Q: What is an island off of New York?

A: There are a few islands which lie off of New York, but there is none greater than the island where I live. My island is home to the finest artists, writers, actors, directors, scholars, philosophers, singers, crime-fighters, dancers, grifters and comedians in the world.

The people of my island, the creative ones I mentioned above, and the people beneath them, the models and clerks and managers and supervisors and electricians and cab-drivers and baristas and salesmen, and the people beneath them, the thugs and trainers and lawyers and street people and cannibals and mad scientists, are the most handsome people in the world. They say it has something to do with the water. You can't throw a rock on my island without hitting someone extremely attractive. You should not throw that rock; despite appearances, the people of my island can fight. And they will. And only to the death.

There is never a dull conversation among the people of my island, never a misspoken word or an ill-advised or poorly timed joke, or even an awkward pause. Everyone here is remarkably charming. Our candidates for office don't make speeches; that would be tacky, and everyone knows what they stand for anyway, as every citizen of my island stands for the same things: Truth. Honor. Naps.

Naps are mandatory on my island, both before and after lunch, and on Mondays and Thursdays, during. Naps may be received as gifts - they are the only gifts allowed by law - but it is illegal to give a nap as a gift. Christmas has become the most dangerous day on island, and fewer survive it each year.

The mortality rate on my island is high, very near one hundred percent. According to the last census, conducted this morning, I am the sole living person. It didn't always used to be this way. Originally, there were two of us, but after we rowed far enough out to sea and finished securing the shoreline, I killed Chet. He made fun of me for talking to the pretty corpses. For the record, I wasn't talking to them; I'm not crazy. I was making them talk to each other. It's exhausting work - there's so many of them - requiring frequent naps.

My island is made of corpses. Entirely so. You probably guessed from the smell. Despite the smell and the bloating and the carrion, my island is lovely. That's why I call Lovely Island. Feel free to dock here and come ashore.

And you can't hear me.

Maybe the next boat will be closer. I hope so. I'm very lonely. And I could use some help with the female voices.

Q: How do you keep carbon monoxide from coming into your home?

A: Shrink wrap your home, then encase it in three feet of cement, until it's completely air tight. Nothing in, nothing out.

Make sure you wife and kids are inside the home before you start to save yourself from an awkward phone call later.

For best results, encourage one of your children to evolve into someone who exhales oxygen. You're gonna need that in a couple of days.

Q: What do most Romanians eat for breakfast?

A: I would imagine he eats the same as any 8 year old boy, colorful cereals featuring magic leprechauns or nautical heroes.

Oh, but what if they worship leprechauns in Romania? I wouldn't want to offend him. He seems so nice. And hasn't Romania been involved in some awful wars lately? I admit, I don't read the papers much, but I seem to remember hearing something. He does look a little war-scarred. A bowl of Captain Crunchberries might trigger some sort of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The last thing I need this morning is a screaming 8 year old tearing my kitchen apart because the drawing on the box of cereal reminded him of seeing his father ripped in two by collapsing sail. My tee time is at 10. Better hold off on the cereal.

Eggs. Everyone likes eggs. Unless he's allergic. Or his people worship chickens and hold them holy, like some people do with beef and cats. Maybe I shouldn't serve him beef either. I'm certainly not about to serve him Bella DeJour, not after I spend $400 at the vet on her. If he's expecting to come into my house and eat cats, he  better either get good at finding strays or get used to being hungry.

Toast. Who doesn't like toast? Toast it will be. Simple. Easy. Give him butter or peanut butter or jam, even some Nutella so he understands that I am sophisticated.

Oh, I'm all out of Nutella. And jam. And bread. The toast will have to wait until tomorrow.

What can I make? What can I make? Why don't these foreign exchange students come with instruction manuals?

Isn't Transylvania in Romania? I think it is. Maybe he eats blood for breakfast. But how would I prepare it? I'd hate to get it wrong and have him think all Americans are self-involved neurotics completely ignorant of foreign cultures. How do you cook blood?

Wait a minute, what am I saying? Nobody cooks blood.  If he eats blood, he has to take it raw. It wouldn't make sense otherwise. I don't even have to cook anything. Just one little slice and -

Oh boy -

 - That's coming out fast.

Come and get it, Grigore, before it ends up all over the tile.

Q: How did Jefferson Davis want to fight the war?

A: With a plan so ingenious, so original, so powerful, that the Union army would concede victory in a manner of days, allowing the gentleman and women of the South to govern themselves as they saw fit, free of the tyranny of Northern oppressors.

In Davis' plan, dubbed, "Operation Last Cavalry," the Confederate Army would create a new brigade, trained and led by masterless samurai, acquired in exchange for graphic photographs of war wounds and 500 barrels of peaches. These men were called "ronin," and were known for their lack of honor and mercenary lifestyle, but Davis called them, "my secret weapon," and would walk out of the room after making his pronouncement, ending all debate on the topic. Once the Confederate army learned the secrets of the samurai, such as their ability to hide in plain sight, their ability to kill foes at 100 paces with a thrown metal star, and the ability to disorient the enemy with smoke bombs, the South would emerge victorious and Davis would be named President and Automatic Pitcher for Life.

Unfortunately, Davis confused ninjas with samurai. He also confused China with Japan. When the boatload of Chinese immigrants arrived, simple farmers unfamiliar with even basic artillery, unable to hide even in the darkest of shadows, their whimpers and shakes and shouts of confusion always giving them away, Davis cancelled his plan and ordered all mentions of it stricken from the official record. Never one to admit defeat, Davis put these new troops to work in new capacity, but "Operation Ancient Chinese Secret," while producing the brightest whites in U.S. military history, achieved little in real results.

Q: Can inheritance affect your section 8 housing benefits?

A: Traditionally such questions are answered after the reading of the will and by your private attorney, not here, in such a public forum, in front of your extended family, by your late father's executor. But as you have asked the question five times already at increasing higher decibels, have ignored all attempts at shushery and calls to decorum by your fellows in grief, wrote the question on a large placard and waved it about your head whole shouting, "Look here, look here, oh please, old man, why won't you look here," and now hold in your hand a megaphone to undoubtedly ask your question again at a decibel level previously unconsidered, I will depart from tradition and answer your question first.

Your status as a recipient of Section 8 housing benefits may be affected by your inheritance, dependent on the content of your inheritance and its actual value. If you were to be awarded a plot of land or a string of upscale condominiums your Section 8 status would certainly be revoked, which would be of little concern as you could live in one of your unoccupied rentals until such time as you find suitable accommodations or have burned the place to the ground trying to make bathtub rock candy. In your case, I would assume the later to be most probable. If you were to inherit money,  your Section 8 status would depend on the amount and your plans for it. Obviously your father was a very wealthy man and there will be a lot of money handed out today, enough money for even the most profligate man to live multiple lifetimes without every having to worry about working. Inheriting one of those large sums would automatically lift you from your current dwellings in the lower lower lower class to the rarefied air of the upper class, thereby disqualifying you from ever receiving Section 8 benefits again.

I wouldn't worry too much about that if I were you. Now, I don't want to get ahead of myself and spoil everyone else's fun during the reading of the will, but I don't think anyone will mind if I come right out and say it: Your inheritance contains neither money nor property. But, don't fear, your have not been left out. During the reading of the will, you should pay attention to the sections about the care and feeding of your father's collection of Rhesus Macque monkeys. They seem to bit rather fond of biting. I hope they don't cause you any problems with the Section 8 people. Your father would hate to think that you had to care for his hundreds of genetically modified Rhesus Macque monkeys and be homeless. Unless that was his plan all along. You'd probably have a good idea of his intentions if you ever bothered to visit him at Christmas.

Now that I have answered your question, please take down your ridiculous homemade sign. The people behind you can't see, and your father's will stipulates that every family member must be able to see every other family member when I read the sections containing the transcripts of the secret wiretaps he placed on all your phones.