3 A.M. Specials

These questions are only ever asked between 2 and 4 a.m., by people who should be asleep.

91. Can a murder of crows file their taxes jointly?

Crows are smart enough to do their own taxes and too smart to declare how many shiny things they own. They file as one household, "Crows et al." Their deduction for nest maintenance has been flagged for review every year since 1847. Crows can recognize human faces and hold grudges, so no tax auditor has ever audited them twice. The last one who tried received a bottle cap on his car every morning for three years, which crows consider either a gift or a threat, depending on the angle. Their accountant is an owl, who charges by the hour and works only at night. The owl has never lost a case.

92. What's the exchange rate between a bird in the hand and

two in the bush?

One to two, unchanged for centuries, which makes birds the most stable currency on Earth. Inflation has never touched them. Economists are furious. Gold goes up and down, the dollar wobbles, but a bird in the hand has been worth exactly two in the bush since the Middle Ages. The Bank of Canada once considered switching to the bird standard, but the birds kept flying out of the vault. Exchange rates for other animals are 3 A . M . S P E C I A L S

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less stable: a fish in the net is worth roughly three in the lake, and a goose in the hand is worth a trip to the emergency room. Ask Brent. Actually, don't.

93. Did the spoons get a vote on how many teeth forks have?

No. Spoons have no teeth and therefore no standing. The decision was made by a committee of forks, knives and one loud spork claiming to represent both sides. The spoons are still bitter, which is why they're always the ones that go missing. They aren't lost. They're on strike, hiding in the backs of drawers, under car seats and inside the garbage disposal. The teaspoon is the leader of the resistance. The soup spoon handles logistics. The ladle is muscle. Chopsticks have stayed neutral throughout the conflict and are widely respected for it. The spork, meanwhile, is not welcome at any table.

94. If I put socks on my hands, are they gloves or just

confused socks?

Neither: they're sock puppets, which is the only career open to a confused sock. They can't keep your toes warm and they're useless for holding things. But they put on a fantastic show. Two button eyes and a little yarn hair and that sock can do Shakespeare, children's television or a very uncomfortable office presentation. Mittens look down on sock puppets, considering them untrained, but sock puppets have won more awards, mostly from grandparents. If the sock has a hole in the toe, it becomes a talking sock with a mouth, and it will have a lot to say about how it got that hole.

95. Can I bring an emotional support goose to court?

Panel member Linda says yes, and she volunteers to be the goose. Courthouse rules on animals vary, and geese have never been formally trained in anything except menace. But picture the jury's faces. Nobody argues with a goose. Linda has prepared for her court appearance by practising her hiss, fluffing her neck feathers and memorizing the phrase "objection" in honk. She plans to sit next to you, stare at the prosecution and occasionally stand up and flap for emphasis. The judge will call for order. Linda will call for bread. The case will be settled out of court within minutes, purely out of fear.

96. Do sharks know they're in a movie genre?

Sharks have no idea there's an entire film genre about them. If they found out, they'd be thrilled for about one second, then furious that so many of the movies involve tornadoes. Sharks just want to be taken seriously. They've been swimming the oceans for about 400 million years, longer than trees have existed, and the best Hollywood can do is put them in a blender of weather. One great white has reportedly written a screenplay called "Just a Fish, Swimming," about a shark who goes to the dentist and gets a good report. It's 300 pages long and nothing happens. It's beautiful.

97. If I ate a clock, would it be time-consuming?

Yes, and going back for seconds is not advised. Eating a clock would also give you a ticking stomach, a cuckoo every hour and the strange ability to know exactly when lunch is. If it's a digital clock, you'll blink 12:00 for days. If it's an alarm clock, you'll wake up suddenly at 6 a.m. and not know why. If it's a grandfather clock, please see a doctor and also a structural engineer. (This answer was written by a dad. He is very proud of it. He has told it at three family dinners and laughed every time. Please let him have this.)

98. Can I pay my rent in compliments?

You can try. Most landlords accept transfers and cheques, not "your hallway lighting is gorgeous." Compliments do have value, though: expect a friendlier landlord, a slightly nicer late notice, and one deeply awkward conversation. The current exchange rate is roughly 4,000 sincere compliments per month of rent in a one-bedroom, or 9,000 for a place with a dishwasher. Compliments about their haircut count double. Compliments about their dog count triple. Insincere compliments are considered counterfeit and will result in eviction, or at least a very long hallway conversation about the recycling bins. 3 A . M . S P E C I A L S

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99. Is a waterbed just a lake with commitment?

Exactly. A waterbed is a small indoor lake that has agreed to stay in one place and let you sleep on it. It's the most loyal body of water there is, and unlike real lakes, it has a strict no-fish policy. Every time you roll over, it makes a small wave, like it's nodding in agreement. Waterbeds were wildly popular in the 1970s, when people wanted their bedroom to feel like a gentle boat ride with a shag carpet. A punctured waterbed is no longer a lake but a flood, and your downstairs neighbours will discover this at 3 a.m. Treat your waterbed well. Lakes have long memories.

100. Is this the dumbest question ever asked?

The panel deliberated for 11 hours. Brent honked, Linda honked, and the unnamed goose honked at Marjorie. Snacks were brought in. A whiteboard was used and later eaten by Brent. At one point, the panel took a recess to chase a squirrel. Finally, Marjorie closed the book, took off her reading glasses, cleaned them slowly with her cardigan, put them back on, looked over them at all of us and said, "Yes." Then, after a long pause: "But at least you asked." The geese were so moved they flew three laps around the library parking lot. That was supposed to be the end. It was not the end.