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: What is the proper landing angle of an aircraft?

A: Anything below forty-five degrees will get you near the ground. From there a series of small adjustments gets you to right around three degress, a nice angle for your landing. Clean approach. Safe. Comfortable. Conservative. Boring.

Seems to me people have forgotten the awesome majesty of air travel. When I'm in the cockpit I make it a point to remind them.

I make my initial approach at one-hundred-thirty-eight degrees, an angle your average passenger finds terrifying. Most people expect to be looking down, at the ground, at the end of their flight, not up, at the vast expanse of the sky. It rattles them. They question everything. I hold there, for a moment,  so they may contemplate their lives, their choices, the roads not taken, the rings not seized, the lovers they let walk away. When I say "moment," I'm really talking ten, fifteen minutes. Folks make a lot of choices. I want to give them the chance to question all of them. In the middle of this painful reconsideration of their lives, I make a slight adjustment. Ninety degrees, straight down. You would not believe the screams.

I don't think I have to tell you that I'm something of a movie buff. Plane movies in particular: Airport, Airport 1975, Airport '77, The Concorde ... Airport '79, Air Force One, Turbulence.  These films offer a portal to another word, a world behind our own, a world where the Storm Gods wage ragged battle, with metal and lighting and flesh and water and wind and air, against all that is weak and soft and human.

Know this: I have crossed through the portal. I have seen the battles. When The Storm Gods fight the world shakes, the seas boil, the mountains crack; the whipping winds bring razor-sharp raindrops, and the cobblestones clog with blood and brain matter. And there are screams. Screams of the newly wounded, screaming for revenge. Screams of the long wounded, screaming for mercy, Screams of the wicked, screaming for joy. Ten thousand Storm Gods snapping, slashing, cracking, choking, decapitating. Ten thousand Storm Gods screaming, screaming in one voice, screaming  for victory.

It was the most horrible thing I ever heard. You can't even imagine. But it is a Christmas carol compared to the screams in the main cabin when I jack-knife my baby down to ninety degrees. A thousand different voices crying out at once, like something pure has been taken from this world. There is shrieking, sobbing, shouting, tribal chanting, maniacal laughter, soul-clearing bursts of prayer. When I close my eyes I can still hear her, the woman in 27B, clawing at her seat back, screaming "Why? Why? Why? Why is it taking so long? Why won't they let us die?."

Their behavior doesn't shock me. This is who they are. This is who they are when they have nothing left to shield them. I'm shocked they don't act like this all the time. One unexpected descent leads to this? This is all it takes? There exists in the world a madness ready to be unleashed at the slightest provocation. No wonder there's so much violence today. Everyone's on edge. We're traveling on a round, organic bullet that weighs so much that I don't even know how to say how much it weighs; it's a 6 with the 10th power and then 24 more of those exponential guys. It's very heavy. And it's traveling at 67,000 miles an hour. And shit, terrible shit, can happen at any time. Why is anyone ever calm?

Now, I'm not a mad man. I'm not going to kill anyone. I just make them think they're going to die. Once they believe, I mean really believe, I pull out of the plummet and even my baby out at a flat one-eighty. My passengers have earned their reprieve. They've glimpsed the Storm Gods. They know what exists on the other side. They're calmer now, stronger. Now that they've been jostled and soiled, had their faith tested and their appreciation for the miracle of flight restored, I bring them in  for the smoothest landing they will ever have. 99 times out a 100. 98 times. I forgot about Cleveland. But you'll hear more about that at the deposition.

This is the deposition?

How am I doing?

Q: How many cells in a giant sequoia?

A: Nine today. More or less the same tomorrow. You know how it goes here at The Giant Sequoia Experimental Penitentiary for the Criminally Obsessive Compulsive. Things tend to stay pretty much the same. Once you've carved out your cell from the trunk of that giant sequoia, and settled inm and defended your routine, each day looks, thankfully, like any other.

I may be biased here, but they have dramatically undersold the lifestyle benefits of prison for the modern obsessive compulsive. I have a little space that's all my own. I get to dress the same way every day. I never have to check to see if I locked the front door. If I had a place like this growing up, I'd probably never allowed my obsessive compulsions to flourish in a such a criminal manner.

Yes, life at Giant Sequoia Experimental Penitentiary for the Criminally Obsessive Compulsive is almost exactly how you'd like it. Almost.

There is still the matter of the cells, the nine cells, the nine cells. Nine. Not ten. No, not the-far-more-perfect-in-every-way number ten, no god forbid we had even sides for basketball. Nine. Not eight, not the far-less-perfect-than-ten-but-far-more-perfect-than-nine eight, no why should we have the right about of chairs at he lunch table. Nine. It has to be nine.

Some nights I think about taking my old hatchet and carving out another cell, a tenth cell. But then I remember that a piece of toilet paper touched the blade of that hatchet and I had to set it, and the cell of the guy in the cell next to me, and the guy in the cell next to me, on fire.

Then I remember when there was ten cells.

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.