After a week in San Francisco, a month in Los Angeles, and a night in Las Vegas, four days in Tulsa didn't sound like the most rocking time. But we were armed with a six-year-old to entertain us. And this wasn't just any six-year-old. This was a six-year-old who has an imaginary news anchor that talks to him through the microwave.

I introduce you to Zack. A friend in Tulsa is dating Zack's mother, and I'm very glad about that. Not just because I get along with her and think that she's a good match for my friend, but because Zack could keep me amused for years.

We were all having dinner when Zack first introduced us to Joe, the imaginary news anchor that talks to him through the microwave. But Joe doesn't just talk to him through the microwave. Joe is also in the wall, the toaster, and, occasionally, Zack's ravioli.

It's nice to see Zack have such a vivid imagination. Because as we grow older, our parents and teachers stifle our imaginations in favor of teaching us reality. I had an imaginary friend once: Rachel I. KaBenjamin. I derived her name from mixing the middle names of myself and all of my siblings - Rachel, Israel, Lorraine, and Benjamin. Where's the K from? Well, it's one letter away from L, and (I am not making this up) I thought Rachel I. LaBenjamin sounded too French. Keep in mind that my only exposure to the French at the time was through a cartoon skunk.

But as I got older and my imagination faded, I made Rachel move away. I stopped crafting shapes from the clouds. And I no longer wondered what could lurk in the shadows. Though I have gotten pretty good at picturing women naked.

I have grown so out of touch with my imagination (except for that naked thing) that I forgot what age I stopped believing in the tooth fairy. And, in front of news-anchor-befriending Zack, I let something slip about my parents giving me money for my baby teeth.

The whole table stopped eating. Even Joe (he can be a bit of a cannibal).

"I knew it!" Zach said, pointing to his mother. "You're the tooth fairy!"

Uh oh. I had, with a single boring anecdote, began the downward spiral that would lead to the destruction of this child's imagination. I needed a quick recovery. Zack needed a quick recovery.

"No, no no," I said. "MY parents are the tooth fairy. You didn't know that? I figured you'd have met them by now - They've been at it a while. That's why I travel so much. My parents keep moving around. It's hard to make friends this way, but if AC Slater can do it, so can I."

The Saved By the Bell reference was for the adults at the table, a group to which I allegedly belong. But Zack heard the important part. And what's crazier, he believed it. There is now a six-year-old in Tulsa that thinks the tooth fairy is a combination of Mr. and Mrs. Hofstetter.

Just before we left Tulsa Saturday morning, we had breakfast with everyone again. Halfway through the meal, Zack went to the bathroom and came running back, complaining that there was soap in the toilet. Of all the things that he could have told us was in the toilet, soap was the least threatening, so it took us a few minutes to realize he was referring to the urinal cake. We thought of the impossibility of explaining a urinal cake to a six-year-old, and by the time we finished laughing over who was going to tell him, Joe had returned to distract us, this time in pancake form.

Zack has a nine-year-old brother who thinks he is crazy. And he's quite possibly right. But Zack, while standing--actually standing--over his plate, threatening to eat Joe's sausage nose, reminded me that I could use a little more imagination - after all, I'm in one of the few professions that rewards it. Perhaps I can begin exercising my imagination more often.

Ah, here comes the waitress now.

Dear Joe College,

Ok, so this isn't really so much a question as it is a warning and a request for personal assurance... One of my friend's sorority sisters was kind enough to spread her STD to an entire hot tub full of half naked people at a party, including my friend. No one even knew what it was until they went to the On-campus clinic and they'd say "I was in a hot tub..." No questions asked, they were given medicine to clear it right up.

So my question is, How can we ever feel safe promenading half-naked into hot tubs with random people ever again?? If this happened once, it can most definitely happen again. And maybe next time to me, or even to YOU! Is there any sure way to guarantee that we can avoid this?

Avoiding Hot Tubs,
Heather

My Dearest Heather,

So what kind of STD are we talking about here? Last I heard, most STD's couldn't travel in a hot tub, unless there was some other stuff traveling around, if you know what I mean. And I know you do, because your friend's sorority sister is obviously you! You thought you'd disguise yourself by saying you didn't have a question and then asking a question anyway, but I am on to you! Like everyone else in that hot tub.

So your question is, "how can I be a cheap slut and not suffer the consequences?"� And my answer is, you can't! But don't let that stop you from being a cheap slut. If cheap slutting is your thing, you go to it, you cheap slut, you.

Dear Joe College-

I'm 17 and a freshman at VT. I dont turn 18 until May 28. Does this mean all the guys I have been hooking up with are doing illegal things with me cuz that would suck [more than my roommate, who is a whore ;) ] I mean the number isnt that high for considering all the other hookupage going around but for a Mormon, its pretty darn high. I already know I'm going to mormon hell but I dont want to send anyone to jail. This is stupid . I hate the American legal system and its dumb laws outlawing blowjobs in certain states. I bet Virginia is one of those states. whatever BYE!

Mary-Catherine

To the Dope MC That Rocks a Mic Right,

The age of consent in Virginia is indeed 18 - which is ironic because that helps keep the "Virgin"� in "Virginia"�. I don't know if blowjobs are legal in Virginia, but when I typed that into Google, I found all kinds of very educational sites that kept me busy for three and a half minutes before I remembered your question. Don't worry though, I bookmarked them.

The answer to your question is simple - sexual activity with you is illegal for anyone over 19. But as you get older, things will change. For instance, you will learn grammar and punctuation and find out that no one has ever been arrested for giving a blowjob in college. Also, the best way to avoid these guys going to jail is by not broadcasting the fact that you've blown more guys than birthday candles.

Incidentally, if you hate the American legal system, you can move to, say, Afghanistan, where you can give all the blowjobs you like to your arranged husband from beneath your burkha.

Thanks for writing. This was Joe College saying, "Virginia ain't so bad, now, huh?"�

Got a question about an aspect of college life? Want to be made fun of? Then this is the place for you! Send all your college-related questions to joecollege AT observationalhumor DOT com.

Dean has two new columns out today- Advice from a Sophomore and Lord of the Rings; King of the Geeks.So check those. And if you're a fan of timeless good rock music, check out Bob Dylan's new DVD. And finally, Ned Ryerson of Groundhog Day fame says... "Check out these hotlinks!"

No cross country road-trip is complete without a little bit of Las Vegas. And this past Thursday, the El Cortez Hotel and Casino was exactly that. A very little bit of Las Vegas.

While on this trip, we haven't stayed in many hotels. If you haven't been keeping up, "we" refers to myself and fellow comedian Josh Jacobs, and "this trip" refers to a massive several-month and few-dozen state comedy tour consisting mostly of hangovers. Oh, come on, I'm kidding - I know enough to drink water before I go to sleep.

Even when hotel rooms are free, we often find them antiseptic and impersonal. Sometimes I like the quiet time a hotel gives me to regroup from spending the rest of the week at college parties. But more often than not, we prefer staying with people who don't wear nametags with their city and state.

But in Vegas, we had no choice. We don't know anyone in Vegas, if you don't count the bartender I tried to pick up when I was there two years ago. And you can't count her, because talking to someone for five minutes and leaving without knowledge of their phone number never counts for anything.

I do, however, know someone who knows someone in Vegas. His name is Orbitz, and he charges a slight fee for this knowledge. Okay, so I used a website to find a cheap hotel. It was either that or get to Vegas without sleeping arrangements, and that is never a good idea. If there is one town where it's dangerous to be awake longer than usual, it's Las Vegas.

The El Cortez was only $21 including tax for both of us. To put that in perspective, my rent in New York is almost double that. But that's without factoring in utilities. In New York, my utilities consist of gas and electric. In Las Vegas, I also have to pay for my share of the month's Texas Hold "˜Em.

Before I discuss my penchant for donating money to casinos, I should point out a few things about how crappy the El Cortez is. And the woman on the phone really called it "The El Cortez." That means "The The Cortez." Alternatively, you can call it "El The Cortez" or "El El Cortez."

The sign in the elevator letting me know that security would be willing to walk me to my car tipped me off to the kind of place this was. And if that weren't budget enough, their "Round the Clock" food specials were only combined Round the Clock - each one was available for a few hours. And there are no clocks in Las Vegas, so you can't see what time your hotel started sucking. Orbitz says The El El The Cortez has three stars. But I don't think it ever got them all in the same year. To be fair, the place across the street is worse - it advertises a $4.95 all you can eat buffet, and in small letters the sign says "nearby."

I'm not one to go to Vegas without some gambling, especially in a hotel this boring. So I took $50 and hit the poker tables. Not blackjack this time - I didn't want to play a game against the house. I figured that the odds were better playing against people who couldn't afford a grammatically correct hotel.

I was already up $20 when I sat down. Not technically, but that's how much I would have lost if I actually played Keno during dinner instead of just jotting down numbers and seeing if they'd win. So when I went up 20 or so real dollars very quickly, I was in a good mood. Especially because I was the only non-regular at the table. To be a regular at any casino is sad. To be a regular at The El Cortez is, well, these guys.

But I stayed in a bit too long, and I lost a big hand on an unlucky draw. (The River, for those of you who play). I wasn't upset, because I lost the money to someone who needed it more than me. He needed it for many things. For instance, to afford a new watch so he could find out the details on the next shift of Round the Clock specials.

I got up, walked over to the roulette wheel, put the remaining $21 I had on black, surprisingly hit, and walked away. I smiled: I had only lost $8 on the night. In other words, I spent $29 on a night in Vegas. $9, if you add my winnings from not playing Keno.

Next time I go to Vegas, maybe I'll just play the change machines. It takes as much talent as slots, and I'd win every time. Though I admit - it's a little less exciting than walking through The El Les Ha Het Das Cortez Hotel and Casino, and being thankful that I was leaving the next day.

As long as someone is available to walk me to my car.

While staying in Los Angeles this winter, I sublet a place from a screenwriter I had the fortune of meeting. It's an awesome apartment for dirt cheap: great neighborhood, balcony with a view of the Hollywood sign, and it even has a Jacuzzi. But it comes with a significant drawback - 24/7 coverage from Fox News.

Do not think that Fox News is actually in the apartment. It's just always ON in the apartment. And do not think this is because my roommate enjoys the views espoused by Fox News. He's a screenwriter and he needs material.

If you genuinely enjoy the programming of Fox News, stop reading this. Instead, get a pad out of your desk, and write me an angry letter telling me how I should not criticize something so obviously Fair and Balanced. Then get a gun out of your desk, and shoot off your big toe for being such a jackass. Conveniently, if you genuinely enjoy the programming of Fox News, you also keep a gun in your desk.

If you do keep a gun in your desk, that's up to you. Have all the views you want to have - that is part of what we do here in America. I am for many things, like spending on education, and against many things, like spending on secret Thanksgiving dinners. But if you disagree with these or any of my beliefs, that's fine with me.

I do not have a problem with anyone having the views they do. As Voltaire said, "I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it." Actually, someone on Fox News said Voltaire said that. But the quote really comes from the book "Friends of Voltaire," written over 100 years after Voltaire died. How could I possibly know that? I took ten seconds to look it up. Crazy, I know.

Fox News says they are Fair and Balanced. But let's imagine that before every commercial break, someone said, "And remember, the anchors at Fox News have huge genitals. That's right. Huge!" Wouldn't you think that they were constantly reminding us because they were afraid we didn't believe them? If they really were Fair and Balanced, we'd know it without them having to tell us every four and a half minutes. And my use of four and a half as a measurement is purely coincidental.

My main problem is that Fox News lies - outright lies. Not "misleads" or "gets things wrong by reporting them too early" (although they are excellent at both of those). They outright lie. A lot.

The obviously Bush-supporting Fox News likes to report about the level of clod exuded by democratic frontrunner Howard Dean. Like when they reported that Dean said he was going to go all the way to the left. But on that report, they showed a clip of Dean saying that he was planning on running from the center. Did they actually watch the clip before they played it? They should try that sometime. That way they won't report that Abraham Lincoln is surrendering, and then playing a clip of the Gettysburg Address.

Just before Christmas, when the government raised the threat level to, oh, Burnt Sienna, Fox News reported that the announcement caused panic in the streets New York. Because normally, the streets of New York are so serene just before Christmas.

The interviews went something like this:

Reporter: "What do you think of the heightened alert level?"

Tourist Trying to Shop: "What?"

Reporter: "The government raised the alert level to Mulberry."

Tourist: "So?"

Reporter: "As you can see, New Yorkers are terrified."

And my absolute favorite moment came this weekend, during reports about the passenger who slipped a note to a flight attendant saying there was a bomb on their plane. Terrifying? Of course. But I'd like to paraphrase one of the anchors:

"Have we really come to the point where just anyone can get on a plane and hand a note to a stewardess threatening to blow everything up?"

First, they prefer to be called flight attendants. Second, YES!!!! Yes, we now live in an ultra-liberal, leftist state where a bunch of commie pinkos allow passengers to (gasp!) write on airplanes without a license.

I have another political belief I didn't share with you. I think there should be a new federal commission established to watch the news. Fox, CNN, Bloomberg - all news channels would be watched, audited, and scored. Every time one of them lied, intentionally misled, or reported a fact WAY too early for it to be a fact, they'd lose a few points. And after a certain score, two very Fair and Balanced things would happen.

1) The ticker at the bottom of the screen would be replaced by a marquee that reads, "This channel is for novelty purposes only."

2) Anchors would have to explain all of their political beliefs. Alone. Unarmed. At night. In Harlem.

Then we'll see which New Yorkers are in a panic.

The story you are about to read is true. The names have changed to protect my friend who was vomiting all over a popstar's house.

A few days before New Year's, I ended up invited to a party in the Hollywood Hills to ring in 2004. I shouldn't say whose house it was because if he reads this, we will NEVER be invited back. I will say this- he's in a boy band, and not one of those pretend boybands like 98 degrees or O-Town or the Jackson Five.

A friend of a friend knew the guy, so I somehow ended up on the guest list. That afternoon, my buddy asked me what I was going to wear. I responded, "clothes." I'm not the kind of guy who buys a special outfit for anything, let alone for a boy band. Because, see, I like women.

There were about 100 people there. A bunch of people from all those Fox and WB coming of age sitcoms, some dude from The Sandlot, half of one of those other boy bands (oh no! drama!), and some other random actor-people I didn't recognize. Allegedly, Winona Ryder was there but I don't believe it because my jacket was still in the closet after she left. But who came to the party is not important. What's important is how often my friend threw up.

My friend, um, "John," had been talking to a girl for an hour and a half before she mentioned her boyfriend. AN HOUR AND A HALF. There are two party fouls girls with boyfriends are guilty of. Mentioning the boyfriend after being arm in arm with someone for an HOUR AND A HALF, or mentioning the boyfriend way too early. I'd rather the second one, and I'm sure John would have, too. Though that can also be annoying.

"So, where you from?"

"I'm from Indiana. And so is my boyfriend."

After she dropped the "boyfriend" line, John had a little too much to drink. And then he did like 8 more shots. So when it was time for us to say Bye Bye Bye, I discovered John passed out on the cooler outside. John is a VERY large guy, and while I dragged him indoors, he came VERY close to falling in the pool. I contemplated letting him just for the story.

But I managed to get him through the house and down to the street, all while calling a cab. The thing you need to understand about houses in the Hollywood Hills is that the driveways are about three blocks long and steeper than most of San Francisco. John stumbling, falling, and yelling, "Don't control me!" made getting him down to the street a remarkable accomplishment.

Our cab came, but someone took it while I was trying to get John to not die. We called a few more, and people took those, too. Then one of them clearly came for us, and someone even took that. I shouldn't tell you who did it. But it would have been awesome if as he stole my cab, he said, "Welcome to The O.C.!"

While we waited an hour til we were finally picked up, "John" lay there on the red brick, completely passed out. The final vomit count was 5 - once in each bathroom, once on the lawn, once over the railing, and once just lying on the ground. So I did what anyone would do in my situation- I took a picture with my new camera phone so we'd have proof. Maybe I should tell Sprint so they can use the story in their next commercial.

Oh man. I can't wait to see this episode of Cribs.

1. Did you know that according to the latest Axe deodorant survey, more than 90 percent of women have hooked-up with more than one guy in a night? Neither did I. But knowing is half the battle. The other half is french kissing.

2. Did you know that out sponsor Karmaloop.com and Puma have joined forces to release an exclusive, limited edition shoe called the "Freedom Trail". Puma is only producing 250 pairs and each one will be numbered?

3. Did you know that I have my first new Observational Humor of the year entitled "Why Are All My Stands Red?" or that Aaron Karo has a new Ruminations called "Chicks, Beer & SportsCenter?" Now ya do.

There are many challenges we face as Americans. Like terrorism and poverty and disease and the WB. We have plenty to help us through such maladies: security and charity and medicine and remote controls. But we have nothing to help us through the most difficult challenge of all - getting through a page-a-day calendar without reading ahead.

I could never do it. Because page-a-day calendars are either awesome or horrible. If it's awesome, I want to read ahead. And if it's horrible, I toss the thing by January 12th.

I have had many page-a-day calendars, and even more if you count the times I lived vicariously through my older brother. His first one was a joke-a-day, where most of the jokes are only called jokes by the people who market the calendar. Most of them went something like this:

Q. Why can't Captain Hook make eggs?

A. Because he's always trying to destroy the pan!

I just came up with that. Maybe I should sell horrible "joke" page-a-day calendars that mothers can buy for their sons because no son would buy it for himself.

The jokes, most of which were in the Q. A. format, were so bad I imagine that some of the pages contained an audible rim shot after each one. I remember one joke in particular that was so awful I scrawled "SUCKS!!!!" in huge letters on the back of the page. Except I was eight years old, and that is not something a mother likes her eight-year-old son to do. Though, as an eight-year-old, I didn't know what the calendar sucked, just that it sucked something.

My mother banned my brother from showing me any more of the calendar to prevent me from finding out what, exactly, it sucked. In retrospect, I am very glad she did because I developed a sense of humor, something I would not have done if I grew up exposed to jokes like this:

Q. Thank you for applying to work at the first national bank. What is your name?

A. Yake Yohnson.

Q. And where did you receive your education?

A. Yale.

That, incidentally, is that joke that I said sucked somethingorother. And while I didn't know what it sucked, I did know that the joke would have been funnier if they swapped the two questions so the punch line wasn't telegraphed so early. You hear me, joke calendar makers? An eight-year-old said you shouldn't telegraph your punch lines. He also said you suck.

My brother's next page-a-day calendar was much better. Though a "disease-a-day" calendar would have been better than the one he'd previously had. His next page-a-day was The Far Side, which is a wonderful thing and obviously a present from someone not closely related to us. I was so happy that my brother finally got a Far Side calendar that I tried to read through it all at once. He got VERY angry, and told me I was violating the page-a-day rules. I put it down and never touched it again, lest he report me and I get sent off to Yale.

After that, I finally got my own page-a-day: a baseball calendar. This, I was excited about; mom took a step up here. But she was duped - it wasn't REALLY a baseball calendar. Each day was merely a listing of baseball birthdays. I remember my excitement when I discovered that Frank Thomas and Jeff Bagwell were born on the exact same day. What are the odds that not only two all-star first basemen shared a birthday, but that a kid had so little of a life that he'd notice?

I don't know which baseball players I share a birthday with - probably because by September, I was very bored of not caring who had what birthday.

There were other attempts to buy me a good page-a-day, partially because I never purchased one for myself. But when I went to college, the trend stopped. Because in college, I'd constantly have to be reading two days at a time after I slept through the first one.

Last year, after I returned to a world that actually uses alarm clocks, my father bought me the best page-a-day he could - a Dave Barry calendar. Dave Barry, aside from being the best writer in the world, is the best writer in the world. And not only did I prevent myself from reading ahead, I even kept up with it most days. Right up until last week, when I finished it and the last page reminded me how to buy one for this year. I don't think I will though. Getting through 2003 was exhausting enough. I need a break. Maybe I'll use the time off to write my own.

The pan! Get it?