Q: Why work in a restaurant?

A: Everyone needs money, at least until we all come to our senses and replace our broken capitalist system with a system based on exchanging hand-drawn back rub coupons for goods and services; what better way to make money than by working at a restaurant, lugging hot plates of greasy food, constantly on the move, your income reliant on the generosity of  strangers too lazy or too incompetent to prepare and cook their own meals?

I see you're starting to form words with your mouth there and I'm going to stop you before you get too far. My question was rhetorical. There is no better way to make money. End of story.

In addition to the money - and I'm talking hundreds of dollars a month, more than enough to support your drug habit or deadbeat boyfriend or elderly parent - working in a restaurant has certain ancillary benefits. You get to eat all the food we throw away at the end of the night. Sure you have to fish it out of the dumpster and knock the maggots off it, but once you do, it's yours. Bon appetit. If  customer doesn't finish his soda, you can finish it. That's like three gallons of free soda a week. Free food, free soda, free sex with the restaurant manager - how much better does it get?

Let me stop you there. No better. None. Rhetorical.

Aside from the free food and drink and sex - and it's good sex; I keep a nice rhythm, and I know just when to pinch and tickle and bite - there's one benefit to working at a restaurant that you can't get anywhere else: If a child gets lost in the restaurant and stays the night, he becomes the property of our employee of the month, no questions asked. You can do whatever you want with him: teach him to sing, to fight, to talk like a robot, to pick pockets, or grift, or act as body armor - anything. Kids get lost in here all the time. Once they enter the playroom, they have a hard time finding their way out, probably because it's shaped like a maze, and we play loud Danish death metal to disorient their sense of direction. And we drug all the kids meals. Whatever the reason, there's a lot of lost kids in that playroom. Enough to build an army. An army of disoriented children, bleeding from their ears and crying for their parents. Just so you don't feel bad, the parents sign a waiver before their kids enter the playroom. It holds up in court.

So, are you going to take the job? Or am going to have to sweeten the offer with some erotic photos from my vacation to Belize?

Great. Welcome aboard. Just sign this start paperwork and you're all set. As a new member of the team, you get the first session of free sex with the restaurant manager. Slip into this panda costume and meet me in the break room. I did mention that the sex, while free and incredible, is mandatory, didn't I?

Oops. Guess you should have read that paperwork. There's a zipper in the back of the costume. It's a one piece. If the smell bothers you, don't worry, you won't have it on that long.

Q: What is a lions effect on man?

A: Before I had a lion, I had a wife, I had kids, I had a house, a nice one with three and half bathrooms, enough for everyone to use at once.  I had an important job, as an executive for a growing advertising company. I wooed clients, recruited writers and artists. I wore a suit to work, except on Fridays when I wore a designer jeans and a blazer. I had an expense account.

My son, Reggie, wanted the lion. He talked me into it. He said all the other kids in his class had exotic pets, Mike had an iguana, Tyler's parents bought him an emu, Jake got a orangutan for his 12th birthday. Reggie looked at me, tears in his eyes, snot in his nose, with a quivering lip, and asked "Don't you love me, Dad? Is that why you won't buy me a lion?"

I didn't love him. He had been an accident. My therapist told me I could never let the boy know, not ever, not for any reason, no matter what he did or said, no matter how much he disappointed me, no matter how often his presence reminded me of the beach house in Maui I could not afford thanks to his need for food and shelter and private education.

I bought him a lion. He named it Emmet. I thought that would be the end of it, and I could go back to ignoring him and dismissing his questions with a nod of the head, a raise of the eyebrows, by saying, "That's great, Reg. Daddy's busy."

When I bought Reggie the lion I bought three hundred pounds of ground beef. I thought that was the end of it. The lion ate the beef in four days. On the fifth day Reggie asked me to buy more food. I nodded my head. I raised my eyebrows. I said, "That's great, Reg. Daddy's busy." I finished my drink. I searched the internet for pictures of college girls posing in bathroom mirrors. I was not busy. I did not buy more food.

On the sixth day the lion ate Reggie. On the seventh day the lion ate my wife and my other children. On the eighth day my company's accountant questioned me about my expense account. Had I really bought 300 pounds of ground beef? Had I really bought a lion? I nodded my head, raised my eyebrows and told him I was busy.

On the ninth day I lost my expense account. On the afternoon of the ninth day, I lost my job. I still have the lion. He's stayed with me through it all, through the toughest time in my life. I wouldn't be where I am today without this lion. They say a dog is man's best friend. They lie. Man's best friend is a lion. I've never been so happy in my life. Although that may be shock. The lion took a big chunk out of my thigh a minute ago. Looks like he's coming back for more.

Q: Is there more energy when field mice eat spiders or when they eat oats?

A: When I began my experiments with field mice, I was sure that eating a diet of spiders would give field mice more energy than eating a diet of oats. Pretty damn sure. I must admit I entered into my hypothesis somewhat haphazardly, as I have never worked with field mice, or with a controlled experiment, or in a lab, or with other people. Most of my previous experiments had been strictly theoretical: How many rhinoceros could fit in the International Space Station? Who would win in a fight between Batman and The Scarlet Pimpernel? Could the Detroit Lions win the Super Bowl with a robot for a quarterback? That sort of thing.

Despite my lack of actual scientific expertise, I was awarded a grant and given a budget to conduct my experiments. Again, I admit I may have jumped ahead of myself a little bit. I could have started small, say with ten mice and ten spiders and one bag of oats, and see if my hypothesis proved true. I didn't start small. I bought 3 million field mice, spending most of my budget. In order to save money on the spiders, I bought a box of 7-legged tarantulas from Pakistan. I figured it wouldn't matter.

It did matter. Turns out, field mice get most of their energy from oats and very little from spiders. Turns out field mice don't eat irregular Pakistani spiders. Irregular Pakistani spiders do, however, eat field mice. At an alarming rate.

Turns out irregular Pakistani spiders get a tremendous burst of energy from eating field mice. They also develop tremendous aggression. And a tremendous appetite. And they grow. At an alarming rate.

I guess you could say my experiment was a failure. The grant board did, even after I tried to go back and change my application to say that I intended to prove that feeding spiders a diet of field mice would create an army of gigantic, blood-thirsty, super-intelligent spiders who could read minds. You know, for military use.

Didn't I mention they could read minds?

Well, they can. Don't think about killing spiders.

I've put my failed experiment behind me and I'm focused on my next project: I intend to prove that I can save the world from an army of gigantic, blood-thirsty, super-intelligent spiders who can read minds by sleeping with the Maxim Hot 100. I mailed the grant application this morning. Fingers crossed.

Q: How can you use corpse in a sentence?

A: I just did:

Your partner is a corpse.

That's what I said a minute ago. Then you smiled and nodded and I thought you understood and you'd stop crying and stop kissing her and I wouldn't have to back away slowly and run.

But then you got this blank look on your face, this far away look like you could see right through me, through everything, that look made me want to back away slowly and run and run until my legs gave out, but I didn't because I knew you'd catch me, and you asked what corpse means and I smiled because I thought you were joking and I pointed to your partner, dead on the ground.

But you didn't smile or laugh or seem to understand what I was saying, and then you asked again what corpse means and I said "a dead body" and you asked me to use in a sentence and I said "Your partner is a corpse" and now you asked again and I'm kind of at a loss for words.

Your partner is dead. She is a corpse. She is that corpse. That's why she's not happy to see you. That's why she can't hug you back. Stop trying to force her arms. Rigor mortis makes them too stiff.

I'm guessing you haven't been a detective that long. And I'm guessing you and your partner had a relationship that was more than professional. That probably makes her death hard to accept. If it were up to me, you could stay there holding her and crying all day. But it's not up to me. We have a crime scene to process. I need you to step away from the corpse so I can take her down to the morgue for an autopsy.

You probably don't want me to explain what autopsy means.

Q: What are the 5 things the determine personal health?

A: A healthy lifestyle depends on:

1.) Eating a balanced diet, low in sodium, sugar and fat.
2.) Exercising daily.
3.) Refraining from smoking, drug use or drinking alcohol.
4.) Getting plenty of sleep, at least 8 hours a day,
5.) Not having an alien gestating in your rib cage.

You were so close.