Q: How do you use household bleach for chlorinating above ground inflatable pools?

A: Ron, what are you doing what that bucket? What's in the bucket, Ron?

Do you have bleach in the bucket? Is that a bucket full of undiluted household bleach in your hand? Ron, are you going to pour the bleach into the pool?

My children are in that pool, Ron. My boy and girl. Travis and Samantha. You know my kids, Ron. They're been to your house. They've played with your kids. They ate at your table. They're good kids.

But they're kids, Ron. They say things. They didn't mean to hurt you.  They're just kids.

We understand how much you loved your wife, how much she meant to you, how much her loss tore you apart. We're adults.

Sure we all found it a little odd that you had her stuffed. And mounted. At your dinner table. But who among hasn't done something strange in the throes of grief.

Put your hand down, Steve. You're not helping.

We're adults, Ron. We get it. You lost someone special. You wanted to keep her for ever. You would do anything.

But they're kids, Ron. They didn't know any better. They didn't even know what they were doing. They were playing, that's all.

I'm sure the paint will wash off. And we can get that arm re-attached.

Why don't you put down the bleach and have a drink with us. Instead of pining over your old wife, why not meet someone new? Have you met Erica over there? The redhead? She's new, and from what I hear, not too particular. Get a few drinks in her and you can do whatever you want. Call her by your old wife's name, cry during sex - anything. Doesn't that sound nice?

Great. Just do me one favor: Don't introduce Erica to your dead wife. Even she's not that freaky.

Q: Where do tarantulas hide in the day?

A: He usually hides under that rock. I put it in his habitat about a month ago. All I have to do is poke the rock and out he comes. Let me show you.

Hmm, that's odd. He always comes right out. I'll poke the rock a little harder.

He's probably sleeping. I'll just bang on his cage some.

Okay, so he's not under that rock. There's no need to panic. There's only a few places he could be. Like under this book!

Or maybe not.

There's no need to panic. That serum I gave him, the one that endowed him with super strength, super aggression and a taste for human flesh, won't take effect for another hour. We'll be fine as long as we find him before 2.

It's 2:15?

Damn this daylight savings time.

Okay, just because we have a reason to panic doesn't mean we should. If we remain calm, and quiet, and still, and look carefully under every book, in every corner and crevice, and under all the furniture, we should be able to find him, and prevent the spread of the deadly virus he carries in his venom.

I put the virus in his venom.

I don't know. It seemed like a good idea at the time. DON'T YOU EVER GET BORED AND DO DUMB THINGS?

Sorry. So sorry. I didn't mean to raise my voice. Let's calm down, take a deep breath, suppress the ever-growing waves of panic washing over us like a tsunami, and look for the tarantula.

You know what? He's probably under this hat. That's the first place I should have looked. He's probably right here, napping away, not a care in the world, not a thought of enslaving humanity.

Well, he's not there either.

He could be anywheee - Hey, have you always had a toupee? Did it always hiss?

Q: How much water do you add to 6 volume peroxide to make 3 volume peroxide?

A: I'm not really sure. I tossed out the instructions.

Lets try a quart, shall we? A quart should do the job. Add water, mix it up, pour a little on the dog to test, and ...

Nope. That didn't work. I'd like my hair to be bleached, but not that bleached. I'm dressing up as Ric Flair for Halloween, not some straw haired Poison groupie.

Two quarts, then. One half gallon. That should do the trick. I'll just - Oh, no water. My landlord must have shut it off. That explains his cryptic message yesterday, when he said, "Hey fat ass, better pay your rent our I'm turning off your fricking water!" When I say it out loud it doesn't seem so cryptic. Or so friendly. That would explain why my mother wasn't excited when I told her the nice thing my landlord said to my yesterday. Now her tears make sense. I thought she was still just bummed out about her cancer.

How will I do this without water? Let's see. Sprite! I have Sprite. That's basically water. Sweet, fizzy water that goes great with vodka. One quart of water and one quart of Sprite. Mix it up, pour a little on the dog - Come back here, Gilligan! Who needs that stupid dog? - this looks like 3 volume peroxide. And on the noggin she goes.

That really stings.

No wonder the dog ran away. Gilligan's smarter than I think. I hope he's smart enough to dial 911.

Q: What nerves are involved in drinking?

A: You misunderstand. I need a drink to steady my nerves. That's what I said.

Honestly, I'm surprised you heard me. The anesthesia should have taken effect by now. You need more gas.

Wow, my hands are so shaky I can't get a grip on the valve. Look at them. I'm not shaking them on purpose, I'm trying to keep them steady. They've never been this bad.

Of course I've repaired a spleen before. That's not why I'm nervous.

For a guy without insurance, you sure ask a lot of questions.

Calm down, calm down. One drink and I'll be fine. Just give me one second to -

Ha. Will you look at that? I can't even unscrew this bottle of Jack. I'd ask you to help, but I don't want to undo your restraints. My nurse took a john out to her car. I can't tie you back up without her. She's really good with knots. Kind of her thing.

Damn, I really need this whiskey. What if I ...

Fuck.

I hope I didn't get any glass in your eye. I didn't expect the bottle to shatter like that. I thought I could knock the the top off, but keep the bottle intact. Maybe next time. We may have to cancel your surgery, I'm afraid -
Wait, don't move. There's a puddle of whiskey on your stomach. Stay very still. This might be enough.

You're not ticklish, are you.

Aaaaaahhhhhhhh. That hit the spot. And look, no more shakes. All right, let's crank the gas, get you out and take out that spleen.

Repair the spleen. That's what I said. What did you think I said?

Why would I take out your spleen? You're not making any sense. Time for more gas!

Hmmm. The tank's empty. I must have used it all up before you got here. I get nervous before I meet new patients. There's some real weirdos out there. Lucky for you, I have a back up anesthetic. This hammer. Don't move.

Now, which one is the spleen?

Q: What dog breeds suit police dogs?

A: If you need a dog to maintain public order, scaring crowds and keeping mobs at bay - you know, the fun stuff -  use a rottweiler. German shepherd in a pinch.

If you need a dog to sniff out some drugs - say you've pulled over a van of dirty hippies and you need a reason to toss their peace-loving asses in jail to prevent them from corrupting the youth of the community  - you're gonna want a Labrador. If there's drugs to be found, they will find them. Works best if they know where you planted them. Otherwise you'll be out there all night, listening to some long-hairs bitch about the Fourth Amendment, when you could be out busting up high school keggers, exchanging get out of jail free cards for sexual favors. Take my advice: don't actually hand out cards. You don't want a paper trail.

If you're tracking someone, either a fugitive, a suspect, or a pimpled teenager hiding in the woods with an iPhone - did you know those things have cameras on them? - you're gonna want a bloodhound.

At the end of the day, once your police work is over, once you find your fugitive, or suspect, or teenager, and you break his phone, and put the fear of God in him, and swear him to secrecy, and pull your pants up, and beat him some about the jaw with your night stick to guarantee his silence only to accidentally kill him because kids today aren't as tough as they used to be, you're gonna want a dog waiting at home for you, a dog who won't judge you, who won't look at you sideways when you pick up a six pack of beer and thirty feet of plastic sheeting at Walmart, who'll sit in your lap and lick your face and fill that gaping whole in your being where most folks have a soul. That dog should be a corgi.

Isn't that right, Mr. Mocha? Who's a good boy? Who's a good boy?