What is it with you Bible Belters? Always seeing Jesus in toaster strudels and newspaper kiosks. If I had a nickel for every time one of you southerners tried to stuff the square peg of religion into the round hole of scientific discourse, I’d probably have about 50 times your annual adjusted gross income—which probably isn’t saying much, admittedly.

It’s really no miracle at all, Henry. It just has to do with the porous surface (think: your icky face) of unflavored, or mint, Mentos offering sufficient nucleation sites for the creation of carbon dioxide bubbles—bubbles which become the catalyst for an intense pressural increase and cause the impacted water molecules to quickly break away from one another. The result: a geyser of aspartame-filled proportions—almost as powerful as the geyser of your utter dorkiness. In fact, a more accurate definition of “miracle” might be your ability to pin-point a vagina on a female human.

I don’t really have the time to answer questions as rudimentary as this one, and so will be sending you a bill for the time taken. Just remember: One hundred dollars an hour is a bargain for access to my insurmountable intellect. (If you are in need of monetary perspective, consider the amount you paid for your inflatable girlfriend, then multiply it by twenty.)

First, let me just say that you must attend some rather lame parties. At the types of soirées I normally frequent, if you sneeze on another guest, it had better the result of a violent and involuntary bodily reaction to some killer Colombian. (Not advocating drug use, but I sometimes hang with a rough and tumble set.) I would venture that you probably play Pin the Tail On the Donkey and Twister at these events. Pretty weak—unless there happen to be live equines and stripping involved (respectively or irrespectively).

Anyway, I just looked through my reference materials and discovered that your numbers (17 to 35 percent of the population) are a direct match to the figures provided by the ultimate dispensary of knowledge … Wikipedia. This makes me even more skeptical than my scientific nature would normally warrant, and I can’t help but feel you are trying to set me up. Do you think Bill Hick would actually rely on such a specious source of knowledge (even though he just happened to check it, just this once)? Do you not realize you are dealing with a man who possesses more doctoral degrees than Kool Keith and Chaffey Community College combined?

Hristina, I suggest you go stare at the sun for, I don’t know, the next half hour. After that, do your best to locate a battery-powered flash light, and then head to that party posthaste. I’d estimate you have a 17 to 35 percent chance of striking up a conversation with a bowl of chips.

I really never thought I’d say this, but I hope God is real.

The universe simply must have a plan for people of your ilk. I’m not sure exactly what that plan may be, but I cannot in good conscience continue my mortal struggle believing otherwise. Your particular brand of crude idiocy calls for some barbarous brand of divine punishment.

That said, yes, I suppose if plants could talk it would be pretty noisy during the fall season, like some sad chorus of ensuing death—as cacophonous and insufferable as a moaning collective of crusty geriatrics begging the triage nurse for the necessary amount of demerol to put them out of their arthritic misery. Something like that, maybe, except higher-pitched.

I’d conjecture it could be similarly noisy in spring and summer, when most plants are just beginning to develop. We all know how loud and obnoxious children are—just imagine, talking plant children. How awful. And perhaps worse yet, they’d be everywhere, they’d be green, and they’d emit natural allergens.

Anyway, at least winter would be pretty relaxing because all the stupid talking plants WOULD BE DEAD.

I can’t believe I just answered that. Here’s to new lows.