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?

Q: What is break down voltage?

A: Oh, hello, RoboCrab. I didn't see you there. Um, Captain Justice and I were talking about ... human things. Nothing a robot need worry about.

Actually, we've been  talking about what a great job you've done lately, all those pro-bono cases, all the work with the starving children in Africa, that criminal conspiracy you uncovered to illegally drill oil in Manhattan. You've really outdone yourself.

I must admit, some of us were skeptical when you joined the Hero Squad. The idea of an anatomically accurate, 12-foot, robotic crab, armed with nothing but good intentions and a can-do spirit, joining the World's Finest Superhero team raised quite a few eyebrows, and many objections. But you won us over. You did everything we asked of you, and much we didn't ask of you, like organizing our laundry, removing the shellfish from the post-battle spread, and destroying that invisible oil rig in the Hudson River.

You've done the Hero Squad proud, RoboCrab. We'll emphasize that tomorrow at the press conference.

Why are we having a press conference? That's an excellent question, one I didn't think you'd ask. Your Artificial Intelligence is more advanced than I thought.

Well, I'm changing my name. I'm not Voltage anymore. I'm the Drillmaster. That's why I have this new costume. And why I have a drill on the end of my staff. And why I have an oil derrick graphic on my chest.

But I'm not the only one making a change! As of tomorrow, we are no longer the Hero Squad. Say hello to the Exxon Mobile World Crimefighting and Anti-Robot Squad. Obviously, we will also announce our new corporate sponsor.

As well as your your death.

Polling indicates the term "break down" will make the whole thing easier for the public to swallow. As I'm sure you know, you have millions of fans across the globe.

Now, if you'll look to your left, Captain Justice has a new cannon he would like to show you.

Don't fear, RoboCrab. In death, you will be fondly merchandised.

Q: Do porcupines live in holes?

A: Moles live in holes. That's where they tunnel and dig and eat - worms and grubs mostly. It's where they make their mole music, their sweet, beautiful mole music. The most beautiful music you can imagine. You hear that music, next thing you know you're leaving your house, walking out the door - what is that beautiful music? Where is it coming from? - you find a hole. The music's coming from the hole. The most beautiful music. Music meant for you, only you. You climb in, look around. There you see it, the most beautiful thing in  the world.

You see a mole.

You see a mole standing there, in the dirt, greeting you, arms wide, mole hands splayed, tiny mouth breaking into a tiny, toothy smile. "Hi," he seems to say, "Hi! Welcome to my hole!" You think that's what he's saying. You're not sure, you don't speak mole. You're sure of one thing. You've never loved anything as much in your life.

You love the way he tunnels, love the way he digs, love the way he eats mole meals - piles of worms, 20 or 30, that have been incapacitated - love the way he can barely see. Most of all you love his music, his tender mole music.

You call the mole Steve. That's what he looks like. That's who he is. Steve. The most beautiful creature on God's Earth. The love of your life. Steve. The mole.

You choose a life with Steve. You choose to leave behind surface life, human life - house, wife, kids, car, DVD collection - and make a life with Steve. A mole life. In his mole hole.

After a while you get used to the side glances and the upturned noses and the graffiti - the worst things imaginable sprayed right on your house. I don't have to tell you what it says, you can read - and the firings and the bankruptcy and the lawsuits and the visits from animal control, and you find happiness, true happiness down in that hole. In that hole with the mole.

One day you wake up and everything is different.  The hole seems smaller, dirtier. Steve's not as friendly. He acts like he doesn't even know you. He acts like he can't even see you. He doesn't offer you any of his mole meal. He runs when you try to cuddle. Instead of making beautiful music, he hisses and gnaws. Instead of making sweet love, he bites and scratches.

The truth sets in. You meant nothing to him. He used you - for warmth, for food, for shelter. The love you had was fake, false - make believe. You feel ashamed, stupid - how could a mole love a man? No wonder your wife left you, no wonder your kids mocked you. All the graffiti makes sense now.

I'm okay now. It's been a tough road, but I'm okay.

To answer your question, sir, I don't have a porcupine problem. I have a mole problem. There's a mole in that hole. An awful, evil mole.

Pour the cement.

Q: Do lovebirds need to be kept inside?

A: Most of the men out here haven't seen a woman in years, let alone smelled one. Decades for some. If we let them near those lovebirds, they'd tear them apart. These are awful men. Bad. Violent. Evil. So evil. So evil, not even their mothers could love them - Lord knows some of them have tried.

The men, I mean. To love the mothers. In the physical sense.

I'm talking about men who try to make love to their own mothers. By "make love" I mean sex, good, old-fashioned fucking, in the procreational sense. Sodomy, too. To their own mothers.

Pretty awful, isn't it.

Yessir, these men are animals. No other way to put it. If we let the conjugal visitors outside of the restricted area, let them out into the yard, those no telling what these beasts would do. It wouldn't be pretty, I can assure you of that. These beasts, these things, they think like filth. They are filth. Do you have any idea what they'd do to a woman, a woman as beautiful as that?

Here, let me show you.

I've seized these drawings over the years, each one made by a prisoner inside these walls. Look at this smut.  Look at the details. They've put a lot of thought into it. I can hardly stand to look at them. No more than an hour or so. Two tops.

No, there's no way we can let these monsters, these horrible, brutal monsters - with their filthy minds, and their strong sinewy arms, and their rock-hard, bulging neck muscles, and their total disregard for common decency - anywhere near those sweet, young marrieds, expressing their love in the missionary position, as God intended. Those lovebirds must stay inside, for their own good. As long as they stay on that side of the room, under the light, where the camera can see them. It does me no good if they roll to the floor or make love in the shadows. None of the lifers will pay a penny for that.

Q: What is the hard surface of earth?

A: The hardest part of the earth's surface is the crust. It protects the mantle and the core. It's miles thick and very hard.

You didn't break your claws on the earth's crust. You broke them on concrete. You're trying to dig through a swimming pool. You can't tunnel through a swimming pool.  Every mole knows that.

But you're not really a mole, are you?

You might have fooled everyone else, but you can't fool me. I know you're not a mole. You're one of those mole-like people who live in the sewers and hide from the sun. I know it. Don't lie to me.

I've suspected it for months now, ever since you stumbled into our mole-hill and start hanging around and asking all those questions. You asked a lot of questions for a mole. Too many. That was my first clue.

My second clue came when you refused an extra helping of dirt. Who would refuse more dirt? Dirt is delicious. Everyone knows that. Every mole at least.

But, as I said, you're not a mole. Not that I've seen you dig, I know for sure. You're a pale, hairy, shriveled, little man. Sad. Lonely. Looking for some friends.

You'll find no friends down here.

Don't pretend you can't see me when I'm talking to you!