Q U E S T I O N S

A N S W E R S

I consulted my atlas for help on this question, and I'm afraid I have bad news: there is no such place as Buckhart, Illinois.

This would seem to imply either that you don't know where you live, which would  make it difficult to receive mail or have pizza delivered, or that you yourself don't exist, in which case mail and pizza would be less of a concern.

Until I get a better atlas, I'd suggest moving to Chicago.  The mail is slow, but the pizza's pretty good.  Try "Art of Pizza," just south of Belmont on Ashland.

Incredibly, I get a lot of questions like this.  People seem to have lost all sense of proportion.  How can I answer questions with so many variables?

Think of the question as a mathematical expression.  We'll use X as the perfect amount of toilet paper, so we know that one side of our equation is X, like so:

= X

That's the side that our friend from Fuse.net would like me to provide.   But what a jumbled mess he or she has left me on the other side of that delicate equal sign!  We can't clog up the pipes, and we can't have fingers poking through while wiping.

These variables are fraught with perilous conditions of their own.   What is the diameter of the pipes we don't want to clog?  What is the flush velocity of the toilet in question?  What is the thickness of the toilet paper, and what what is the pressure being applied by the finger--and how big, and how strong, is that finger?  And what are the weight and adhesive qualities of the particular substance being wiped?

If you're really interested in an answer, you'll take the time to phrase your question more accurately.  Until then, there's little I can do to help.

Consult a proctologist.

Three hours later:  ...I have heard this answer from a friend: "Because the higher the much."

This question, absent the verb,  was answered famously and definitively by Groucho and Zeppo Marx.

There's no point in my taking time to answer a question that the Great Minds of western civilization have already resolved.

Furthermore, your friend may need psychiatric assistance or the help of a clergyperson.  Be supportive.

As I have already mentioned (on the subject of nose-picking), "best" is a very relative term when talking about body-function etiquette.

First, realize that if you fart on an elevator with strangers, you are already compromised.  Whatever dignity you have is lost, and cannot be reclaimed.   Any attempt to hold on to your dignity will only make you look foolish.   Because your dignity is irretrievable, I would therefore recommend gloating. 

Take pride in your fart.  Celebrate it.  Rhapsodize it.   Solicit feedback from your fellow passengers.  Did they think it was too loud?   Was it a little too pungent?  Do they have any constructive criticism to offer?  Do they think its sound or scent might have been improved with a different sort of underwear?

Some people will actually discuss your fart with you.  This will break the tension, and render the remainder of your ride into a pleasant experience.   I have a friend who met his wife this way.

Most people, however, will not want to talk about your fart with you, and you will have succeeded in making them even more uncomfortable than yourself.  They will squirm and avert their eyes.  It may not be good etiquette to shift discomfort from yourself to others, but it can sure make you feel better.

If you fart on elevators often enough to be this concerned about this issue, however, this may be a digestive problem, or a sign that you're spending far too much time on elevators.  Consult a physician.

There will be no further sock questions.

This sounds suspiciously like a complaint, and should probably be referred to the complaint page.

If you had ever graduated from a college or university, as I almost did, you'd know perfectly well who told them.

While you're up on the platform being handed your degree, you're also being told (in very low whispers) that you're smarter than someone else--typically, the person directly behind you.

"You're smarter than Wilson," they might whisper.

Then when Wilson comes up, they'll say, "You're smarter than Wooten!"

Since there's no one behind the last graduates, they're usually told that they're smarter than the first graduates, which completes the circle and makes everyone smarter than everyone else.  Then they throw their hats in the air to prove it.

As for feeling smart while saying dumb things, I don't think degreed people can claim any advantage over the rest of us.

This question has been answered so often, by so many people, in so many ways--and so few of them funny--that I don't even want to touch it.

But if we don't face up to the challenges life throws before us, how will we ever grow?  How will I ever overcome myself if I don't strive to be more, to know more, or at least to lie with effortless grace?

My own theory is that socks don't disappear in the washing machine.   They may disappear before they reach the washing machine, or during the transfer from washer to dryer, but I really don't buy into this whole "hungry washer" theory.   If I were a washer, would I really be content with socks?   Wouldn't I want a nice silk shirt or something now and then?

Of course I would.  Statistically, at least.

But the fact remains that we all lose socks, and they never to turn up again.  I've moved too often to believe those reactionaries who insist our missing socks are hidden under our beds, or behind our couches, or deep in the bowels of our closets.  All I ever find their are pennies, dust bunnies, and the occassional fast food wrapper or beer bottle.  And although I spent my entire adult life prior to last fall without a washer on my own premises, anyone who's ever toted a heap of laundry a block or two to the laundromat knows that although laundry loves to leap out into the street--preferably into a puddle, or a steaming fresh pile of dog shit--it likes to do so conspicuously.  It just wants attention.  The idea of socks slinking away and avoiding notice is ludicrous.

I haven't got the slightest idea where socks go.  I'm sorry to let you down.  Feel free to air your grievances on the complaint page.

One day later: It's me again.  I was wondering if someone found an answer to my question?...  I know it's pretty moronic.  Thanks for your moronic time.

Seven hours later:  If you don't know the answer to my moronic question just say so.  You must be a real moron.  It takes a bigger fool to follow a fool.  What a joke....  how do you like that moronic statement?   Just fooling!

Have a moronic day...

I have to admit this question baffled me.  But it also intrigued me.  Why would someone ask such a stupid question if they didn't have some reason for wondering?  And what were the implications if in fact this were true?

I went straight to Hotbot and typed in the following search phrase: "Stan Laurel Clint Eastwood."

The number one search result surprised me.  I don't read German any better than I speak it, though.  And I don't speak German.

So that was that.

According to the U.S. State Department, which ought to know, there are exactly 190 independent states in the world as of right now (as I write this, not as you read this).

Frankly I found this surprising, given that we've got fifty right here in the U.S. of A.  Of course, a lot of countries have provinces or territorities, and I guess those don't count--or maybe they're just not independent.  Or maybe ours don't count because they're united.  I don't know.  Anyway, you asked this days ago so I'm probably too late to help you with your homework.

There are two reasons why we often fill only the bottom half of our gas tanks.

First of all, it's hard to fill the top half.

Secondly, we all harbor deep within our breasts the secret and unuttered hope that someday, somehow, our gas tanks will fill themselves without us.  All the days of our lives, as we lay sleeping, as we toil at our thankless jobs, as we knock back a couple of rounds of boilermakers...  we carry this irrational hope with us always, we cling to it, we never let go.

But mainly it's just hard to fill the top half.

I have already answered one question about straight lines, and I don't know what parallax and curvature mean, so I'm going to skip the first part of your question.   Also I'm tired, so I'm going to skip the second part.

But I would feel remiss in my duties if I didn't point out that scientists are always saying something.  It's their job.  If they don't say anything, they get fired.  No one wants to get fired.  So they just say things.  We'd probably do the same thing in their shoes.  (Hell, I might even do the same thing barefoot.)  The point is, you can't believe everything they say.  If they had all the answers, they wouldn't be wearing those funny white coats, would they?  And if they couldn't draw straight lines, how would they calibrate their instruments?   Everyone knows that scientists have to calibrate their instruments.  So they obviously depend on straight lines for their livelihood.

Consult a physician.

At some point in the future, the Moron's Almanac will be adding an area called "Ask a Pretty Girl a Stupid Question."  It will be an especially popular area, as it will feature lots of pictures of pretty girls and very little actual text.

Also, it will at last provide some of the feminine insight which has been so sorely lacking throughout this labyrinthine monstrosity of a website.

Until then, questions like this will be ignored.

See below.

Actually, I never add to the Q&A.  I do add to the "A," but only as a reaction to someone adding a "Q."  The Q's seem to come in waves.  For days or weeks on end there aren't any, then there's suddenly a rush of inquisition.

In case there are shy browsers who are all afire with important and provocative questions, however, I will provide answers to the five most frequently unasked questions.

ANSWERS TO THE QUESTIONS SHY PEOPLE HAVEN'T BEEN ASKING:

1. It's only a saying.  The fact of the matter is that you couldn't grow hair on your palms if you tried.

2. Right across the Adriatic Sea from Italy.

3. No, they're not, but she's having the implants removed so they will be soon.

4. Yes, when I was young and reckless.  But I learned from my mistakes, and I'm sticking to legal herbs now.  (I'm trying to make up for lost thyme.)

5. Never, under any condition, period, unless there's a lot of money involved.

"A. Physician" can be found in your local telephone directory, and is probably better prepared to answer your question than I am.

Consult her immediately.

5:41 in Lima, Peru, other times elsewhere.  The exact time of sunset in your area can be determined by watching the great big yellow round thing in the sky (the "sun") as it drops toward the earth at the end of the day.  (Note: "the end of the day" is the period during which the sun drops toward the earth.)  When you can't see it anymore, either it's sunset or you've gone blind.  Make a note of the time if you haven't gone blind.   Otherwise, consult a physician  (or an "optometrist").

The tooth fairy no longer collects teeth.  In fact, the tooth fairy is no longer technically even the tooth fairy.  She has retired, and is now merely the Advisor Emeritus to the board of directors of Tooth Fairy, Inc., a closely held organization which retains rights to all teeth but has contracted out collection, retention, recordkeeping, and real estate. 

Tooth Fairy, Inc., then leases the teeth to a number of organizations with PO Boxes in Honduras, none of whom responded to my requests for information.

It's questions like this that get me worried about the American educational system, because this came from an Australian first grader.

When light travels through a medium, it tends to make the medium dizzy.   This is especially true in the case of dense mediums, such as those found at sleazy carnivals, and that's the real reason seances are held in the dark.

As to calculating critical angels, I'd suggest you drop it.  Angels are supposed to be loving and supportive.  If your angel is critical and calculating, you may not be dealing with an angel at all, but a devil.

Consult a physician.

I'm assuming you're not a guy, because a guy would never find himself confused in this situation.  When a guy itches, a guy scratches, even if he's being awarded the Nobel Peace Prize live on CNN.   So the question really only applies to women.  Since I'm not a woman, I'm utterly unqualified to answer, never having had the experience and never having been let in on this little secret by a female friend, lover, relative, or other female partisan.   My being utterly unqualified to answer your question makes it irresistable.

(You'll notice I used the Nobel Peace Prize and the word 'partisan' in the same paragraph there, as part of a transparent effort to improve the overall image of this website.)

The rules of etiquette were designed to make people comfortable with one another, so the real question is this: whose discomfort is more deserving of relief: you with your physical discomfort, or someone else with their delicate sensibilities.

If, with your crotch on fire, you can convince yourself that others' delicate sensibilities are more important than your own comfort, then try this: suddenly notice a work of art on the wall, an astonishing view out a window, an especially fine example of 18th century wainscoting, an unusually interesting stain on the wall, or anything else that will let you position yourself facing a broad vertical surface with no one in front of you and everyone behind you.  Scratch to your heart's content.

(Don't grunt too much.)

As I sat by myself,
I spat at myself,
And my self said unto me,
Watch where you spit,
You moronic twit,
For this is a pretty nice shirt and you don't want to get spit all over it.

This is one of the great questions sociologists must constantly grapple with.  Fortunately I'm not a sociologist, so I can make up any goddam answer I like.

'Weird' and 'different' are what those of us who like to sound knowledgeable refer to as relative terms--the terms we use to describe our relatives.

Relative terms should be used carefully, especially with respect to in-laws, especially when speaking with one's spouse.  In general, however, it is normal to think your relatives are weird.

If we're not such morons, why are we asking me?

It's safer to take your walk to school.

I can only speak for myself, and no, I don't consider Fairfax Virginia one of the ten wealthiest counties in the nation.  I've never given Fairfax County much thought at all, until you asked.   And frankly I haven't spent much time contemplating the relative wealth of counties (but that's not to say I can't see the attraction).  Don't get discouraged, though.   Keep your inquiry scientific: ask another nine people the same question, and if five or more of them say yes, then it must be true.  This is America, after all, so the majority is always right.  (This is called consensus, and should not be confused with the census, which is almost never accurate.)

Try Sears or J.C. Penney.

Whatever you're drinking right now is obviously working just fine.

Alexandria: 51,565.
Lafayette: 81,961.
New Iberia: 32,766.

The fun part is, I'm not going to tell you what those numbers mean.

Not all cows moo, and not all ducks quack.  "Mooing" is just the preferred means of communication among cows from English-speaking countries and the United States.  In other nations, cows make distinctly different sounds, probably because they have distinctly different names.   (In France, for example, they have not yet discovered the cow, and therefore have to make do with the vache, which is similar but different, i.e. French.)

No.

This is actually one of the oldest questions in mathematics: are lines born straight, or does their environment make them that way?  It's a philosophical quagmire and much too complicated for me to give this important question the attention it deserves in this little space.  Consult a physician.

You probably encountered this in Massachusetts, which is the only state (or commonwealth) in the union in which the blind are licensed to drive.

You're assuming the frogs are killed when their legs are removed, and this is simply not the case.  Their legs are surgically removed with great care, and the frogs are then fitted with prosthetic limbs and sent to any of several amphibian rehabilitation clinics throughout the world.   Most of them are back in the wild within a few weeks, and some have achieved phenomenal success in film and television.  (Ever wonder why they always shot Kermit from the waist up?)

I think you'd probably be better off redirecting this question to someone in the tri-state area.

Bill Watterson provides an excellent illustrated guide to this theory in his groundbreaking work, Calvin and Hobbes.

Recent studies have demonstrated conclusively that the Strange Attractor theory applies not only to children in bathtubs, but to cult recruitment and marriage.

People can be pretty irritating, but putting up with them is a small price to pay for a good cup of coffee.

On a scientific level, of course, Schroedinger was attempting to prove something about quantum states.   (Quantum states include Maryland, Virginia, and New Mexico.)  His point was that given a lead box with a cat in it, there's no way of opening the box without having your face clawed off. 

But let's assume you're in company, maybe at a big dinner table or something, and you somehow got a finger way up there while you were chatting with the horrified person to your left, and now you've got this big booger stuck on the end of your finger.

What the hell do you do?  What's best?  What's most polite?

Just flick it off and try not to hit anyone.  Or what the hell, try to hit someone: it's not like they're going to invite your nose-picking ass back anyway.  If they're gonna remember you as "that nosepicker," at least let them remember you as "that dead-on accurate nosepicker."

(If it's a big goober, all sticky and gelatinous, try salting it to see if that firms it up a little.)

Toledo is not very big.  In fact it's smaller than Toledo, Ohio, which is an American city, populated by Americans, the majority of whom speak loudly.

It is located in the province of Toledo, in the state (or province, or autonomous community, or whatever) of Castilla-La Mancha.  This is where Don Quixote came from.   Mr. Quixote is famous because he suffered from a terrible mental illness that caused him always to lean toward windmills.