The only way to tell my Dad something is to write it on a note, and tie it to a brick, and throw it through a window. Of course, now Dad's armed with a brick.

I say we spend some money, clean up some junkies and make them all go work for the Red Cross. You ever give blood to the Red Cross? Little paper hatted trainee kid, just sticking you full of holes. Golly, jeez, this is way harder than the deep fryer, how does this work? You get an ex-junkie in there, bap-bap, he's gonna find a vein. You're in, you're out, you got sugar cookie and you're happy!

I don't fail. I succeed at finding out what doesn't work.

The towers fell, and the first thing that went through my head was my dad's voice: 'Well, you brought a new life into the world, and the world's over. Nice timing, numbnuts!

In 1998, in Laramie, Wyoming, two guys beat up Matthew Shepard and left him on the side of the road hanging on the fence to die. They killed him, because Matthew Shepard was gay. They killed him, because Matthew Shepard was gay? They killed him.

Nobody's really happy. And as soon as society realises that you can't trust anyone and that hardship is a natural part of existence, the sooner the therapists will realise that they are worthless! Sorry. They have worth deficit disorder!

We kinda hated sitcoms when we sat down and talked about this. We wanted to do something that was in the sitcom vain but totally different.