Stop anybody on the street and ask them what their favourite Paris Hilton movie is, and chances are they'll say: “Is this a real survey? Why don't you have a pen or a clipboard? Oh my God, are you mugging me? Please, take everything, just don't hurt me!” Or they might, just might reply: “House of Wax”.

It's a question we ponder every time we tip the pizza guy: How much affection? Is it necessary to set the box down before embracing him? How long do you hold him, knowing that he has other deliveries to make? Can lower tips be compensated for with more affection?

You think you don't have syphilis, but how do really know? Has anyone you trust told you you don't have it? Have you been in contact with anyone from a big city in, say, the last year? Then you almost certainly have it! Talk to your doctor immediately, or at the very least, a silver-haired white guy with an authoritative voice.

Meet Phil. Like all children from the fifties, he enjoys playing ball, building soapbox racers, and taunting his non blond-haired, blue-eyed classmates. Things are going great for Phil until a puppet shows up in his class. The Puppet, Ichabod Dorian Bungle III. . .

The title says it all: a missile goes to the moon! Only there are people in the missile so it's not really a missile but should more precisely be referred to as a "rocket"! . . .

Do you find that you're sleeping a little too well as of late? That your dreams are of the innocuous stripe, i.e., old friends turning into llamas and eating your baseball hat, rather than full out, scream-yourself-awake nightmares followed by 15 minutes of sweating and shallow breathing interrupted by occasional anxiety-induced "whale flips" that rip the covers off your significant other?

When you hear the word "patriotism" what's the first name that pops into your head? Wrong!

If the movies have taught us nothing else—and plainly, they haven't―then they've at least shown us that astronauts and evil supercomputers are similarly cursed with a stunning lack of imagination. Just as Skynet can't seem to come up with a better plan than to repeatedly send a Terminator back in time to eliminate John Connor before he gets fat...

Now that marijuana (aka "reefer", "bud", "stick", "whoopie doopie", "happy grass", "tingle weed", "Abe Lincoln", "the halt", "muffin", "chew", "altoid", "the Fonz", "little Ricky", "sleestack", "chumba wumba", "red dynamite", "the oaf", "fat man", "little boy", "Richard Milhouse Nixon", "Area 51") has been eliminated as a scourge, it's interesting to go back and look at the film that was almost singlehandedly responsible for its demise.

Your home is crawling with hazards! You are not safe! EVERYTHING WILL KILL YOU! In fact, never mind, because you're already dead; killed by your stupid house. That, at least, is the heartwarming message of the short Safety: Harm Hides at Home.