Originally published in Verbicide issue #24

Even if you don’t like their particular brand of clever, ironic, hipster indie flavored major label pop rock, you still have to admit that they make it sound fun. And on their shiny new album, Chris and Keith of We Are Scientists are bringing more of the same ‘80s influenced, late-night, drunken confessional lyrics that they rode to success back in 2006. But that’s besides the point, really. We Are Scientists has always been about helping the public navigate the tenuous existence that has jaded an entire generation of cultural exiles. And to that end, they have taken on the mantle of oracle, to solve the unsolvable riddle that is life. So the next time you’re curled up in bed listening to one of their catchy songs about love gone astray, remember they’re not just beer swilling, slick-talking rockstar pretty boys. They’re also here to help.

The title of your new album is Brain Thrust Mastery. What is, mathematically, the best way to master a brain thrust, assuming it is summer and there is a steady breeze from the east?
There is no way to achieve brain thrust mastery using hard science. A brain’s got to be coaxed, it’s got to want to go for it with you. If you try to calculate this sort of thing, that brain is going to see you coming from a mile away, and it’s going to scramble. You need to come bearing gifts, and you’d better hope that the brain is in the mood.

Verbicide tries to be a socially and environmentally conscious magazine, but is constructed with paper (which kills trees) and is printed with ink derived from the tears of a million clubbed baby seals (which makes baby Jesus cry in heaven.) How can we resolve this conflict of values without compromising what makes Verbicide great?
This is like some kind of Zen koan. You’re telling me that you want to remove the tree-killing, seal-clubbing, paint-huffing (did you think we didn’t know about that?) aspects of Verbicide and still call it Verbicide? The fact of the matter is that it wouldn’t even be Verbicide without those crucial ingredients — it would be The New Yorker, or it would be a boa constrictor, it would be calculus. It would be anything but Verbicide.

Shopping for a parent is hard work. Is there a way to maximize our gifting potential so that we can select the perfect gift for a mom or a dad every time?
Your mom and dad don’t want gifts from you. The fact of the matter is, there’s no material object that you could give them that would make one damn bit of difference to them. Think about it: they created you out of their own flesh and blood, pushed you into the world, fed you, clothed you, wiped your ass, grew terrified every time you were out of their sight, thrilled at your triumphs, wept at your idiot fuckups, taught you how to huff paint. And now you think they want gifts? Wrong, dude. They want money — and lots of it — wired directly into their bank accounts.

Board games are a great way to relax and unwind with friends, but what do you do when you’ve run out of games to play and you need something competitive but easy enough so that everyone can join in?
How about this: try placing a cat in the center of the room and just staring at it. All of you just sit in a circle around the cat and you stare. Hard. There’s nothing a cat hates more than to be stared at, so can you imagine the discomfort it’s going to feel at having a roomful of people — most of them probably strangers — just coring it with their eyes? Oh, man, that cat is just going to freak. Essentially, whoever last makes eye contact with the cat before it leaps out of a window or puts its head in a stove or wraps an electric cord around its neck and hangs itself from a doorknob is the winner.

You’ve toured recently in Europe so you’re uniquely qualified to answer this question. Europeans currently hate Americans. Just seriously hate the fuck out of us. How do we, as normal US citizens, mend our relationships with our European brethren so that they don’t spit in our food while we’re on vacation?
See? This is the problem with Americans: a grotesque combination of xenophobia and egocentrism. The fact of the matter is that that’s how Europeans prepare their food. A central ingredient in any European dish is spit. They spit in everything. If there’s no spit in a dish, it’s not fit to eat. Sometimes, on special occasions, they’ll just eat a bowl of their own spit. But there you go, assuming that all of this spitting is going on strictly in response to you and your politics, and you’re unwilling to taste delicious European goobers. Next time you’re considering a trip to Europe, do us all a favor and just buy a ticket to safe, spitless Epcot Center instead.

This is a question for aspiring rock stars. Being in a rock band is hard work and can really cause havoc in your personal life. How can you balance the high-octane rock star lifestyle and raising a family?
It cannot be done, I’m afraid. The simple truth is that if you are in a band and you have children, those kids are going to be screwed up. They are going to grow up to be junkies or whores or cops, and they are going to blame you for their misspent lives. Why not just spare us the theatrics and cut to the chase from the outset: when the kid is born, embrace his or her gruesome destiny immediately. Name him something like Whore Rodriguez (this is assuming your last name is Rodriguez). He’ll thank you for playing it straight with him.

You wake up in a small room that is completely empty but for a burlap sack sitting in the center. There is one locked metal door and no windows. Inside the sack are numerous pieces of candy. In fact, any candy you can think of is in this sack. As you inspect the contents of the sack, you slowly begin to realize that your feet are wet because the room is slowly filling with water from small holes in the floor. In a couple of hours, the water will completely fill the room and you will drown. How do you escape the room?
Everybody knows that when Jujyfruits are exposed to water they become highly unstable and prone to explosion, so I’d stick a few (three or four should do the trick) to the door and then just hang out, eating Twizzlers, waiting for the water level to reach those goddamned Jujyfruits and deliver me into sweet freedom.