I got some marvelous news earlier this week.

Columns By J. Scott Wilson Diary Of A Fat Man Ask The Cook Short Orders The Weird Chronicles

One of the great mysteries of my life, a puzzle that has plagued me for years, has been solved: I now know why I find unpopped kernels at the bottom of a bag of popcorn every time I eat some. No matter how long I cook it, in the microwave or in my wok (my favorite method), there are invariably a handful of kernels that will burn to black pellets before they'll cook.

According to some researchers at Purdue University, some kernels have leaky outer hulls that prevent the buildup of gases that causes them to explode into white globules of crunchy goodness. The gases just leak out, presumably contributing to the depletion of the ozone layer in some way.

Now, thanks to these valiant explorers of the scientific fringe, the cause of this tooth-breaking menace has been found, and I have no doubt that even now the folks at Orville Redenbacher and Jiffy Pop are hard at work on a machine that will spray a hard plastic coat on each and every kernel to ensure 100 percent popping. Of course, every bag will smell like burning hydrocarbons and the price of a large popcorn at the movies will hit $20, but at least there won't be any "old maids" in the bottom of the bag.

Ah, progress!

Now I'd like solutions to some of the rest of life's little mysteries, please:

Jackson Street People: From what planet do the fervent glove-worshippers who infest the street outside the Michael Jackson trial hail? Every time I watch coverage of the comings and goings of the main cast of characters, the human detritus washed up along the sidewalks boggles my brain. Not only do most of these folks appear to be from the shallow end of the gene pool, I'm thinking some of them might have been pulled out of the pool filter like fetched-up leaves or dead frogs.

But they do provide that most precious of commodities: good TV. Need a few pungent soundbites to fill a little dead air on your 24-hour news channel? Send some cub reporter with a boom mike into the crowd and have him lob a few softball questions at the masses. They'll be happy to sound off at length, at least until they have to put their tinfoil hats back on to stop the government mind rays and climb into their tents to gibber awhile.

American I-Dull: Yes, I've gotten over being embarrassed that I watch the show. Like most of you, I enjoy the early rounds, with the wince-inducing auditions and bad haircuts, more than the final rounds; but it is fun to watch kids younger than my fishing boots try to pick a disco tune to sing.

But in this go-round, they really need to just cut to the chase and hand the recording contract to that long-haired Neil Young doppelganger Bo Bice. Every time he touches the mike, he makes the rest of the contestants look like a bunch of fairly talented, but completely outclassed, karaoke singers.

Constantine fans, send hate mail here.

The Wendy's Finger: Haven't we had enough of these cases by now, folks? Every few months, someone "finds" a foreign object in his or her food and runs headlong for either a lawyer or a TV camera.

I've read every word I can find on the case, and as much as the radical anticapitalist in my soul wants me not to, I believe the Wendy's folks. Every link in the ingredient chain has gone under the microscope (or at least a thorough counting of digits), and the missing finger doesn't appear to come from the "restaurant" side of things.

The bigger question here is: Where DID the finger come from? The mind fairly reels.

Kid Radar

Most of you know I'm a new father. I've got a question for those of you out there with parenting experience: Am I insane, or does my kid have a sixth sense that tells him when I sit down to write?

It's almost automatic. I sit down, preferably with a lovely beverage and a bowl of snackies, pluck an idea from my limitless store of them and begin to lovingly craft the gems of humor you chuckle over every week. I get a couple of paragraphs done and

*WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH*

Immediately I go into Super Dad mode, scooping up the little sprout and attending to whatever need is exigent. Quiet restored, I sit back down to write and

*WAAAAAAAAAAAAAH*

It's funny. Just when I get a thought held in my mind and find the wording

*WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!*

Now don't for a minute think I begrudge so much as a millisecond of dad time. I wouldn't trade a single feeding, diaper, burping or session playing on the floor for a zillion columns.

But is there a secret to holding a thought when the

*WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH*

I'm sorry, I can't remember what I was saying. I'll just go for now. See you all next week!

Got crop circles in the front yard? Bigfoot in the back? Drop me a line anytime!