— Doug! Why are you hitting me?
— I thought you were dead, coming back to life!
— Then why were you hitting me?
— Dead people should be dead!
— So if I understand correctly, you left my only child with a creepy, borderline psychotic who hates everyone.
— That's different from leaving him with you?
— I have freckles.
There are actually many things in life that I've yet to figure out, like why men wear cell phones on their belt when they could so easily fit them in their pocket, millimeters away. Or why, and I'm not complaining, women wear tube tops even though every ten seconds it makes them to do this: «Get back in there!» But, of all of my endless queries, the one thing I damn sure will figure out, and soon, is how you keep coming up with all these fancy-pants answers. It is, for all intents and purposes, like they're falling from the sky.
— Where do we meet up in heaven?
— At the milk shake pool on the lesbian cloud.
OK, either the heat in my office is broken or I drifted off and fantasized about Rudy Giuliani again.