It may be too late for Texan inmates, but the rest of us may consider the following hypothetical (we hope! Especially after this post) question from Paul in Newcastle:
If you were on Death Row, what would you pick as your last ever meal?
Like many Death Row residents, we might find that our usual appetite deserts us at such a time. Also, we understand that the famous Last Meals are ordered from unhealthy takeaway joints, and we wouldn’t want our last words to be, “Ouch, heartburn!” Not even as an ironic comment upon the efficacy of the electric chair.
Readers, what would you order? Click here if you need inspiration.
A fellow who dubs himself ‘Most certainly not a serial killer’ from Brooklyn, New York has a question that is PURELY THEORETICAL:
Answer me this: what is the ideal way for a serial killer to go about his/her work?
I’ve developed a system of sorts, but it is rather lengthy [as behoves something which is 100% PURELY THEORETICAL, ALRIGHT?].
1. The Location
Ideally an area that has high traffic during the day but virtually none at night and sans CCTV cameras, for example an alleyway or side street which many traverse, allowing for any evidence left at the scene to be contaminated with the residue of hundreds of others. 2. The Means
Anything that would leave residue at the scene is not viable, such as firearms; blades are acceptable as long as slashing is kept to a minimum, reducing blood loss of the victim. Ideally a fast acting poison, ricin or cyanide, leaving virtually no evidence of the actual means at the scene.
3. The Act As quick as possible obviously, without alerting the victim so as to avoid shouts &c, have a means of travel (car) nearby but not too nearby and in a location where there are no CCTV cameras between the location of the car and the location of the murder.
4. Disposal
Multiple sacks of powdered concrete are needed for this step. First chop up limbs into segments that would fit in 25cm by 15 cm by 10cm blocks of concrete (standard cinderblock size, prepare concrete beforehand to expedite this step). The head can go whole in a block of its own not bigger than 30cm by 15cm by 15cm. The remaining torso shall go in a shallow slab, 60-70cm by 30-40cm by 20cm. These blocks, once set, can be disposed of inconspicuously at a derelict building site, or if one lives near a port, in a pile of ballast, which would allow the body to be disposed of rather efficiently as the body parts would be scattered across the world by boats, making it extremely unlikely that the body would ever be found.
It’s a very sensible method, I’ll give you that; but where’s the fun? If you pay heed to the modi operandi of some of the world’s most notorious serial killers, efficiency and/or a clean getaway weren’t necessarily trademarks.
Readers, perhaps you’d like to take this opportunity to regale everybody in the comments with your own ideal serial killer routine. Don’t be shy. I bet you’ve thought of one.
We’ve got a schoolboy moral dilemma to tackle, from somebody who, for his own good, had better remain nameless:
I have a confession to make.
This child – shall we call him “Fred” – he had his book of The Tempest which our teacher says we are required to bring every lesson on pain of detention, sadly I had forgotten mine.
So this boy “Fred” left his bag unattended with his copy of The Tempest in it; so I ripped it out of his bag and rubbed out his name, then I put mine in.
He returned and whilst looking through his bag he panicked and said he couldn’t find it. He received a detention and the teacher told him he needed to bring it or he would get another detention.
I felt as if I could not just laugh it off and say sorry then take the hit and get into major trouble, so I went home with the copy.
The next day our teacher told us that they were dealing with a theft and if anyone got caught with the book they would have detention for the rest of the week and the following week, so on the way home I threw his copy of The Tempest into someone’s garden.
Should I keep this as a dark secret, never to be revealed to anyone but AMT? Or do you think I will get caught as it is just a matter of time before they piece it together, as they have CCTV in our classrooms?
The Tempest is categorised amongst Shakespeare’s ‘problem plays’, so it is little wonder that his epic problem has raised some questions of my own, namely:
1. What did Fred do to deserve this?
2. Depending upon the smallness of your hometown and the astuteness of the mystery garden owner, won’t the retrieval of a copy of The Tempest with your name written inside be fairly incriminating?
3. Why didn’t you just sneak it back into his bag at the end of the first day?
4. I know that schoolbook loss/theft isn’t to be encouraged, but isn’t your teacher rather overreacting? Or is your school actually run like a police state? I can’t believe your teachers would in reality be planning to frisk everybody for contraband copies of The Tempest. I also can’t quite believe your classrooms have CCTV, and that it would really be worth the school’s while, for the price of an out-of-copyright book, to plough through the footage.
5. Is it just me, or is The Tempest (whisper it) a bit rubbish?
Readers, I can’t raise a great deal of sympathy for this young fool, so please do my job for me and head for the comments to offer your advice for him. I worry that if we leave him to deal with it on his own, the situation will escalate to the point where he has to kill every member of his school and burn all books to cover his tracks.
The infernal 90s revival is gathering pace, judging by the number of questions about Friends we’ve been getting. Yes, here’s another! It’s from Conor from Ireland, who I predict will write in next week to find out whether Elastica’s second album will be worth the wait and if Monica Lewinsky is lying. He says:
How many children would Joey from Friends statistically be likely to have, bearing in mind that condoms only work like 97% of the time?
Also bearing in mind that Joey and his assorted sexual partners might not be 100% mindful of contraception. But, on the other hand, his boxy 90s jeans may have inhibited his sperm production so he’s firing LeBlanks.
I’d estimate Joey’s average procreation rate to be halfway between Lil Wayne and Mick Jagger, at maybe one child per every 4-7 years of sexual activity. However, given how hard up they were for plot over the years, I’m sure that had Joey produced any children, they would have been dredged up for at least one two-episode arc. So I think we must assume that he did not. Remember too that Joey is subtly portrayed as Reeeeally Stoopid, so his much-boasted sexual encounters might merely involve him dry-humping the windowsill then falling asleep sucking his thumb whilst the ladies watch and take notes for the biannual reviews of his community care order.
Furthermore, recent research* suggests that Joey’s promiscuity is less great than one imagines. Take a look! There’s a table and everything.
* Of the MEGA-NERDY variety! Gosh, even I expend my spare time more productively. And I once made a fully inflatable giant Boggle set.
Everybody, whatever you do, don’t tell Darcy in Chase, British Columbia about what happened in the final episode of Sex and the City, as he’s currently finding series finales from 2004 rather upsetting:
I stopped watching broadcast TV about a decade ago, so I didn’t know how Friends ended until I finished watching the DVDs today. I was so mad that Ross and Rachel got back together that I’m seriously tempted to run all 40 DVDs through the shredder. Their whole romance was unbelievable and annoying enough as it was, but Rachel not going to Paris because of her “big realization” that she loves Ross was beyond absurd!* Really!? She loves Ross? We had no idea! She had only realized it – and told Ross – about a thousand times over the course of the series!
I gather lots of people feel the same way about the way Seinfeld ended and can’t watch reruns of it. So answer me this: what shows’ endings sucked so bad that it completely ruined all your past, present, and future enjoyment of the whole show?
Evidently I am more forgiving than Darcy, able to concentrate on the tranches of series that were still good (Michelle Dessler) and excise the terrible bits from memory (Kim Bauer). That said, my second viewing of Twin Peaks was approximately 60% less good than the first because by then I knew that the thirteen episodes following the Big Reveal (the effective climax of the series) were, at best, moderately diverting, and at worst a very vortex of shittery. There, as in many other cases, it’s not the ending alone, but the lengthy inexorable decline that precedes it which ruins it for me – and, presumably, commissioners.
Readers, by all means comfort Darcy by telling him in the comments which series’ conclusions left you mentally cancelling out all their preceding credits; but better yet, advise him of completed series which he can watch without fearing that they will take a turn for the craptacular. I’d hold up Spaced, Arrested Development and My So Called Life as finite and fulfilled, and Blackadder actually manages to get even better right at the end. Then Darcy won’t break his shredder.
*Too right it was: he’s so neurotic, shrill and underwritten that he is essentially unlovable; while one-dimensional narcissist Rachel is incapable of any depth of feeling. When you look at it like that, they really are a perfect match, just like everybody thought in 1996.
I’m going to steer clear of the buses in Seattle, after this question from Joe in Seattle:
Answer me this: would you rather sit directly beside a naked man on the bus or a fully-clothed man with his wiener hanging out?
I’d go for the naked man, because I’d assume he was either a harmless naturist, or a groom from a 1980s wedding farce who’s managed to unchain himself from the lamppost and swim back to the mainland, and is now on the bus to his own wedding where he has to stop the bride saying ‘I do’ to the evil best man who has sabotaged him thus.
Whereas a man who was clothed but whose wiener was unleashed, I would assume that he was keeping it easily accessible as he finds buses sexually arousing. I don’t want to sit next to anyone who finds public transport erotically stimulating. Nor would I want to be there when he finished.
Helen in Manchester has discovered why publishers no longer accept handwritten manuscripts:
Recently, a friend of mine wrote me a story, which was sealed in an envelope. Upon opening the envelope, I quickly realised that I could not read his handwriting! I brushed this issue aside by saying that I would read it later, and quickly changed the subject.
Two weeks later, he is still asking for feedback! So far, I have assured him how good I thought it was, however the lies are starting to wear thin!
So answer me this: how can I tell him that his handwriting is illegible, without hurting his feelings? Or should I simply say nothing, and continue to lie, hoping he never calls my bluff?
Because of course, the latter approach, of a valued friend constantly lying about something clearly very important to the scrawly-handed party, would be LESS hurtful than a short, sharp, “I’m sorry, I’m having trouble reading your handwriting – any chance you could type it up for me?” Have any of you readers ever really been wounded by your handwriting receiving negative reviews? Correct me if I’m wrong, but last time I checked, Manchester was not 12th-century China and therefore your friend is unlikely to lose his position in society if his calligraphy is a bit sub-par. Therefore, Helen in Manchester, stop making a piece of paper and ink into a problem, and start being honest.
Here’s a bit of a racy mess, brought to us by Erik from Bournemouth:
My friend, let’s call her Bea, recently engaged in a threeway with a couple, let’s call them Joseph and Mary, with whom she’s been friendly with for quite some time, first Mary then, inevitably, Joseph.
Their relationship is somewhat on the rocks and they felt a threesome may perk it up. Bea, not having been laid in a significant amount of time and quite fancying Joseph, was right up for it and, as it was somewhat Mary’s idea, the three of them spent a sweaty night of x-rated passion together.
They parted ways that morning quite amicably, but now Bea is beginning to form feelings for Joseph, who has become quite flirty with Bea; Mary has gone right off of him and says she can’t kiss him anymore. All signs point to an end to to their relationship.
Bea wants to go out with Joseph but doesn’t want to lose Mary as a friend. So, answer me this: how the hell does Bea start dating Joseph, keep her friendship with Mary and live with herself after this knowing she stole her friend’s boyfriend?
This is that plot in Gossip Girl, isn’t it? Where Dan Humphrey not only manages to get near a girl, but sexes his girlfriend Hilary Duff AND his bff Awful Vanessa AT THE SAME TIME? In the aftermath, Duff reads all the miniature signs on Dan’s teeny-tiny face and realises he’s harbouring extra-friendly Feelings for Awful Vanessa. So she solves the problem by ending her six-episode guest arc the relationship and kindly flouncing off back to ‘Hollywood’, to leave Dan to pursue the monumentally aggravating and horrifically dressed character of his dreams. Series 3, episode 9 if you want to revise.
Yes, I watch too much shit telly. Shut up and leave me alone.
Anyway, we can’t expect Mary to exercise the altruism of Hilary Duff. Furthermore, Bea can’t reasonably expect to have everything that she wants, Mary AND Joseph AND a clear conscience, so she may have to choose between being blue-balled but remaining Mary’s friend, or suffering moral twinges as she enjoys Joseph one-on-one.
However, it would be better for all concerned if Bea keeps her pants on till Mary and Joseph have actually split up, because appropriating a friend’s ex is a lesser charge than stealing their boyfriend, although not without its repercussions depending upon Mary’s disposition. Bea should also be wary that, if and when Joseph becomes a single man, he may not actually be interested in her; being ‘quite flirty’ whilst in the boundaries of a relationship is by no means a promise of true affection and/or sexytime once out of it.
But, you know, maybe I’m being too cautious. Perhaps Bea and Joseph will forge a fine romance, Mary will bestow her blessing, and the happy couple will have a simply adorable “How we got together” story to tell the grandkids.
Congratulations in advance to John from Leeds and his wife, who must be readying the overnight bag and practicing the breathing techniques:
My wife and I are shortly due to welcome into the world our first child, expected September 23rd. Last week we went to our first ante-natal class (or ‘Parentcraft’ as it has now been rebranded) to find out all about how to tell you’re in labour, what to do when you’re in labour and, most important in my wife’s eyes, what drugs you can have to ease the passing of the (hopefully) lovable little tyke.
The nurse was very keen on distraction techniques whereby you forget all about the pain by the simple process of having a bath, listening to some music (or an Answer Me This podcast) or having a game of Scrabble, whatever works for you.
I realise that as none of you have given birth you may not be the best qualified people to ask but qnswer me this: what distraction techniques would you recommend for forgetting the stress and worries of childbirth?
How about grabbing the forceps and the umbilical scissors and putting on an impromptu puppet show between her knees? Leading a singsong of some of the more rousing hymns? Or propping up a target at the end of your wife’s bed of pain, to give her something to aim for during the final shunt? If she hits the bullseye, she wins a prize! Of an episiotomy.
Our inexperience in childbirth is hereby made all too obvious, but readers, many of you will have reproduced, so kindly share your distraction techniques in the comments.
Incidentally, my sister-in-law DID play Scrabble during her first labour, but it wasn’t as effective as the three doses of epidural drugs.
Here’s an antidote to existential bleakness from Linda:
A bunch of us yarn-bombed the Saffron Walden Turf Maze on Saturday.
Helen, you’re a crafter, answer me this – how can I explain it to my husband who still doesn’t see the point of it?
Point? Why must there be a point?? I don’t think yarn-bombing needs to have any more urgent or noble intention than making something look a bit more pretty/colourful/comical.
If you insist upon getting a bit more thinky about it, you could say that it compels you to reexamine the yarn-bombed object and its context with fresh eyes; or that it has a similar function to graffiti, but in a cheery and harmless way because, unlike graffiti, it’s easily removable, and it looks like your granny did it.
But it’s thoroughly objectionable to muse so pretentiously about jolly old yarn-bombing, or indeed any crafts; let’s just enjoy the fact that people go to quite considerable effort (click here to see more pictures of Linda’s yarny adventure, which must have involved a LOT of knitting hours) for the sake of harmless fun. And if you want to argue against harmless fun as an objective, I will squeeze my hands over my ears and chant ‘Lalalalaa’ until you shut up and go away.
Deploy the Glade Plug-Ins for this question from Max:
I was recently acting as an examiner for medical student exams, with an actor pretending to be the patient.
One of the candidates was really quite smelly and the actor marked him down as she was supposed to be marking his communication skills, and as she pointed out it was rather off-putting having to hold her breath.
I didn’t mark him down for his pong. Should I have done?
It’s highly subjective. If there was a section where you were marking the candidate’s personal presentation, then certainly you should have given him a D-. If there wasn’t, but there was room to comment on pastoral rather than academic qualities, then that would be an apt place to address the issue.
But if neither option was available, should one’s BO affect one’s professional standing? Particularly in a job which involves, on the one hand, considerable interpersonal contact, but on the other, potentially critical actions which transcend ponginess? Readers, weigh in:
Don’t forget, this person has spent seven or more years of their life and god knows how much money to get to this point. I can’t predict in which direction this might propel your judgement.
Under no circumstances make a bet with Nic from Chester:
A friend of mine once got a tattoo of a My Little Pony on his shoulder for a £5 bet. Admittedly £5 was a princely sum at the time and it wouldn’t have been so bad, had the masterpiece not cost him £25 to get done! So my question is this, what ridiculous stunts have you performed for cash?
THIS. But in its course, Jodie Marsh regaled us with a far more amped up version of Nic’s story above: she won a bet with a friend over the length of the world’s longest tiger, and his penalty for failing at this trivia question was having ‘Meat is murder’ tattooed in massive script down the full length of his arm.
Listen to me, children: tattoos are NOT an appropriate bet penalty, nor anything that will cause permanent damage to your body. If Jodie Marsh told you to cut off your finger because you didn’t guess the maximum circumference of a puffer fish, would you? Don’t answer that. But do answer Nic’s question in the comments, because we know that you have a reckless silly streak and you’ll do anything for the price of a tin of peas.
, 
and 
as finite and fulfilled, and 
actually manages to get even better right at the end. Then Darcy won’t break his shredder.
Answer Me This! Podcast 