Masterful Crochet Hook Technique
Q. Do you have any brothers or sisters?
A. No. As far as we can tell, Mister Language Person never came around again. Or never didn't come around again, as the case may be.
Q. Did you have a favorite toy when you were a kid?
A. I did! It still brings a wave of nostalgia to think about it. It was stuffed Joseph Stalin doll my mother gave me when I was three. She always said he was so misunderstood. He and Karl Marx shared a hallowed space next to my pillow at night.
Q. What happened to them?
A. I burned them at a signing for my second novel, along with an effigy of my mother.
Q. I have a question about your last Q&A. My friends and I have been trying to grievously injure ourselves with crochet hooks, but we can't figure out how to do it. Where do you stick the things?
A. A quick jab in the jocular antecedent followed by a sharp one-quarter twist should do it.
Q. Where's that?
A. Just above the predicate conjunction.
Q. How can crochet hooks be "haggard"?
A. Most are that you'd find in the wild.
Q. I had a friend who was abducted by aliens, and they surgically removed his eyelids and made him watch reruns of Laverne and Shirley for a hundred hours straight. Then they gave him a zillion paper cuts and dipped him in a vat of nuclear lemon juice. And then they injected him with undiluted habanero sauce, battered him, and cooked him in a low-powered microwave filled with canola oil for an hour.
Q. They also severed both his arms and made him nurse dead chickens back to life by stuffing garlic down their throats with his toes. Then they reattached his arms. He'll show you the scars if you want.
Q. And he still smells like lemons and garlic. He's writing a book about it.
A. Of course. He might not get very far, though.
Q. Why not?
A. Because it'll read exactly like my first published novel, which details my experience. Except they made me watch Friends.
Q. I'm so sorry.
A. You'll get over it. We all do, eventually.