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Do you ever ghost write for your inner child?
I never ghost-write for my inner child. Because my inner child is not speaking with me. Years ago, I buggered my inner child something fierce, with my hand over his tiny uncomprehending mouth, and told it to keep silent forever or I would kill its inner parents. Now my inner child just whimpers in the corner, drawing angry pictures of self loathing with my inner feces on the inside of my skull.

Squeeze or flatten as you go up?
I neither squeeze nor flatten as I go up. No, I prefer the straight up and down, frictional stroke I've always used in masturbating. Flatten as I go up? No wonder I read about you crazy bastards winding up in the ER in "News of the Wierd."

What's the best illicit drug you weren't addicted to?
The best illicit drug I wasn't addicted to would have to be my ex-girlfriend. Man, she could get you high, bring you low, drag you across a cut glass landscape of your own desire, and then lick the blood from wounds you didn't know you had. And the best part, is that she didn't get injected to you - you got to be injected into her. She was like crack, man, only on acid.

At what price would you gladly be a space tourist?
To be a space tourist, I would gladly allow Classmates.com to be shuttered forever. That's what I'm willing to give up.

What do you regard as the highest and best use of the internet in the current era?
The best use of the Internet currently is the ease with which I can search and download all the cute but poorly photographed poses of anonymous cats. I just love knowing that terabytes of server space worldwide are filled up with feline antics. That I have to winnow through so much news and boobs to get to those sweet, lovely kitties is just a shame.

If mermaids are real do you think you could figure out how to "make it happen"?
You ask "If mermaids are real?" Who are you kidding? You don't know mermaids are among us? What is Oprah, if not a mermaid? She lures men to their deaths, man. She drinks their blood salts and broadcasts the husk of their dreams to her slavering, Ensure-slugging minions. And she's not the only one. God, if only mermaids weren't real; then I could stop running and return to my job at the aquarium.

If you were forced to write about only one celebrity from hear on out, who would you choose?
If I could write about only one celebrity from hear [sic] on out, it would be Mr. Satire. That boy is going places, that is for sure. And I figure, I get in now, I'll be his personal assistant and can live off his leavings. The women, the driftwood clocks, the glitter and pasta greeting card collection. I'm am SO in. Pick me, Mr. Satire, pick me.

After that sick [sic] business, I'll let you know you're not winning any favor around here pal. Especially since you pointed out my folly, it's now forever engrained in the black and white print of the internet. Damn my broken backspace key!

What would you do for a Klondike bar?
For a Klondike Bar, I would gladly feed an adorable kitten to a ravenous mermaid. Much as I love those fuckin' kittins and fear those god-forsaken half humans.

Hippy chicks: hot or hairy?
Hippy chicks are hot. White hot. First, they usually believe really dumb shit, so they'll believe me. Second, they're not much concerned with the state of their body, so why should I? They pretend like they're all careful what they put into their bodies, but that ain't true - trust me. Oh you wanna do what to me with what when and where and in front of which of your friends? Well, if that's your bliss - man. Yeah, hippy chicks are hot. Best of all - nobody's usually looking for them, so they're easy to dispose of.

Ever killed anybody?
I have never killed anybody. Or I like to think I haven't. I like to think nature did it. But, yeah, when you get right down to the truth of it - I did the pushing.

Why do you write your paper?
Why do I put up a satire website. Because I have to, I have no choice. No choice but to write, to keep writing. I can't stop. [Sob] Oh god, please help me stop, please help me, please help, please take off these demonic red gloves.

Boxers or breifs?
I am a boxer man. It all goes back to the Boxer Rebellion and my brief time as a figure model in college (Christ, those were some zany, confused, whose orifice are you, kind of days!). Mostly - the briefs are too constricting on my giant flanks, my columnar thight. So boxers, yes, I'm going with boxers as my answer. Boxers. Wait, no, briefs.

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