In the interests of survival,what would you do? Would you chop off your nose, or your ear?

Dear Ellie,
        Without a doubt I would chop off my left ear because I have two ears and I have always considered my left ear annoying.
         Those who are wondering want else I would do in the interests of survival I will tell you. I warn you that the preceeding text will be vile and despicable, but the point is that I will do anything in the interested of survival. For details, read on.
         I would intentionally saw off my leg, rub chili peppers in my eyes, break my arms at the elbow, burn my right nostril shut, sing "I'm a little tea pot" in a tootoo, amputate one of my testicles, pull out my finger nails with pliers, brand my butt with a cattle prod that says, "cheaper by the pound", drink twelve bottles of NyQuil through a straw, suck my eye ball out with an industrial strength vacuum cleaner, and cover myself in fish guts and jump into a piranha tank. I would call the Queen of England a "!@#%$", or a  "*&$%".  I would cover myself in bacon grease and kick a mother bear's cub in the face. I would consume larve, rats, brains, urine, even my dead mother if it means the difference between dying of starvation or seeing the sun rize over the apocoliptic wasteland (love you mom). If I was being chased by bad guys I would hide in a mass grave, latrine, a snake pit, and John Candy's dirty underwear pile. I would hide in the belly of a horse to keep warm from the bitting cold,  You may think I'm kidding, but I'm not. I will do anything to survive because I only have one life to live and no shame. I would lick Richard Simmon's chest hair, tape my guts in with duck tape, date Rosie O'Donald, I would... oh God... say that (sniff)Luke Skywalker was not my idol! I would become a Radier's fan. I would host a Jane Austin movie marathon with a group of seventh grade girls and wear pink pj's.
PS: I wouldn't eat anyone that reads my column.

If the Devil appeared in front of you and gave you three wishes, as long as they were not good, what would they be?

Dear Andy,

        If the Devil appeared in front of me and gave me 3 wishes, as long as they were not good, I would wish for 3 unspeakable, horrifically sadistic things that couldn't be whispered is the ears of rational and moral beings without dying of shock and horror.

           My first wish would be, you guessed it, TOTAL WORLD DOMINATION! (Complements to Jack Anderson) This would include 12 mandatory prayer breaks for the whole planet to worship yours truly. I would have a special police force tasked at collecting extra money that people don’t need. I don’t want people to have all this extra money and not do anything with it. That’s just inefficient. Also, I would build a water slide off my castle on top of Mount Everest so I could slide into the Indian Ocean. I would have drained the Indian Ocean and filled it with chocolate pudding and Swedish fish so that I don’t hurt myself when I hit the water.

         My second wish would be that I was surrounded by scantily clad women all the time. These women not only would be sexy, but also fierce, warrior-looking babes, commanded by none other than Scarlett Johansson, Warrior Queen of Doom and Sexiness. Of course Scarlett Johansson is head over heels for me because of my charming and friendly nature. I would call these women “Bronson's Super Sexy Warrior Babes of Doom and Sexiness”. They execute people on my sacrificial alter with their Sexy Glance Power. I would be immune to their Sexy Glance power, but only to the point where I don’t die. Also, Bronson's Super Sexy Warriors [...](The editor suggested I cut here)

         My Third wish, unlike my first two wishes, would be purely selfish. My last wish would be to have the power to snap my fingers and have everyone's heads instantaneously explode in a violent act of bloody randomness. After I'm finished rolling on the floor with laughter I snap my fingers again and everyone's heads regenerate. This is my back up wish in case my 10 mile water slide or my Super Sexy Warrior Babes of Doom and Sexiness get boring.

       

Do you got Bronson?

Dear Person,

         To “got” something is to possess or understand it and to “understand” something is have a deep knowledge of the subject presented. So for Bronson to “got Bronson” he has to understand himself. It was the effort of the two hundred page thesis on Bronson to discover if : "Bronson has Bronson?" Here is a summery of my findings:

         What first had to be determined before testing if he has got himself was if he was self-aware. I set up a observation post in his room in an area that his mother told me he never uses (the laundry hamper) and was able analyze him before he wakes up. He seems quite smug with his room marked with a musky pre-adult pheromone that is potent enough to knockout a mature bear. You must understated that I fought off this fowl odor for months at a time surveying Bronson's habitat. He marked his territory with dirty clothes organized in a pattern that I can’t seem to find the significance behind. He is very concerned about his well-being as he wakes instantly to the sound of his rabid angry mother insisting that he gets ready for school. The first time I witnessed him waking I cover my eyes as he rips off the bed covers because I don’t know how properly clothed he would be. To my relief, Bronson does wear clothing when he sleeps, but, to my discomfort, very little clothing. While observing him for months at a time one day was particularly remarkable to my investigation. As he made his way to the door he stumbles over his empty laundry basket, proceeds to do the splits as he slipped on a Halo Graphic novel, and sent himself vulnerably towards the door-frame of his room. The house trembled when Bronson connected his head with the corner of the door-frame. Amazingly enough, young males are very resilient and Bronson had no exterior damage; however, the brain could be compromised. This event may seem unremarkable but it was after the klutzy and potentially impotent accident that I observed something incredible. As he was holding his cranium with his left hand and searched drunkenly for the light switch with his right he said something semi-audible under his breath. He said, “I hate my life.” Brilliant! Bronson is self-aware!

           Now I will proceed to share with you one of my personal favorite observations about Bronson which does shed light on the main question at hand: Does Bronson... got Bronson? One day I followed him to the bathroom and was dumbfounded at the grooming instruments and miscellaneous objects he took into the shower. Toothbrush and toothpaste, radio, shaving cream and a razor (I am curious why he needs those because he has very little facial hair), toe nail clippers, a can of whipping cream, rubber ducky, some army men, and a rain poncho. While most humans spend 10-15 minutes grooming themselves Bronson takes twice as long. I don’t think he uses his shower time specifically for grooming. I say this because he starts to sing obnoxious tunes, dance to "What is Love?" by Haddaway, and rehearses jokes for friends that probably won’t appreciate them. It was incredibly fascinating to hear an eighteen year old make explosion and tank noises as he fantasizes about some sci-fi universe he’d rather be in. But the most interesting observation I made was when I threw a shoe at the bathroom door. When the shoe impacted the door he got really quiet, pretending he wasn’t doing anything abnormal or socially crippling.

          Another, most interesting, part about Bronson is when he tries to socialize with the opposite gender, especially with the ones he finds attractive. In Shakespeare’s King Lear one of my favorite quotes by Cordelia states: “I cannot heave my heart into my mouth”, but when Bronson talks to females, it sure looks like it.

          I must end this investigation by stating that Bronson is a bit hopeless and that, "Bronson does not got Bronson." This statement is supported by the overwhelming evidence presented in my thesis. The confused looks he gives himself in the mirror, or how mentally taxed he looks trying to find a pencil that he hasn't found in his own hand, the hysteria of feeling sorry for the starving people that live in Hungry, his childish habit of mixing all the soft drinks at a restaurant, etc, etc (pages 64-593). I also believe he might have a bad case of daydreaming and Excessive Compulsive Disorder when it comes to his model airplanes. He seems overwhelmed with the mundane tasks of modern life and has the uncanny ability to get himself into unreasonable situations at repeated and connected incidents.  But in my final criteria on my thesis is the addition of a scary and troubling theory about Bronson which I state with the utmost observance and thought, to which, I present the scientific community. The final and most controversial proposal is as follows... do you "Got Bronson?" That is a question that will trouble me and most of my colleagues for decades to come.