I was 16, taking my driving test in Warren, Ohio, nervous, and the examiner had garlic breath. It was a strange time. I was so jittery that I would repeat each of the examiner's commands back to her in question form.
"Turn left," she said.
"Left?" I asked.
"Yes. Left." I turned left.
We approached a red light. "Get in the middle lane," she said.
On and on it went. I aced the driving portion. But at the end, the driving examiner turned to me and let me have it, asking if I had a hearing problem and why did I repeat every damn thing she said and maybe I ought to be checked for mental defects. Remember. Garlic breath.
You've heard this: There's no such thing as a stupid question. You're wrong. There is. People ask them all the time. As you can see, I've been doing it for years.
I want to try something that's part catharsis and part accepting the horror. I want you to purposely ask me stupid questions. And then, here, in this space, I will give you a stupid answer.
For instance. Once, an unnamed reporter asked Charlotte's cantankerous airport director Jerry Orr, as seriously as possible, whether the airport had roughly the same number of takeoffs as landings. "We try to keep those about the same," Orr deadpanned.
No. Not stupid enough.
The correct answer would be that the airport is booting planes that are left on the sides of runways. Also acceptable (if you are one of the five people in America who enjoy puns): We have the same amount of takeoffs as The Men's Club-- the same amount of landings as Knots.
Please, top this. Maybe you wonder why you have a hangnail today (A: You didn't see Thor this weekend). Perhaps you wonder wonder wonder who! Who wrote the book of love? (A: Keith Sweat, in sweat).
Send your stupid questions to firstname.lastname@example.org, or tweet them to @deftlyinane with the hashtag #AASQ (Ask a Stupid Question).
Thank you for your support. What was that email address again?