Some more questions that seem to float to the surface in the middle of the night:
Should I be concerned that the foam in the mattress under my head has a better memory than I do?
Was Eddie Cochran’s “Somethin’ Else” the first record to use a nuclear-powered drum kit?
Will I get the collywobbles tonight? Why hasn’t some rock band chosen that name?
Am I being wishy-washy on animal testing if I am against making cats do true or false but I’m not sure about rabbits being given multiple choice questions?
Did Bobby Knight graduate from the Dick the Bruiser School of Charm?
If BGH is safe, why is it that some farmers now have to reach above their heads to milk their cows?
Why is it that the same tailor who sizes up the man in front of me as “a Cary Grant Harris Tweed with flecks” then looks at me and says, “For you, a Spike Jones eye-popper with even wider checks”?
Isn’t it strange that the models in the Victoria’s Secret catalogs have bedroom eyes and most of the people who receive the catalogs have bunkhouse thighs?
Why is it that publishers of tabloids think the important question to ask every November is not “Where were you on the day JFK was shot?” but rather “Where was JFK on the day he was shot?”
If the teenage daughter of the bearded lady at the circus started to sprout hair on her cheeks, would her mother boast to friends “I’ve grown a custom to her face”?
Am I the only one who still thinks Ferris Bueller is an iron supplement?
If I had my druthers, what could I get for them at a pawnshop?