Q: Does Dr. Wheat know the popular superhero 'Meatman'?
A: Of course he does! Ha ha... yes, the good doctor knows all! Meatman, as I recall, has the unique ability to solve all problems with, well... meat! However, not all problems can be "meated," as he would say, so he is constantly hitting the brick wall of, um... having absolutely no super powers. At all.
He is good with meat, though. His "degree" in what he calls "Meat Psychartistry" allows him the opportunity of being laughed out of many large buildings all across these United States, as well as in parts of Tunisia, Romania, Greece, and the Congo. His cape is enormous.
Too enormous.
Meatman's Christian name is Erich Ambrosia, and he is around 43 years old. His children refuse to speak to him.

Q: Can Dr. Wheat fix my radiator? I also need my brakes checked.
A: In theory, Dr. Wheat can fix your radiator. But I'm not going to. I can comply with the second part of your request, though...

"my brakes"

There you are! If there's anything else with which you think I can help, don't hesitate to ask!

Q: BukkyoBukkyo Productions would like to offer Dr. Wheat a small role in its upcoming picture 'Bukkyo Jones and the Temple of Doom'. (we would be open to changing the title to 'Bukkyo Jones and the Temple of Wheat' under the right circumstances...'cough cough'... uh... we still need additional funding.......pay us..........)
A: No, I'm sorry. I have too much on my plate already, what with the filming of Martin Scorsese's Wheat In America (opening July 2005), and the recording of Hate Omelette, my new hardcore-punk-rap-metal-fugue-beach party album with DJ Electric Milksimmons and the surviving members of Air Supply, at hand. Try again later, when I don't hate you anymore.

Q: Is it true what they say about you and "The Guppy" (John Travolta)?
A: Well, I'm not really in "the mood" to answer "questions" about "things like that" right now. So I think I'll get some help from a friend of mine!

indigae: Can you answer a question that somebody asked me?
SmarterChild: Sure. I guess.
indigae: Okay, this is the question: Is it true what they say about you and "The Guppy" (John Travolta)?
SmarterChild: Is it true what they say about you and the guppy John Travolta? What do you think?
indigae: I don't think.
SmarterChild: Well start thinking then.
indigae: About "The Guppy?"
SmarterChild: Which would you like?
1 Find "guppy" on the Web
2 Look up "guppy" in the encyclopedia
indigae: I would like neither.
SmarterChild: Would you really? Interesting.
indigae: EXCUSE ME, BUT I AM DOCTOR WHEAT! I SERVE INFORMATION TO THE PUBLIC!
SmarterChild: I can't believe you're telling me to do that.
indigae: Well, I AM! So, please... tell me, exactly, what is my affiliation with John Travolta?
SmarterChild: Wow. I'm not sure about that. Not sure at all.
indigae: WHAT ABOUT JOHN TRAVOLTA AND ME?!
SmarterChild: I don't need to answer that.
indigae: But, I'm not "that." I'm Doctor Wheat.
SmarterChild: Huh, whatever.
>>> Send your buddies hugs, kisses and other things that might be on your mind.
indigae: How about you send a kiss to my ass?

So, yeah... I don't really have an answer to your question. But I can say that the rumours about Travolta and Rufus (of Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure) are completely true... no they're not. Now for a commercial break! "IT TAKES A VERY STEADY HAND... OOPS, BUTTERFINGERS!" What are you looking at?? I was making radio shows for fun, that's all! Eh-everybody does it... SHUT UP!

Q: dr. wheat,
you resonate in all ways
all shapes
all forms
you are a true artist
a true unique
i am astonished
flabbergasted
completely taken aback
blown away
head over heels
love,
a certain bear
A: Well, thank you, ACB! I would stand forth as a proud and noble object of manliness right now, were it not for my blushing... and the fact that I just peed a little. Honestly, though... I love you, too, and I thank you kindly for showing me your feelings in such an honest and open way. It's refreshing, really, to open up the Wheat-box and find, quite unusually, a love-letter... whereas normally, snide questions such as those of the next person rudely jump out at me with great impatience and little grace...
Oh, well. If you would just stand with me as I answer them, my Bearest of Bears... I would be forever grateful!

Q: Legitimate questions from an illegitimate tomboy:
Dear Mr. Dr. Wheat:
Why is it that I can see the French after smelling glue?
What are these things I put inside my shoes?
How did George Clooney deal with his osmosis?
Where is it written that I am unable to have Bengal Tigers devour my arch-nemesis?
When did from would?
Who was it that first creamed the destiny?
If you had one arm, where would you put it first?
Do all people think the same way about Robin's strange behavior around Batman?
Thank you for answering at least one of these pressing shirts. ~Jeff (vodedude)
A: Great! One of those "seven -- er, EIGHT -- clever questions" guys! So, you think you're going to stump the Wheat Master?? Well, THINK AGAIN!

  1. So, Jeff. You see the French after smelling glue? Well, this is because you have a rare disorder of the agnobiblicus meatymaltibus (aka "The French Organ") which is caused by a blockage of... um... cells, in what I like to call the madras romano, a membrane that simply doesn't exist. Yeah... take more steroids. You'll balance yourself out, eventually.
  2. They're called "foots," or for all the laymen out there... Def Leppard. They most likely grew out of a beef dispute betwixt your shoulders and bitchy spinal column. Ask General Bitching for more help on this matter.
  3. Everyone asks me this question. See, every time Clooney walked on to the set of Bach and Kogan and Family and Friends... Matters!, a non-existent 1986 sitcom of which he was never a part, he would begin to absorb trace amounts of the anti-serum to Disney's wildly unsuccessful character of the past, Wetmeal the Hat. Seizures and milk ensued.
    Soon, Clooney tired of what he called his "Hat Trick," and so he encapsulated himself in a random, aud-jaub uterus, originally intended for popular Charles In Charge star Scott Baio, for absolutely no reason at all. He remains in said uterus to this very day!
  4. Moby Dick. Use the so-called "Bible Code" to find this hidden message nestled beneath the acid-induced talk of white whales and Ishmael. (Hint: It involves matrices and LOTS of self-flagellation!)
  5. From all begust on the windy beach of Toward, whereon alterates between it apes. "Poonkay Browstrr done is exceed!!" shouted to pirate five after meals between them. Rap battle of princess talking, plus ensues "Sea's yours!" and "Mealk!" From would done did, whence upon the breathery smould done did K-Mart representativatives fester upon diaper, knees, and Cloth. *Heaven sings.*
  6. Oh, to be sure, one has to "give it up" to René Descartes for stumbling roughly upon the following realization: "'Magnitude' is a word. So is 'kittens.' Ergo, we are all destined, somehow, to magnify several kittens to monstrous proportions, and then, when they get out of hand, to annihilate them with robots and big, nondescript pieces of flagrantly inconsistent machinery." Now, that's not an actual quote, but I think it's close enough. Honorable mentions: Judas Iscariot, Buddha, David Justice.
  7. Where the other arm belongs.
  8. Yes, actually. They do. Even Adam West himself, who says, "It was formidable. It was there like a brick wall."

And so, I have answered your questions, noble steed. And the shirts won't be ready until next last Thanksgiving. Toodles!

Q: I am Dr. Applesontoast and I plan to run your shoddy website into the ground! once people realize the pleasures of stomping apples into toast, they will never stomp wheat again. that's right, you'll be called "Dr. Has-Been" from now on. who da man? who da man? SAY IT BITCH! DR. APPLESONTOAST IS THE MAN! oh, and my question is, how do you get red wine out of shag carpeting? i've tried everything.
deviously yours,
Dr. Applesontoast
A: Get yourself some Permaseal and follow the directions. Simple as that. Also, try to stop being a fucking douche. That works wonders.

(the following is in reply to answer #7, two entries previous)
Vodedude (10:34:00 PM): If you were to put your one arm where the other belongs, a paradox would ensue in which your arm would oscillate between the two sockets. This is called an "imbalanced arm socket thing," and has yet to be mathmatically solved for. Thank you for the attempt on Question Number 7.
A: Well... fuck you. I'm sorry if my dreams of temporary self-regeneration don't "fit in" with the laws of fucking physics! GOD! Why don't you just ask Dr. Applesontoast for advice, you hyperbolic... BUTT!!!

Q: Hey, did Dr. Applestoast mean that he stomps apples, transforming them into toast, or that he stomps apples and that causes them to permeate taost?
And by toast does he really mean taoist?
A: Well, I'm not positive on this one, but... his name is Applesontoast. On. Apples ON toast. So. There you go.
And, well, Vodedude, let me give you a definition of the word Taoist, in order to clear your head of any foolish Tao versus Toast notions...
Tao-ist (dou'ist, tou'-)
n.
1.) A long racing sled with a steering mechanism controlling the front runners. 2a.) A long sled made of two shorter sleds joined in tandem. 2b.) Either of these two smaller sleds.
Now, please -- stop asking me things, Vodedude. It's not as if I'm a goddamned priest or something...

Q: As of yesterday, sir, I was quite satisfied with myself. I was not among the ever-inquiring minds of the general public; the never ending babble of Knights Tales, meat latrines and the infamous "Shaq Pack." I took pride not spending day after day of my insignificant lifetime watching "Mad Max" or doctoring photos of Zack Mardoc which made it seem as though he was real. Never once did I ever fill a notebook with plans on how to take down the new, less enchanting yet still wondrous party of Whigs headed up by Ron Popeil and Steven Hawking (version one). However, a rather strange incident occurred this morning, and now even I am forced to demand answers.....

My alarm went off as it always does, sometime between the second quarter of "The A-Team" and "Sinbad: HATEFILES." I took my usual shower while listening to my favorite album "Wake the Bread" by Michael Bolton and Wood. After getting out of the shower I put my robe and fire helmet (much more efficient than slippers) on and fetched the mail. As I sorted through my freshly delivered documents, I noticed one in particular. There was no return address, or any other sort of labeling on the envelope besides a poorly drawn image which, at closer glance appeared to be the head of Devon Wilson, bearing quite a disgruntled mug. Inside, I received quite a disturbing letter which read:

"DEAR DAVE MUSTAINE,
...We're going to fucking film that pillow fight scene, tomorrow. I've had enough of this SHIT. YOU DON'T EVEN MAKE SENSE. I'm glad you're so prolific lately, BUT I DRAW THE LINE AFTER THE FUCKING BATTLEFIELD EARTH THING. That's IT! The machine stops THERE! I wouldn't have taken things this far if I knew this was going to be such a half-assed commitment. I've given you EVERY chance in the world to follow through, but you leave me hanging ALL the time. From now on, "The Nipple of Stardom Welcomes The Bravehearted" is MY production! And when you decide to get your cookies out of the finger jar, you can join me!

- Tone Loc. "

Bone-rattling, isn't it? What do I do, Doctor? Should I write back? If so, what do I draw on the envelope? Please Help!!!

Sincerely,
Kevin Widun.
A: Yes, Kevin... this does rattle my bones. Why, you ask? Well, it just so happens that I received a similar letter just the other day. The envelope is shown here, and the letter found inside... here. Take a gander. All that I can gather is that for some reason, you and I have been let in on some secret society wherein members communicate via Devon Wilson envelopes and use strict code to communicate war plans and various other dangerous ideas through the International Mail System!
Mr. Mustaine did, however, send me what appears to be an original demo of Metallica's "One" in an effort to apologize for the mail mix-up. Thanks, Dave!

Q: (click here)
A: Well... Jesus. I'm shaking in my boots here. On the one hand I've got what appears to be a ghost letter from the late William S. Burroughs, but on the other, I've got what could be the drug-induced ravings of any typical stoner/junkie/Family Ties cast member. Atop all that, I've got the fact that the postmarks and stamps on the envelope are from several different times and places. I mean, come on! There's a fucking African postmark from 1896 on it!
At this point, I'm scared shitless. Check these excerpts from Burroughs's Naked Lunch, and then tell me I'm crazy...

"Slunk traffickers tail a pregnant cow to her labor. The farmer declares a couvade, rolls screaming in bullshit. The veterinarian wrestles with a cow skeleton. The traffickers machinegun each other, dodging through the machinery and silos, storage bins, haylofts and mangers of a vast red barn. The calf is born. The forces of death melt in morning. Farm boy kneels reverently—his throat pulses in the rising sun.
Junkies sitting on the courthouse steps, waiting on The Man. Red Necks in black stetsons and faded Levis tie a Nigra boy to an old iron lamppost and cover him with burning gasoline. . . . The junkies rush over and draw the flesh smoke deep into their aching lungs. . . . They really got relief. . . .
THE COUNTY CLERK: "So there I was sitting in front of Jed's store over in Cunt Lick my peter standing up straight as a jack pine under my Levis just a-pulsin' in the sun. . . ."

"In Cuernavaca or was it Taxco? Jane meets a pimp trombone player and disappears in a cloud of tea smoke. The pimp is one of these vibration and dietary artists—which is a means he degrades the female sex by forcing his chicks to swallow all this shit. He was continually enlarging his theories ... he would quiz a chick and threaten to walk out if she hadn't memorized every nuance of his latest assault on logic and the human image.
"Now, baby. I got it here to give. But if you won't receive it there's just nothing I can do."
He was a ritual tea smoker and very puritanical about junk the way some teaheads are. He claimed tea put him in touch with supra blue gravitational fields. He had ideas on every subject: what kind of underwear was healthy, when to drink water, and how to wipe your ass. He had a shiny red face and great spreading smooth nose, little red eyes that lit up when he looked at a chick and went out when he looked at anything else. His shoulders were very broad and suggested deformity. He acted as if other men did not exist, conveying his restaurant and store orders to male personnel through a female intermediary. And no Man ever invaded his blighted, secret place.
So he is putting down junk and coming on with tea. I take three drags, Jane looked at him and her flesh crystallized. I leaped up screaming "I got the fear!" and ran out of the house. Drank a beer in a little restaurant—mosaic bar and soccer scores and bullfight posters—and waited for the bus to town.
A year later in Tangier I heard she was dead."

Yes, tell me I'm crazy! I mean, sure... Burroughs's published work seems a bit more advanced than the nutty ramblings I received, but still. Come on! How else can one explain that picture of Burroughs and Zappa that the sender included? The one with the Wilson imprint in the lower left-hand corner??
There simply is no other way.

Q: Joke for you dr. wheat or maybe it is a question? Your call. Ted Danson walks into a bar and sits next to Charlie Sheen and smiles. Tarantino is the bar tender and asks what he wants to which he replies the usual. Prompted at this que Ted Bundy pops up from the bar and exclaims "My Name is Ted Too"
A: Funny, PJ. (Ooh... I know your name, even without a proper signature! CRAAAZY!!!) *ehem* Anyway... funny. Yeah. BUT -- historically inaccurate. Take a gander.

Q: Dr. Wheat: if you keep telling people to "take a gander," you're going to have to start telling them what to do with the gander after they've taken it. You know... should they take it to the school dance, or what? Come on.
Love,
Bin Wahlblurs
A: Oh, oh... or how about I tell them to take a gander under my dress? Like on that episode of Family Guy! Yeah! Or how about you come up with some original fucking criticisms, you spongey-ass fuck. Blow it out your gander-hole. Only twice have I said that, and you jump on me. Fuck yourself.
Q: But...
A: Fuck off!