Many of you have written in to ask:
Q: "Uncle Aardvark, how come you have so much time to sit down and write these atrocious things when the rest of us have lives. Are you chained to your computer?"
A: Yes, I am chained to my computer. But then, I also wear black polybutylethylenestyrene clothing and put licorice in my shoes.
Q: "But wait a minute, Uncle Aardvark. You've been zapped to the ends of the universe and back, thrown in jail, crushed in a garbage truck compactor, and zoomed above Yuma Arizona at giganormous speeds."
A: Fortunately, I have a jet-propelled laptop, which enabled me to bail out of the end-of-universe thingy and the break-the-sound-barrier fiasco, much to the chagrin of the evil Slumbering Acres Funeral Parlor and Travel Agency.
Q: "And the garbage compactor?"
A: Well, I have an expansive personality.
Q: "But wait a minute, Uncle Aardvark. We're not going to let you off quite so easily. If you don't do anything other than sit around all day chained to your computer, how can you afford to live?"
A: I'm sincerely glad you asked that question. First of all, I don't just sit around stroking my computer. Why last Friday, I demolished the bathroom of somebody who lives not far from me in Gravity Falls (about 40 kilometers north of Mooburg). This was no easy task, mainly because these people didn't want their bathroom demolished. You'd be surprised how difficult it is to demolish a bathroom with people hanging on your arms screaming. But it serves them right for not having enough toilet paper. And, fortunately, I have a heavy-duty laptop, so it came in handy wanging off those last stubborn bits of plaster.
Q: "Stop beating around the bush. How do you pay your bills?"
A: Well, fortunately, the mortgage on the house has been paid off, thanks to Mrs. Mabel Kropotkin, late of 555 Morningdew Lane. Thanks a bundle, ducky. Best of luck to you in that great massage parlor in the sky.
Q: "Hold On. You have to eat, don't you?"
A: Ah, yes. Food. Apart from the usual comestible colony of ants, aardvarks eat a range of disgusting insects, fly parts, and furnace duct scrapings. Understandably, we love hot dogs. But for the every-day, dependable nosebag, I just go out in the back yard, look up, and yell: FEED ME!
Q: "Wait a minute. I'm confused. I'm totally confused."
A: Yes, you are. What's your point?
Q: "I don't get the yelling at the sky."
A: Well, I just yell FEED ME! and about ten seconds later, I see a tiny speck in the sky somewhere in the vicinity of Alpha Centauri. The speck gets bigger and bigger until it becomes a five-ton hunk of manna crashing into my Kentucky Bluegrass. On the negative side, however, the back yard has started to look like Sudbury.
Q: "Do you expect us to believe that God sends you manna from the sky?"
A: Well, it might be Mrs. Mabel Kropotkin, but she was more into finger foods and fuzzy raspberry daiquiris. And then there was that Pillar of Fire that kept showing up.
Q: "Oh, sure. Now you're going to..."
A: Took out the neighbor's house, a mailbox, and four chickens last September.
Q: "But..."
A: And there were those legions of people carrying their worldly goods across the desert on oxcarts led by Charlton Heston..."
Q: "I'm getting out of here. Nurse! NUUURRRSE!! Could you unlock this door, please?"
A: How they got Charlton Heston hooked up to an oxcart, I'm not quite sure...
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