1 The lies start early. "Pie are square." No, pie are round. Cornbread are square. Truth 2 power.

2 "I only know ten digits, myself." Why did you bother memorizing it? You don't even sound cool demonstrating your "talent." Now, memorizing the soliloquy from Hamlet. That's something useful and impressive.

3 To be or not to be, that is the question; Whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows Of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them. To die, to sleep. * * * Life is an unweeded garden; things rank and gross in nature Possess it merely. That it should come to this: so excellent a king that was, to this, hyperion to a satyr. So loving to my mother that he might not beteem the winds of heaven visit her face too roughly. * * * To sleep, perchance to dream. But what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil must give us pause. Thus conscience makes cowards of us all, and the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought And enterprises of great pitch and moment in this regard their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action. Soft you now, Ophelia; Nymph, in thy orisons Be all thy sins remembered. --Holy shit! I've lost some of it. How humiliating. I guess the three decades that have elapsed since I memorized it have taken a bit of a toll. Pity, that.

4 GIMF: To be, or not to be: that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep; No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause: there's the respect That makes calamity of so long life; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscover'd country from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pitch and moment With this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action.-- Soft you now! The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons Be all my sins remember'd.

5 Ok, so you know both better than me. But who scored the winning touchdown in the 1967 NFL Championship game dubbed the "Ice Bowl?" Stop typing "google" right now!

6 The NFL is football, right?