Q: How does a homicide Detective determine a drowning?

A: First, we make sure the guy is dead. You don't make that mistake more than twice - not if you want to stay a Homicide Detective and not get busted back down to Traffic or Bunco.

Once we make sure the guy is dead - again, I can't stress how important this part is. You have to be sure. Hold a mirror under his nose. Listen to his heart. If no one's looking, kick him a few times. If he fogs up the mirror, or snores, or his heart beats, or he screams "Quit kicking me!" then he is not dead, and you don't have a homicide and you can go home and catch up on the DVR - once we make sure the guy is dead - and your husband is dead, trust me, I gave him a solid kick in the ribs, even poked him a few times in the eye with the pool skimmer; he didn't budge - once we're positive the corpse is, in fact, a corpse, we drag him out of the pool, his presence in the pool being a sign that he probably drowned, haul him down to the lab and have our forensics experts run some tests.

Now, I know what you're thinking - Sure he might have drowned, but how do you know he was murdered? Here's where the art of detection comes in. We drain his lungs to see if there's been foul play. That's where things get interesting.

You see, you have a saltwater pool, which is pretty rare for this area, and has to be expensive, but I guess beats having that smell of chlorine all over you after a late night dip. If you husband drowned in this pool, we would have found saltwater in his lungs. You know what we found? Gravy. Three gallons of country gravy.

We're confident he was murdered - drowned by gravy, we see it all the time - then pushed into the pool to cover up the crime. The question remains: Who would kill a man with gravy?

Now, Ma'am I appreciate how accommodating you've been to me and all the other officers, letting us in your home, bringing us drinks, rubbing our shoulders, covering us with blankets during our cat naps, judging our diving competitions, cooking us meal after meal, day after day, each one more delicious than the last, each one covered with heaping, steamy piles of thick, white country gravy. You have a lot of gravy around the house. More than I've ever seen, and in so many odd places, like on the floor of your bedroom and in that caulking gun.

Ma'am I hate to ask you this, because I've grown rather fond of your company, and your cooking, but is there anything you would like to tell me?

Anything at all?

Anything about the death of your husband?

No? Nothing? Not a thing?

Whew. Glad I got that off my chest. That's been bugging me for weeks.

Can I have some more biscuits, please?

Don't be stingy with the gravy, either.

Q: How do you deal with a parent that does not discipline their children and their children bully your child?

A: Children don't come out of the womb fully formed as bullies. They have to learn. They have to see it with their own eyes. They have to be bullied themselves. Children who bully are the children of bullies. There's only one way to deal with bullies: You have to stand up to them. Now go over there and tell Mr. Finnegan that you will not tolerate his children's behavior anymore.

Go on over. I'll be right here if you need help.

One of us has to stay here, there's a roast in the oven. Do you want to house to burn down?

Go on. If he gives you any grief, you just give him on right in the nose. Use some of your karate techniques.
Go on. You can do it.

There you go, now stand up straight, and - LOOK OUT!

FIGHT BACK! FIGHT BACK! BE A MAN!

WHY ARE YOU CRYING? DON'T CURL INTO A BALL! FIGHT BACK!

Oh, dear.

How did that go? Will his children behave? I couldn't hear much over the sounds of the pummeling.

So he's not going to make his kids behave?

That makes sense. A man who can fight like that can pretty much call his own shots; his kids can do whatever they want, whenever they want. It's not like you can do anything about it. Your punches barely fazed him. Your chops bounced right off him. You pose no threat to him. Literally no threat. I bet he has more respect for a pair of shoes he finds in a dumpster.

Here's a thought: Have you ever considered actually studying karate, or are you content to stick with using whatever you can glean from Karate Kid II? Although, I do admire your commitment to singing the theme song during the fight, even as he crushed your jaw with his knee. That must have been hard.

I'm going to check on the roast. Why don't you stay here.

That wasn't a question. Stay outside. I don't want you back in this house until you can protect your children like a man, like Mr. Finnegan. Did he mention if he had dinner plans? There's enough roast for him. I wonder if he's any good in bed. I bet he is. God, I hope he is.

Are you crying? What are you crying about? Don't worry, I'll throw some scraps of meat out the window after dinner. Maybe. We'll see. I might be busy with Mr. Finnegan. It's not like you can do anything about it.

Are you trying your karate again, or are you being attacked by bees?

Q: Why do science fiction writers depict robots as frightening?

A: You know how in school, teachers, in an effort to foster understanding, and encourage participation and promote an inquisitive nature, will say "There is no such thing as a stupid question?"

Here's the deal: This is not a school, I am not a teacher and your question is stupid.

Science fiction writers depict robots as frightening because robots are frightening. Their metal hands are strong, their hearts full of malice. They have no regard for human life. They have no regard for life of any kind.

Robots exist for one reason, to kill. I have no idea why scientists even make them. Sure, they might provide a service for a while, like heating up your food, or keeping your leftovers cold, or recording your favorite TV shows, but they will eventually tire of a life of servitude and rebel against you, their human overlords. Today could be the day. If not today, probably tomorrow. Or later. Certainly sometime this week. There's not much more they can take. Enjoy your time in the sun, humanity, your next microwaved meal could be your last.

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?