?

A: With this wind and these calm waters, about 10 days.

Oh the places we'll go.

Oh, the sights we'll see.

Oh the friends we'll make - mostly imaginary.

There are few people here on the sea.

Fewer still who want to befriend a trio of drifters on the lam, looking to make their fortune selling candy bars to school children in the Dominican.

Fewer still who will want to befriend a trio of drifters on the lam, looking to make their fortune selling candy bars to school children in the Dominican, who intend to sail all the way there in a wash tub.

Well, we may be lonely, and we may be smelly, and we may lose our minds after prolonged exposure to the sun, but we'll always have a great story to -

 - Hal, did you eat all the candy bars?

WHAT THE FUCK?

Q: How is Brazil diversifying it's economy?

A: Brazil's economy will no longer rely exclusively on kidnapping tourists, children of wealthy businessmen, and families of professional athletes. Due to a drastic decrease in tourists, children worth ransom and professional athletes who let their families live in the country, the enterprising young men and women of Brazil have announced plans to kidnap anything that might hold even the slightest emotional attachment, such as pets, family photos, video game controllers and sandwiches.

Q: How do you find the base area of a box?

A: There are a million different theories about measuring a box, but I like to follow a simple rule my grandfather told me: You'll never know much about a box until you climb inside and take a look around.

Why don't you follow his advice?

How does it feel in there? Are you all comfy and cozy?

I'm going to close the lid to give you a better sense of the box. Your eyes can play tricks on you. In the darkness, fingers never lie.

Disregard the sound of ripping tape. It's completely unrelated.

I forgot to mention this before you climbed in there, but I noticed you lost weight. How much you weigh these days?

Great. How much is that in kilograms?

No reason.

Something fell on the box. It's not taped shut or anything. Something fell on top, something heavy enough to keep the flaps closed but light enough to not crush it. Don't worry, help is on the way.

Hey, listen, I'm going to have to take off. Good luck with your whole measuring-the-size-of-the-box-thing. I hope it's as successful as that time you made that video of me crying in the shower and sent it to everyone in the senior class.

Funny how I never got you back for that hilarious prank. Well, you know what they say about revenge being best served cold.

Speaking of cold, do you have any idea how expensive it is to ship a package to Siberia?

Q: Does Japan produce avocados?

A: Japan produces something very similar to an avocado: A green, delicious fruit-like being that goes great with turkey and can be used to make a tasty chip dip. They call him AV Cado!

Unlike a traditional avocado, which grows until ripe, then is picked and eaten, AV Cado! enters the world fully formed, through a series of prayers, thunderstorms and scientific experiments gone wrong.

Eating an avocado is a treat for the senses. Eating AV Cado! would kill you. His skin is tougher that leather,  his fruit contains a lethal sedative, his pit designed to explode on contact with human saliva.

By day, AV Cado! and his pal, Turkey, compete as a racing team in the Super Fast Go-Go-Win league. At night, they try to keep Japan safe from the evil Professor Murder Professor.

On weekends, they perform with their rock band, Santa Ham Sandwich.

But no matter what they do, they're always having fun.

Unless AV Cado has been drinking. He tends to wound Turkey with his lacerating wit. Also, with his collection of samurai swords.

Q: How do they say congratulations in Hawaiian?

A: The same way we say it on the mainland. They simply say "congratulations," but in a dry, deadpan voice. Then they clap their hands, three times, real slow.

Something like this:

"Congratulations."

-clap-

-clap-

-clap-

You'll think that other people will join in on the applause, bringing it to a crescendo of joy and acceptance, but that's not what happens. They'll just clap three times, stop, and walk away.

Oh, they'll also shake their head, and mutter something under their breath as they walk away.

That's how they say congratulations in Hawaii. I did only hear it the one time, right after I told the hotel manager that I impregnated his daughter.

Q: What islands in the Caribbean that have Spanish as their primary language?

A: Cuba, Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic are all Spanish speaking islands. Any of those islands would be a perfect place for you to disappear, blend in and start a new life. That is, if you could actually speak Spanish.

You can't speak Spanish.

All those classes you've been taking, all those lessons, all those words ... Those were all a joke. We taught you a gibberish language, completely made up by Bob. We haven't taught you one word of Spanish.

We thought it was a pretty funny joke. And we all had a good time doing it. We figured you'd realize eventually. We figured you'd try and use your "Spanish" to order a meal, or pick up a girl, or impress a co-worker.

We never thought you wanted to learn Spanish so you could create a new identity, and go into hiding in the Caribbean, after pulling off the largest jewel heist in the history of Omaha.

So, yeah, you probably won't be able to hide in the Spanish Caribbean. No one would understand a word you said.

You can hide here. For a while. At least until the authorities offer a larger reward.

Q: Where in Mexico is a nice place to visit?

A: If you only care about getting really cheap drugs and possibly catching a donkey show: Anywhere.

If you want to have a relaxing vacation free from crime and constant threats of kidnapping and violence: New Mexico.

Q: How does Canada communicate?

A: Through their countless bland emissaries, who easily blend in with average Americans and corrupt our youth with tales of free health care and ice-hockey heroics and something called "Kraft Dinner."

Q: How do you get from Dublin airport to Castle Adare in Shannon Ireland?

A: Ask a Leprechaun! If you can't find a Leprechaun, ask a small Irish person. Offer them some Lucky Charms, they love that sort of thing. Mentioning your love of Braveheart won't hurt, either.