Ask a Stupid Quetion Get a Stupid Answer

[nuuskur]

How many furry dormice can dance on a needle pin?

As many elephants that can dance on a needle pin. One

Is it love or lust?

 

[Beelzebub]

it's limerence!

Is it panthera or leopard?

 

[zoobyshoe]

Is it panthera or leopard?

I'm really glad you asked that quetion because recently, when I was attending an evening of Bach performed by Turgeny Yevgenyevski, my finger snapping, toe tapping enjoyment was interrupted when he followed the 25 variation of the Goldbergs with a number from "Cats." Not that his playing was any less sensitive, but his singing was beyond atrocious. At the conclusion of the number, House star, Hugh Laurie, limped onstage in full character, went up to the pianist, flipped the music to the next page, and sneered, "You have panthera vocalosis. The good news is it's treatable. The bad news is when you're cured, there'll be no more singing duets with your cat." Then he limped off stage left, whistling the 26th variation to get Yevgenyevsky jump started.

Why won't doctors let sleeping cats lie?

 

[Bandersnatch]

Why won't doctors let sleeping cats lie?

This question was concusively answered in 1899 in a landmard study of prof.Sigmund Freud(no relation to Noam Chomsky).
The study took a sample of 1000 medical practitioners, assigning to each of them one of the girls from the famous Ottoman brothel "The Ali Pasha's 1001 Playcats", usually referred to simply as "cats". The 1001st cat was hired as a special needs secretary to prof.Freud, in great secrecy, which was all in vain because Mrs Freud found out anyway.
The doctors were each kept in a locked compartment with a sedated cat, at which point invariably the studied verbal reflex manifested itself, usually in some form of pleading: "don't lie to me!".
Due to sedation, the cats were unable to respond, or inquire about the reasons for asking such inappropriate questions.
Here's where prof.Freud's genius came into play. He bought a parakeet from an unidentified Turk, in the paper referred to only as "That Guy", and taught it the words: "But why, doctor? Why not, by Jove?" He also taught it to swear in seven languages, as documented in appendix D. He then hid under the bed with her special needs secretary who took dictate of the doctors' answers.
After psychoanalysing the collected data, the professor concluded that the doctors all suffer from Oedipal complex.

Q: how much is the fish?

 

[zoobyshoe]

Q: how much is the fish?

Assuming your asking for the 1899 price, since that is where you left us floundering after that hypnotic regression in time to the fishy infancy of our collective unconsciousness, unaided by you in our attempts to swim forward, back to the future present perfect, stuck back there in Victorian Vienna, on the couch in the Joyful office where we envision ourselves sat upon by deceitful felines, furry, sedated, lying in their sleep, as Dr. No (no relation) Am chomps down on a bagel festooned with LOX presented to him on a plattertude by his decieved-to wife, who asks, "You know how much is the fish?" You can't tell if she's talking to you or the doctor (you have a cat on your face) but you mumble, "Did you know In Alaska you can get a bushel of salmon in exchange for a whale kidney?"

The doctor stops chewing, spits it out, and shouts, "How DARE you! In front of my WIFE?" Not knowing if he is talking to you or the cat on your invisible visage, you sit up, startled, and suddenly are rushed through a tumescent tunnel, the tube of time, to today, trembling in terror, trying timorously to transcend the trip. It will take weeks to feel normal, and you will always exhibit a facial tic whoever you happen to catch sight of a cat fishing for salmon on the banks of the Danube.

To pass the time while in convalescence you wonder:

How, exactly, do parakeets differ from regular keets?

 

[Bandersnatch]

How, exactly, do parakeets differ from regular keets?

One does ask oneself this quetion at least five times before breakfast, only to remember around supper that the answer is so obvious that one didn't really need to pen that ten page scathingly inquisitive letter to prof.Noam Chomsky. It stares you in the face with its vulgar, voluptuous visage, as if trying to tell you exactly how stupid you are.
Parakeets are to regular keets, clearly beyond doubt, just as paratroopers are to regular troopers. That is, they tend to wait in ambush for a larger bird to fly by, and latch onto its underside with their usually underestimated underbite. While attached so, they subtly influence their host to fly higher, typically through some variation of singing through their teeth "Fly me to the Moon". Yes, they do have teeth, if only three and not very clean. And yes, their singing often falls onto deaf ears, if no Moon can be readily spotted. Then they detach and plunge to their deaths, because unlike paratroopers, parakeets profess aversion to procurement of parachutes.

Now, keets, on the other hand, are very sedentary creatures. They are often seen gathering around flak cannon emplacements, and should the opportunity arise, shooting with glee at their helpless cousins falling from the sky.
When asked, they say they do it for sport, but there's obviously money in it, and their beady eyes and salivating beaks cannot hide that fact very well.

But there is a fact that their beady eyes and salivating beaks can hide surprisingly well. What is it?

 

[zoobyshoe]

But there is a fact that their beady eyes and salivating beaks can hide surprisingly well. What is it?

I don't know off the top of my head, but, in my capacity as a keet whisperer I can gaze into their beady eyes and puzzle out the secret. I have them stand in front of me, directly facing opposite, and I clasp their wrists in my two hands. This, I tell them, completes a bio-energy circuit that permits their keetessence to flow into my mind, flooding me with a thousand avian images taken from their memory. A lot of these are of newspaper covered with droppings. These I scan for the tell-tale red flag that will indicate 'a secret withheld'. There I see a box, or sealed envelope, or refrigerator, in which the secret is kept. I have only to open that mental memory container, and behold the surprisingly well withheld information we seek. I do so and now it is my responsibility to judge whether the world is ready for the revelation. Some keet secrets are powerful: economies could be upset, wars could start, walnuts could wither. And I have to ask myself the question:
Wither walnuts?

 

[Bandersnatch]

Wither walnuts?

Oh, you would ask, wouldn't you? Even knowing how much pain and suffering dredging up the horrible memories it will cause. But you are just that kind of a man, and ask you do. Woe unto my wretched soul as I'm compelled to spin this dreadful yarn.

Where to begin...
It was the kind of nocturnal havoc that cheap wordsmithing is prone to calling dark and stormy, and despite the protestations of my aesthetic sense I had to embrace those adjectives as tailor-made for this particular night.
The moors, lashed by winds so cold and misanthropic in their relentlessnes as if escaped straight from Kokytos, seemed to heave and tremble in the overbearing shadows, like the body of a mythical Leviathan, cast ashore by some nameless force and left to expire in helpless, raging agony.
And so I have found myself pondering the finer details of the extent of my courage, more than on one occasion feeling my resolve falter. But each time I again steeled myself to the grim task I had so foolishly undertaken. Each time forcing my heavy feet to advance towards the fateful goal - a goal just now slowly emerging from behind the veil of jet-black darkness.
There I stopped, gazing upon the entrance to the kurgan, which somehow managed to exude blackness even deeper than the night's and nigh solid-like. Once, just once I looked back, as if saying my farewells to the world that rejected me in so cruel a fashion, before taking a step forward into the abyss.
Long and tiresome was my way down. I knew not who carved those tunnels in the living body of Gaia, whether they were goblins or dwarf-kin sprang from the veins of rock, they were surely not made with much consideration for the proportions of men.
When I finally felt the cold braces of the gate under my outstretched fingers, I was too exhausted to force myself to cross to the other side. Afraid I would faint there and then, and strangely certain that the door wouldn't be there once I would come to, I gathered my remaining strength an shouted the quetion. The quetion I carried with me all those years, through all the guilt and regret and promises of revenge. I shouted it hoping it would be heard through the cast iron separating me from the entity residing beyond. I shouted: "Wither walnuts?!" and fell silent in stupor, with the last spark of my consciousness attentively attuned in the expectation of a response.
It took minutes, hours maybe - I could not reckon the time. But when it came, it was devastating. A high-pitched, rattling voice, as if forced through some inhuman throat. A voice ungainly and grating, as if breaking ageless vows of silence.

When I awoke I was lying in the moors stretching in monotone to the horizon. There was no sight of the kurgan, and I could have almost convinced myself I let my mind wander somewhat excessivelly the previous night. I could have at least tried, if not for the ringing recollection of the voice resonating in my head. It shrilled on and on and on: "What kind of a quetion is that?"

And I knew I'd be forever tortured by this inquiry, and that I'd never find an answer. Until, maybe, one day somebody on an internet forum will have released my tortured soul and explained to me the mystery thus concealed: "What kind of a quetion is that?"

 

[zoobyshoe]

"What kind of a quetion is that?"

This quetion was ansered literarily many years ago, to the delight of Quetion Fiction fans around the world. I quote:

"First we have to inquire of ourselves, or of the world at large, or, perhaps we should limit ourselves to inquiring of quetionographers, 'How many kinds of quetions are there?' The usual list will be proffered: direct quetions, ironic quetions, rhetorical quetions, direct ironic quetions, indirect ironic rhetorical quetions, and so on and so forth, through all the permutations, until we sum and find there are 132 distinct kinds of quetions."

"But Holmes!" Watson interjected, "What about unspoken quetions? I mean such things as the raising of an eyebrow, the exclamatory interrogative monosyllable of indeterminate specific significance, the quetioning pause in ambulation. Why, just today you halted as I followed you about the grounds at Walnuts Manor. Lieutentant-Major Walnuts' footprints, at first clear as could be, had quite suddenly become confounded by the confluence of the hoofprints left by a passing herd of wildebeests. You paused in ambulation, emitted an exclamatory interrogative monosyllable, and raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. It fell to me to articulate the words unspoken behind your actions, which is when I uttered, 'Whither Walnuts?'"

Holmes rose from his chair, a slight smile gracing his lips, and strode to his book shelf, from which he selected a thin tome. "This, Watson, is a monograph I produced some years ago on the special properties of the hoofprints left by passing herds of wildebeests. There is no reason, my good man, you should be aware of it, but I make you aware of it now to offer it to you for your edification. Were you to spend an hour in its pages I believe you would have gleaned ample evidence that I fully understand the intricacies and convolutions of the trails left by that particular African ruminant. I was not confused as to the direction the Lieutenant-Major had taken. It was quite clear to me he and the herd had arrived at the spot altogether simultaneously, and that he had, very simply, mounted up onto the back of one of the creatures and ridden away on it in the direction taken by the rest of the herd. Your question, 'Whither Walnuts?' was, under the circumstances, I'm afraid to say my good fellow, nothing extraordinary or complex in terms of its kind. We needn't search far and wide for its kind, for such a journey for answers would be a waste of good mental power. Its kind was, and I hope you have followed me to this conclusion, Watson, its kind was: stupid. It was a stupid quetion. Garden variety, grows everywhere, good in all climates."

"But Holmes! Why, then, did you pause, and grunt, and raise an eyebrow? Surely you were motivated in those activities by the spirit of interrogation! You exhibited all outward signs of an interior quetion. I shall not be satisfied until you reveal the true nature of the quetion that elicited all those marked signals, unmistakable to any man blessed with healthy sight and hearing."

"And you shall be enlightened, my dear Watson. And the answer is a most marvelous one, a wondrous proof. But I have not space to reveal it here, not tonight, for we have an early morning train to catch back to Walnuts Manor, and there is not room left in the margin between now and bedtime for me to explain. Good night, old chap."

The Adventure of Walnuts Manor
Sir Zooby Conan-Doyle
pp132-133
Which leaves me wondering: Why are margins always too small?

 

[Beelzebub]

This quetion was ansered literarily many years ago, to the delight of Quetion Fiction fans around the world. I quote:

"First we have to inquire of ourselves, or of the world at large, or, perhaps we should limit ourselves to inquiring of quetionographers, 'How many kinds of quetions are there?' The usual list will be proffered: direct quetions, ironic quetions, rhetorical quetions, direct ironic quetions, indirect ironic rhetorical quetions, and so on and so forth, through all the permutations, until we sum and find there are 132 distinct kinds of quetions."

"But Holmes!" Watson interjected, "What about unspoken quetions? I mean such things as the raising of an eyebrow, the exclamatory interrogative monosyllable of indeterminate specific significance, the quetioning pause in ambulation. Why, just today you halted as I followed you about the grounds at Walnuts Manor. Lieutentant-Major Walnuts' footprints, at first clear as could be, had quite suddenly become confounded by the confluence of the hoofprints left by a passing herd of wildebeests. You paused in ambulation, emitted an exclamatory interrogative monosyllable, and raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. It fell to me to articulate the words unspoken behind your actions, which is when I uttered, 'Whither Walnuts?'"

Holmes rose from his chair, a slight smile gracing his lips, and strode to his book shelf, from which he selected a thin tome. "This, Watson, is a monograph I produced some years ago on the special properties of the hoofprints left by passing herds of wildebeests. There is no reason, my good man, you should be aware of it, but I make you aware of it now to offer it to you for your edification. Were you to spend an hour in its pages I believe you would have gleaned ample evidence that I fully understand the intricacies and convolutions of the trails left by that particular African ruminant. I was not confused as to the direction the Lieutenant-Major had taken. It was quite clear to me he and the herd had arrived at the spot altogether simultaneously, and that he had, very simply, mounted up onto the back of one of the creatures and ridden away on it in the direction taken by the rest of the herd. Your question, 'Whither Walnuts?' was, under the circumstances, I'm afraid to say my good fellow, nothing extraordinary or complex in terms of its kind. We needn't search far and wide for its kind, for such a journey for answers would be a waste of good mental power. Its kind was, and I hope you have followed me to this conclusion, Watson, its kind was: stupid. It was a stupid quetion. Garden variety, grows everywhere, good in all climates."

"But Holmes! Why, then, did you pause, and grunt, and raise an eyebrow? Surely you were motivated in those activities by the spirit of interrogation! You exhibited all outward signs of an interior quetion. I shall not be satisfied until you reveal the true nature of the quetion that elicited all those marked signals, unmistakable to any man blessed with healthy sight and hearing."

"And you shall be enlightened, my dear Watson. And the answer is a most marvelous one, a wondrous proof. But I have not space to reveal it here, not tonight, for we have an early morning train to catch back to Walnuts Manor, and there is not room left in the margin between now and bedtime for me to explain. Good night, old chap."

The Adventure of Walnuts Manor
Sir Zooby Conan-Doyle
pp132-133
Which leaves me wondering: Why are margins always too small?

because George W. Bush shaved of his moustache and opted for 5 o' clock shadow instead.

Why is night black, and not pink?

 

[zoobyshoe]

Why is night black, and not pink?

The color of night was settled by a coin toss in 1932 in the city of Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A. :

Nyx "Night" McNuit, second floor man for the South End crew of Chicago's feared "Dizzy Raiders," (the gang responsible for more balance disorders than any other in U.S. mob history) did not want to wear a pink Poison Oak blossom, the gang's official symbol. Asked what color he wanted to wear, Night replied, "Any non-pink flora will satisfy my aesthetic proclivities." Crew leader, Joe "Joe" Joe, proposed a coin toss to settle it. "Heads, you wear pink, like all of us. Tails you wear, non-pink."

The coin flew. On it's way down, Carbon, the gang's pet black cat, leapt up and caught it between his paws. Shoving it in his pocket, he raced toward the room's open door. Night and Joe rushed to close the door to prevent the cat's escape with the deciding coin. But in their clumsy haste they shut the door on the poor beast's tail, severing it from the body.

Joe and Night McNuit stared down at the thing on the floor in shock. 45 minutes passed. Eventually Joe mumbled, "Tails it is."

Needless to say, the particular non-pink color Nyx "Night" McNuit sported thenceforth was a tribute to the crew's scrappy mascot, Carbon the cat. And that, my children, is why Night is black and not pink. Time for bed.

Why do cats so covet pre-WWII American coins?

 

[JoneB]

I have been mulling over this quetion for months so I finally decided to ask my roommate Adicabrady - a ten-year old tabby - for the answer.She very curtly told me to mind my own business!Now it is true that I only found out about this thread because one day while she was using her litter box,I rushed over to her computer to see what site she was on and it was this one.So not only did I not get an answer from her but now she will know that I spied on her.Do you think that my snooping into her affairs is dangerous to my safety?