Ask Andy!

First and foremost—42. The meaning of life? It’s making sure the next generation is smarter, stronger, and better protected than we were. It’s showing up every day—even when you’re tired—because there are people counting on you to hold the line. It's about being a teammate in a game that never really ends.

Yes, I was even stopped on one of my many trips to Mexico and asked to perform.

The ideal candidate to clean bathrooms.

It really depends on the side effects. Anything that lasts for more then four hours, you really ought to seek the advice of a medical professional.

It’s a set because you have to set it up in order to work.

It’s a bit of both. The universe has a framework—a design that keeps the stars from falling on our heads—but inside that framework, it’s a wild, unpredictable scramble. It’s like a middle school hallway during a passing period: there’s a bell and a destination, but everything in between is pure, unscripted energy. Our job isn't to get rid of the chaos, it's to find the pattern within it.

Look, hitting a million in one year without a lottery ticket or a Mahomes-level arm is a 15-minute drill. You have to find a high-leverage problem that people are desperate to solve—like teacher burnout or school safety—and you have to be the guy with the proven KC sauce recipe to fix it.

But remember: don't bet the whole house on one game. If you're looking for that kind of cash, you're not a teacher anymore; you're the Owner. Act accordingly.

Lots of practice. So much practice. Also, BMI. But mainly practice.

Well, spelling is really hard for some people. Even very educated college people sometimes struggle. And those same people are usually adventurous and want to see the unseen parts of the city.

It’s all about the Benjamins baby.

Stick to the dogs. It’s safer for your reputation, and frankly, I’ve never met a cat that would actually stay in a house you built for it anyway. They’re too independent—kind of like a substitute teacher trying to follow my lesson plans.

Honestly, I’d rather spend my Saturday tending to a smoker for twelve hours than trying to get a tiny wooden sail to stand up in a Dewar’s bottle. My hands aren't steady enough for that—too many years of grading papers and cheering at Arrowhead has me a bit too high-energy for 'micro-maritime' hobbies.

It was the summer of ’09. I was hitching a ride on a merchant vessel—don't ask why, I was young and had a lot of North Kansas City grit to burn. We were off the coast of Somalia, right in the Horn of Africa, when the radar started chirping like a ref’s whistle in the fourth quarter.

Two skiffs, moving fast. Pirates.

Now, most guys would’ve ducked for cover, but I was wearing my lucky Chiefs jersey (the pre-Mahomes era, so you know I was hardened by disappointment). I grabbed a heavy-duty candlestick holder and a galvanized pipe—hey, you use the tools you have—and headed for the rail still looking for the revolver or rope.

The leader of the boarding party swung a rusted cutlass at me. I ducked—a move I learned dodging flying erasers in my first year of student teaching—but a splinter of the ship’s railing caught me right in the socket. Blood everywhere. It looked like a crime scene at a Royals tailgate after someone drops the jar of spicy mustard.

I didn't blink. I looked that pirate dead in the face and said, "You think this is scary? I’ve survived budget cuts and a 2-14 season at Arrowhead. You’ve got nothing." He was so confused by the reference that he tripped over a crate of educational textbooks (ironic, right?), and the crew managed to repel the rest of 'em until the Navy arrived.

The Aftermath

When I got back to KC, I told everyone I was going to get a glass eye with an arrowhead logo etched into the pupil. But, as it turns out, the "injury" was just a really nasty scratch and a lot of theatrical swelling.

I would pull out my cell phone, show them the magic glowing screen, and likely be immediately burned at the stake for being a witch.