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Last year, I broke down a small sample of the most ridiculous R. Kelly lyrics I've ever heard, from his profanity-laced "REAL TALK" to his desire to propose to a buttocks.  To be fair, I'm not sure there's a single song in Kellz's extensive catalog that doesn't include some kind of head-scratching, cringe-worthy line...or ten.  The man simply has a gift for penning ill-fated sexual metaphors and similes, and I'm not ashamed to admit that I enjoy them a little too much.  If a recent acquittal on multiple child-pornography charges didn't stop him from bringing the crazy, then clearly, nothing ever will.  Here is Part II of this immensely enjoyable (at least for me) exercise in absurdity.

"Customer (Remix)" (from Raheem DeVaughn's Love Behind the Melody):  As the title suggests, the two singers allow a female customer to order various items from their respective menus.  Perhaps you can overlook Kelly referring to himself as "Chef Boy-R. Kellz" and claiming that that he'll "put that roast in your oven," but he, of all people, wouldn't dare go there, would he?  Yes, yes he would -- "shorty, if you're thirsty, I got some good, good lemonade."  Wow...just wow.

"In the Kitchen," TP.3 Reloaded:  Another song, another masterful display of storytelling:  "Sex in the kitchen over by the stove / Put you on the counter by the buttered rolls / Hands on the table, on your tippy toes / We'll be making love like the restaurant was closed."  Nothing out of the ordinary, really -- until Kellz blurts out, "Girl, I'm rea-dy to toss your sa-lad!!" at the 1:52 mark.  That, even after all of this time, I did not see coming.

"Pregnant," Untitled:  The self-proclaimed sexasaurus cuts to the chase within the first five seconds of this remarkable ode to child-bearing: “Girl I want to get you pregnant -- knock you up!”  You see, when a player find a woman with "an unbelievable booty," who's "more than a mistress," he must "handle [his] business and put that girl in [his] kitchen."  Truer words have never been spoken.  I still can't decide if I find this song to be brilliant, humiliating, uplifting, embarrassing, unreal, and/or genius.  Although, maybe this is just me, but despite Kellz's best intentions to make this a sensual slow jam, I'd be a little hesitant to have this playing in the background if I brought a woman into my bedroom.

Also of note is the unexpected reappearance of Tyrese, who almost outshines Kellz by apparently thinking it's 2001 and telling the object of his affections, "I can have you co-starring and get in one of my new movies ... I can make you famous."  Sure you can, Ty...sure you can.

"Echo," Untitled:  Inexplicably yodeling at the end of 1997's "Can We Get Up On a Room" (R) was obviously not enough, as Kellz decided it was time to bring back the lost art form a dozen years later on the chorus of his latest single.  Like I've said all along, alpine exuberance is exactly what contemporary R&B has been missing:  "Yo-de-lay, yo-de-lay, yo-de-lay hoo-hoo / Got you sounding like you're screaming from a mountain peak."  Only in R. Kelly's universe is yodeling a sexual aphrodisiac, but rest assured, he very clearly explains his reasoning.

"Whole Lotta Kisses," Untitled:  I almost skipped over this generic and relatively boring track, but listened long enough to be treated to one of Kelly's stranger comparisons:  "Bury myself all in you, as if you were my grave."  Wait, what??  I'm no king of R&B, but I can't think of a more guaranteed mood killer during a make-out session than that.

Well, unless you attempt to compare a woman's love to going to church -- she's even "got a n***a waking up extra early on Sunday" (!) -- and then tell her that she reminds you of your mother, both of which Kellz does within a span of a minute on "Religious" (I guess he forgot that he already broached this topic on 1995's "Religious Love").  Sigh, it's like he's not even trying sometimes.

Look, if Kellz is going to remake his own tracks, can Usher (or anyone more relevant than Trey Songz) diss him so we get another version of the indescribable "I'm A Beast?"

It seems like only six months ago, I was single and hating on everyone in a happy relationship. Oh, right, that's because that was six moths ago, and not too long before I met Michelle.  I knew she was the one for me soon after our first date, and I'm proud to say that as of January 9, she's gone from being my girlfriend to my fiancée. But, of course, that doesn't mean everything went smoothly or just as I had planned -- here's the engaging story (see what I did there?) of how it all went down.

I went to Michael C. Fina and picked out a beautiful Tacori ring in early December with the help of one of Michelle's best friends (according to Wikipedia, it's the same kind of ring that Chandler proposed with to Monica on Friends, though that wasn't my primary reason for choosing it...or so you'd think). As luck would have it, Paul Tacorian, who I later found out is that guy from The Bachelor, along with several other multi-millionaire company owners were in the store at the time and congratulated me on giving them a sh*tload of money my decision (notice that I'm standing credit card-in-hand).

The ring was supposed to be ready on December 28, and I originally planned on proposing at some point during our New Year's trip to California.  But unbeknownst to Michael C. Fina, Tacori was closed for two weeks in December, since, you know, no one ever decides to propose over the holidays. They assured me it would be ready by Friday, January 8, the day before our six-month anniversary.  So what happened on January 8?   A huge snowstorm hit the east coast, delaying all UPS shipments and leaving my ring stuck on a Newark Airport tarmac. Despite my outrage, it was out of the company's hands -- the ring wouldn't get to the store until Monday, January 11.  I begrudgingly agreed to have the jeweler temporarily fuse my diamond with the stock setting so that I could at least propose on our anniversary date.

My new plan was to put the ring inside a Miami Dolphins lunch box for the biggest Fins fan I know, which I had shipped to my parents' house in New Jersey so she wouldn't see it. The only problem, of course, was that as of Saturday morning, it was also yet to arrive due to that damned snowstorm.  But just as I started thinking of yet another backup plan, my dad called me to say that the lunch box had just come in and they were on their way into the city.

The next problem was getting Michelle out of the apartment to get everything in order. Unfortunately for her, but very fortunately for me, she had to work in the afternoon, giving me a two-hour window to pick up the ring and the lunch box. When I arrived at Michael C. Fina, the store clerk happily informed me that my ring -- the real one that I'd picked out -- had just come in 20 minutes ago. The off-duty UPS delivery man who brought it in had already changed into jeans and was on his way home when he received a call about a package in Newark, and only went back to get it on his own time because he wanted to go to Michael C. Fina to buy a ring for his girlfriend.   What are the odds? I must've been wearing that lucky deodorant. I ran back home after getting the lunch box from my parents and picking up a bouquet of flowers, and patiently waited for Michelle to come home.

The lunch box ended up being a huge hit. In fact, Michelle was SO excited about it, that it took what felt like an hour for her to finally open it.  When she saw the jewelry box inside, I got down on one knee and tried my best not to hyperventillate as I blurted out that magical four-word question. A dozen "yeses" later, we were engaged and on our way celebrate over a candlelit dinner in Rockefeller Center.

And then, as if things couldn't get any better, this happened last week on Twitter.  

doktakra @Candace_Parker Hey, Candace. I got engaged over the weekend & my new fiancee made me take down your poster off my wall. You okay with this?
Candace_Parker @doktakra LOL! congrats!  aww its okay i forgive you

That's right, after all this time, the (former) dream girl finally acknowledged me, and it wouldn't be possible without (the current dream girl) Michelle. I guess that's the way love goes...

Coming Soon: A major announcement that you might already know if (a) we're actual or online friends; (b) you follow my Twitter; or (c) you listen to this Jagged Edge classic...

You know how CSI and CSI: Miami will have those occasional crossover episodes to make you tune in to each show to get the entire story, even though don't really need to watch both episodes to get the scoop on everything anyway?  That's kind of what's going on here.  By now I'm sure you've read all about my gloriously entertaining first visit to Sacramento (and shame on you if you haven't), but here are some other highlights from my three-day trip to the Westside (do people still say, "Westside" or am I living in 1996?).

Santa Monica Pier:  I've got a long-running streak that goes back all the way to my summer camp days at the Green Lane "Y" in New Jersey -- I've never gone home empty-handed from a boardwalk basketball hoop.  In fact, I used to be so good at hitting those tricky shots, that other campers would ask me to shoot for them just to get the prize.  You'll be glad to know the streak lives on -- I won a stuffed animal shark for Michelle after eight attempts on my first try, which is now promptly sitting in a box in our storage unit.  Good times.

Someone So Unforgettable:  We were on five flights with three different airlines over the weekend, and despite Virgin Airlines' free in-air TV and WiFi and Jet Blue's timely NFL package, my hands-down favorite was Southwest Airlines.  As we prepared for landing, one of the flight attendants announced that we'd be treated to some entertainment -- Nat King Cole's "Unforgettable."  That would've been fine and all, but she then proceed to sing the entire song herself over the PA system.  Look, you just had to be there...it was like being trapped at an "American Idol" audition 10,000 feet up in the air.

Just Win, Baby:  It would've been far too easy had we boarded our flight out of Sacramento early Sunday morning and been back in New York by eight o'clock at night.  But of course, our plane was diverted to Oakland due to heavy fog, so we missed our connecting flight out of Long Beach.  Fortunately, Jet Blue gave us the option of leaving out of Las Vegas, complete with a three-hour layover in Sin City, which no rational person could possibly be mad about or decline.  Things got even more interesting when an earlier flight to Vegas was held up in Long Beach just as we arrived, and the security people inexplicably let us on board without even checking our IDs (gotta love the way they've stepped their game up after those recent scares).

Long story short, we rented a cheap hotel room and spent a solid six hours gambling at the Flamingo and Caesar's Palace .  I wasn't old enough to enter the casinos the last time I was in Vegas on a family vacation in high school (thanks, mom), but I more than compensated this time around.  I won't disclose how much money I lost, but let's just say that it was roughly three times more than what Michelle gambled away.  Note to self:  the roulette tables are not your friends.

By far the greatest moment was when a woman won $1,000 in the "Wheel of Fortune" slot game in front of us, and then told me, "now it's your turn" before walking away.  She left $20 worth of credits in the machine, which I went on to lose in about three minutes, but still, that type of thing just doesn't happen every day.  Or hell, maybe it does in Vegas...I should go back more often.

I feel I should explain the huge internet controversy surrounding my submission to straightcashhomey.net.  Okay, so it's not really a controversy, and only several dozen 11 people know or care about it, but I've got little else going on right now.  For those that aren't aware, Straight Cash is a website specializing in capturing random people quite simply wearing bad jerseys.  For years, I tried to get something posted, sending in pictures of someone in a Muggsy Bogues Hornets jersey and another person in a Chan Ho Park Dodgers one.  No dice...until, I had a genius idea while shopping at TJ Maxx (I needed undershirts -- don't judge me).  I found an Aaron McKie 76ers jersey on the discount rack, and promptly put it on so that Michelle could take a picture of me in the store.  Yes, I technically cheated since it was staged, and someone went on call me out in the comments.  But I could care less -- that's another goal I can cross of my list (and for the record, one of my other submissions was coincidentally published the day before, so there).

Anyways, let's move on to something a little more interesting.  Like most people, I fast forward through the commercials now that I've realized it's almost 2010 and there's this new techonology called "DVR."  But there are still some advertisements that are just too funny, ridiculous, or otherwise entertaining to pass up.  Let's just call these babies "DVR-proof."

You'd think a name like "Tasty Torpedo" sounds homoerotic enough, but Quizno's doesn't stop there.  In fact, this is quite possibly the most disturbingly awesome commercial I've ever seen (though there's no way I'll ever get a Quizno's sub after seeing what their employees do with the ovens).  I love the way the guy subtly looks down when he says, "that burned."  High comedy. 

A commercial doesn't need to try too hard or be extra long to make me laugh.  Sometimes, all it takes is 15 seconds of Biz Markie repeating "Oh, snap!  Guess what I saw?" over the "Just A Friend" instrumental.  The motto is, you can never go wrong with Biz...well, unless you have a bunch of white hipsters singing his music in a cab, which I prefer to think never happened. 

Maybe it's because I've never owned a dog, but I didn't really get the big deal when I first saw this one.  But the mom kills it with her priceless reaction.  And of course, anything with "steamer" in the title warrants a chuckle because I'm 12 years old.

If could, I would nominate the German guy for an Academy Award. I feel his pain...I'm hungry all the time, too.

Who doesn't love ice cream and cake?  Well, besides me, since I can't eat dairy.  But if I could, I would annoy everyone around me by singing this jingle every time I took a bite out of my Carvel treat.

I was never a big Halloween fan.  Even as a kid, the first and only time I ever put a hint of effort into my costume was in fourth grade, when I convinced my parents to buy me a horror movie mask that I wore to school with my normal clothes.  For the nine years that followed, I went the cheap cop-out easy route by putting on my trusty Mitch Richmond jersey and "dressing up" as a Sacramento Kings fan.  During my freshman year of college, one of my roommates and I snuck into the New York City Halloween Parade.  There I was, marching among the most creative and interesting costumes around -- including a man wearing a suit made entirely of MetroCards -- in (what else?) a replica Chris Webber jersey.  I decided that was the last time I'd celebrate Halloween.

But of course, in a year filled with changes, I came out of my semi-retirement.  Since I'm (we're?) obsessed with the Rocky movies, Michelle and I ended up going to the Halloween Masquerade Ball at Bryant Park Grill dressed as the Italian Stallion and Adrian, after also giving some consideration to Mickey and Ivan Drago.  We went the distance, spending weeks planning out our costumes and applying a few final touches on fight night (check out the shiner she gave me).  If you're wondering, we kept track of the number of times people yelled out, "Hey, Rocky!" or challenged me to a fight versus the number of times Michelle heard, "Yo, Adrian!"  After taking an early three to one lead, I ended up losing by a split decision, most likely because "Yo, Adrian!" is just so much more fun to say.  

And as you might know, if I can change, and you can change, then everybody can change.  Click here for the full album.

The first Bill Simmons article I ever read was a little over eight years ago. I'm not exaggerating when I say this -- it was, and perhaps still is the most genius thing I've ever seen.  He combined the top 50 quotes from my favorite sports movie, Rocky III, with his 2001 NBA awards, and even dedicated his favorite scene -- Clubber Lang provoking Rocky to fight him by disrespecting Adrian -- to his favorite team of the season, none other than the Sacramento Kings.  Ah, good times.  I even caved and paid for an ESPN Insider subscription a few years later to read some of his past columns (before they became available for free).

In honor of one of the Sports Guys' best gimmicks, I present a running diary of last night's Book of Basketball signing at Professor Thom's bar in the East Village, where I had the chance to meet and briefly talk to the man himself.

6:16:  Michelle and I arrive at the bar and find two separate lines on each side of the entrance.  The bouncer doesn't seem to know why this is the case (this will be a theme), but tells us to get all the way to the back of the much longer line that extends down the block.

6:31:  Someone on the street asks the group in front of us what we're waiting for, and they tell him that LeBron James is signing autographs (quite a feat considering that the Cavs-Raptors game is about to tip-off in Toronto).  Everyone manages to hold a straight face as the guy gets super-excited and races to the back of the line. Best moment of my day so far.

6:42:  We're given numbered wristbands and the people with pre-purchased books are told to go inside the bar.  Michelle informs me that it would've been smart to get the book ahead of time. Thanks, hon.

6:43:  The bar is quickly filled to capacity, leaving one line to the left of the entrance, where we're now standing near the front, and -- there's no other way to say this -- a clusterf*** of people with books on the right side.

7:11:  Simmons, accompanied by an entourage of a half-dozen people, one of whom I recognize as Jack-O, pulls up in a cab to a rousing cheer from a crowd of several hundred.

7:15:  Simmons signs for the minors first, and an overweight kid exits with a huge smile on his face, desperately trying to catch his breath.  Someone makes a joke that he looks like he just got his first, um, something I can't reprint here.  This is my new favorite moment of the day.

7:21:  An announcement says that people with wristband numbers 5530 through 5550 should make their way to the back of the bar for autographs.  Our wristband is number 5732.  Crap.

7:33:  The bouncers try to restore order amongst the people in the aforementioned clusterf***, and begin letting some of them in at the expense of everyone who's patiently waited in line because "that's what they're told to do."  Fantastic.

7:41:  An irate Michelle gives the bouncer an earful, and he eventually lets us in after discovering that she's from Florida and is a fellow Miami Dolphins fan. Michelle immediately regrets not mentioning this a half hour ago.

8:00:  Obnoxious Yankee fans yell at the television, while two classy gentlemen debate whether they would "hit it" when Michelle Obama is shown on the screen.

8:30:  Obnoxious Yankee fans yell even louder at the television because their team is losing, which now makes me a little happier.

8:51: Our number is finally called, and we push through the pack to reach Simmons' signing table.  A woman asks what I'd like him to write in my book, and I tell her I'll think of something when I get up there.  I'm cool like that.

8:56:  Simmons shakes my hand, and asks me what my shirt says.  I tell him that it's a throwback Kings jacket, and ask him if he has anything that would cheer up a Sacramento fan.

Without missing a beat, he writes, "You won in 2002. You did. Bill Simmons."

9:01:  Now I can die in peace.

No, no, Michelle and I haven't broken up...far from it, actually.  But I'm guessing you don't want to hear about that stuff, since I've been told that I was more entertaining when I was resentful and miserable.  I'll just get right to the big announcement and get it overwith: Candace and I are done.  I mean it.  I don't know exactly when it hit me, but I've stopped caring about the one-time dreamgirl.  Of course, her marriage to the-one-who-shall-not-be-named and their love child (shudders) didn't help, and a second straight snub at MSG might've been the final straw. If you don't think I'm serious about it being over, look no further than here -- that's right, the infamous bedroom poster is no more.  No, I'm not gon' cry, I'm not gon' cry, I'm not gon' shed no tears...

Anyways, I've moved on, and eventually, so will you.  To help with the grieving process, Iet's get back to the basics with a good ol' fashioned hate list.  This week's theme is elevator etiquette which I have not previously covered (see Things I Hate in the sidebar for more thoughts on people who block the exit or take the elevator to go down one f'ing floor).

*People who hold the elevator door open to continue their conversation:  I think the rules are pretty simple here.  If you're getting on the elevator, then either stop talking to the person on your floor or don't get on at all (note that in the latter case, I'll still be mad that you've wasted precious seconds of my time, but considerably less so).  Amazingly, this also works in reverse when you're on the verge of disembarking, but find yourself in mid-conversation.  The point is, I'm already irritated that the elevator stopped on your floor and ruined my express ride, but you then compound my anger by standing in the doorway and carelessly talking while I wait for your inconsiderate ass to finish.  I'm giving you the evil eye as I type this.

*People who leave farts in the elevator that I subsequently board:  This is even more offensive when another person enters and assumes that I was the culprit.  Not cool at all.

*People who press the elevator button repeatedly after it's already been pressed:  Once again, this concept seems simple to me.  If the button is lit-up, it means that someone before you (probably me) already pressed it.  Do you think that I'm an idiot and didn't do it correctly, or that your magic touch will make the elevator come quicker if you keep on pushing it?  Similarly, if your floor has already been pressed when you step inside, there is absolutely no reason to push the button again.  It will change nothing, I promise you.

*People who squeeze into a crowded elevator when there's no room:  Self-explanatory, I'd imagine.  Bonus hate points awarded if you're with a group of people and feel that every single member of your large party (intentional double-meaning) needs to get into the same elevator, because clearly, another one won't come a few minutes later and make the ride more comfortable for everyone involved.

*People who don't say, "thank you" or otherwise acknowledge my act of kindness when I hold the door for them:  On those rare days when I decide to do something nice like that (nine out of ten times, an attractive woman will be involved), I'd at least expect a nod or a smile in return.  It's ungrateful people like you who make me frantically press the door close button as you're approaching the elevator, which more often than not, does nothing anyway, aside from making me look like an ass.  Sigh.

I've been a Sacramento Kings fan for 15 years, and in a little over three months, I will finally step inside the confines of Arco Arena to see my team play on its home court.  The greatest girlfriend in the world is accompanying me on a trip to Los Angeles to watch the Kings get crushed play hard against the hated-rival Lakers at the Staples Center on January 1, and then take on the Mavericks at home the following night.  I already bought Michelle a purple Kings t-shirt, and the over/under on the amount of money I'll drop at the team shop currently stands at $750.

In the meantime, recently-hired Sacramento head coach Paul Westphal took some time to answer fans' questions on the Kings' Full Court Press Blog, and I was fortunate enough to make it into his mailbag.

 Alex K. As it stands now, the Kings don't have a true backup center behind Spencer Hawes. Do you envision playing more small-ball with Jason Thompson and Sean May at the five this season, or are we likely to see another trade or signing before the season begins?

 paulwestphal Alex-Right now, the way that our roster is constituted, we do not have a lot of tall centers. Spencer Hawes certainly qualifies as a legitimate NBA 7-footer. And Jason Thompson has size. We have Kenny Thomas who had shown us that he also can defend the low post better than anyone else on our roster, but he is a little short to play center. There is also Sean May as an option. Those guys are the primary options to give us some minutes at that position. Whenever Spencer is not at center, then I guess we will be playing small ball, if that is what you want to call it.

So there we have it. As much as the thought of seeing Kenny Thomas play big minutes when I finally make it out to Sac-town horrifies me to no end, at the very least, it beats my last New Year's, when my ex-roommate caught the flu and I stayed home instead of going to a friend's party. Ah, good times.

My family is weird. I know, everyone thinks their family's crazy and embarrassing, but I've always been terrified of bringing people over to meet my relatives. For one, they take the Russian drinking stereotype to the extreme, toasting everyone from long-lost cousins to deceased pets with shot after shot of Stolichnaya vodka.  They get into heated arguments about things that allegedly happened 30 years ago or about some senseless rumor they heard on Russian radio, occasionaly leading to someone storming out in a profane huff. My 85-year-old grandparents make embarrassing comments without even realizing it (more on this later). And then there's my great-uncle, who not only reads his fantastic Russian poetry at the dinner table, but sees nothing wrong with bursting into song regardless of where we are or who's present. He's probably the main reason why we no longer celebrate birthdays in restaurants or any other public places.  And they're also secret spies for the KGB. Okay, I made up that last part...or so you think.

You can probably guess where this is headed.  Yep, I brought Michelle to meet my folks and suffer though enjoy a glorious family birthday celebration, where she was treated to an hour and half of my parents' vacation stories and my childhood pictures (thankfully not the naked ones this time).  The undeniable highlights were the following photos of me when I was 16, decked out in an ill-fitting Dan Marino jersey and a pair of size 36 Boss jeans that were almost as big as those glasses, and living out my life dream by rocking an awesome 'fro that made me look like a rejected "Semi-Pro" extra.

Fortunately, most of my relatives were on their best behavior once we made it to my grandparents' apartment for dinner. My great-aunt kept conversation to minimum by making sure the guests had enough food, while my great-uncle read a half-dozen poems, but thankfully refrained from singing. Towards the end, he gave an impromptu toast for Michelle, which I attempted to loosely translate, and my grandmother chimed in to call her a "young beauty. " But because that wasn't awkward enough, after confirming that Michelle is Jewish, she suggested that the two of us should (wait for it) get married.  Sigh.  And I came so close to going an entire evening without wishing I was adopted.

When I was alone in my apartment later on that night (somehow still sober), I remembered that my mom gave me an envelope on my way out the door.  When I finally peeked inside, I found a $100 bill along with a three-word note: "Don't be cheap."  What can I say?  You gotta love family...sometimes.

It's been a long time, I shouldn't have left you, without a mailbag to step to....okay, that made no sense, but you get the point.  I've received a few inquiring emails from people who've visited this site (all two dozen of them), and I'm here to set the record straight on a variety of topics, and maybe even share some unexpected developments.

Previous reader mailbags:  December 6  |  October 16

Q:  So how are things going with the new woman and have you converted her to hip hop/R&B yet?

Ha, I'll answer the second part first.  The hip-hop hasn't really been an issue, especially when she can show off those dancing skills.  R&B?  Not so much.  In fact, I almost gave up on that endeavor entirely when she called my man Maxwell "a woman." I'm still trying to recover from that vicious blow.  To her credit, she's a fan of Motown, but has no appreciation for cheesy smooth '90's soul (and if anyone knows a thing about soul, it's a white guy from the suburbs).

All that aside, we're doing all right.  We've now passed the one-month hurdle, the highlight of which was undoubtedly watching terrible Color Me Badd and MC Hammer videos on YouTube last weekend.  I think we look ridiculously cute, if I may say so myself, and at one point, she forced me out of the pool to do my fantasy football draft. You know what, I'll just let Luther take it from here...

Q:  I recently read that soy "has the power to undermine everything it means to be male." Given that your diet is 70% soy, 20% cheese [Ed. note: 90% soy] does this article worry you?

Huh, well, I guess that explains why I'm so in touch with my feminine side then, doesn't it?  But on a more serious note -- ***Breaking News*** (because honestly, doesn't everything sound a little more exciting when it has "breaking news" in front of it?) -- I've been looking for a reason to start eating fish again, and I think this one's as good as any.  So yes, I'm once again becoming a dreaded person I hate, a "pescatarian," or more commonly referred to as a "hypocrite."  Sigh.

Q:  I'd like to know what your favorite animal is and why.

I have two.  As a kid, I collected toy pigs (no idea why, but I'm guessing toy stores in Russia had very limited selection), and annoyed the hell out of my grandfather by burying them in the backyard, hoping they'd grow bigger and reproduce.  I was a brilliant child.  I later discovered the awesomeness of monkeys swinging by their tails at the Bronx Zoo when I was 12, and became instantly hooked.  In fact, I may or may not have a stuffed animal monkey on my bed right now.  Um, let's move on...

Q:  Are you worried about your girlfriend leaving you for Dan Marino?

I can say with 100% certainty that I'm not concerned about losing my girlfriend (or as I like to call her, "gf" for short) to Dan Marino.  I wish I could say as much for a couple of other Miami Dolphins who are on her "cheat list."  Yep, like every other couple in a happy relationship, we've allowed each other five exceptions.  For the record, mine are Candace Parker (shocker, I know), Beyonce, Rihanna, Mary-Louise Parker, and Christina Hendricks (what? I had to fill the white woman quota).

Q:  How about those Lakers, baby!!

And...that's where the mailbag shall come to a close.  Thanks to everyone who submitted a question!