Rum and Monkey: The Interview

In my first stumble into the twin worlds of journalism and feeble satire, I decided to interview some very important people. Not anyone vital to humanity, like the Pope or anyone like that. I must admit, I'm a little scared of his hat. And the thought of eternal damnation for my crispy, non-Catholic soul. I'm pretty sure the Pope can smell non-Catholics, so I'll just stay away from him. But I digress. No, the important people I'm talking about are the famous Rum Monkeys, authors of Rum and Monkey. Yes, I talked with these charming young men. Not only did I escape with my body and organs intact, but I also got some information out of them. Which is what journalism is all about, right? First on my list was little-known-but-still-important Iain (Ee-an, my fellow Americans) F. Iain F: …and then, that damnable parakeet flew off with my eye. C: But…you're not even wearing an eye-patch. And I'm pretty sure that's not a glass eye. IF: Sure, but you never let me finish the story. C: Um. Go on then. Please. IF: I'd gotten a feather off of that animal in the struggle, and – What? C: Nothing. Nothing. It's just…a parakeet is such a small animal. I can't imagine a very difficult struggle with one. IF: …I was weak with pneumonia. C: Oh. Do go on. IF: You don't like my eye story. Why should I? C: Well, I'm interested to know why you can move both your eyes around to glare at me. The way you're…glaring…at me right now. IF: I'm not glaring at you. C: Um… I'm hungry, are you hungry? Is there a place we could get something to eat? … In public? IF: Why in public? Are you nervous? C: Well… there is that knife in your hand… Tell you what: we go out to eat, in public, and I listen to your eye story without so much as a peep. Deal? IF: Deal. C: Oh, ass. I forgot to ask you about Rum and Monkey. IF: You said you'd listen to my parakeet story. C: So I did. What color was this monstrous bird of doom? IF: Rainbow. Rainbow colored doom-bird. Next up is Benjamin, who will, no doubt, take over the Earth in the near future. And everyone will let him, because he's “a jolly nice man”. C: Hi, Mr. Benjamin. Ben: Ben, please. C: Hi, Ben. B: Hi. C: So… you're now an adjective. How's that feel? B: Kind of squishy. The good kind of squishy. C: Like Gak? B: What? C: Nevermind. You write quizzes and articles for Rum and Monkey. Some people think they're offensive. What do you think of that? B: I hate them. With so much passion, it's incredible. They're trying to censor me. They don't even know who I am, and they're trying to censor me! THEY'RE MY WORDS, YOU BASTARDS! C: … B: Sorry. C: 'Sokay. Um…you have a little rage-spit on your face. All over it, in fact. Take my hanky-thing. B: Thanks. Here you go. C: No, no. You just hang on to that. You should be the keeper of your own rage-spit. B: Thanks. Now what? C: Um. Peeg. You draw Senor Peeg. B: Yes. I've drawn him lots of times. C: You drew a Peeg for me, once. But...I've always wondered. Why a pig? B: Are you kidding me? Look at those floppy ears. He's so cute! [Snorts while laughing] C: Yes. He is cute. My mom likes pigs. She's only got 9 fingers. B: Really? Wow. C: Yeah. Owen G was my next victim. Interviewee. Not victim. Interviewee. Yes. C: Hello, Mr. Goodbar. Owen G: What? C: G. Mr. Owen G. I was thinking about candy. OG: Candy is good. C: Yes. Um. You write articles. OG: Yes. Yes I do. C: One of your articles seemed to involve eating someone. Why? OG: Because it's funny. C: Yes it is. OG: That reminds me. D'you mind if I eat during this? I didn't get breakfast. C: Go ahead. Is that a sandwich? OG: Yes. Best meat ever. C: That doesn't look like chicken. OG: It's not. C: What is it? OG: Human. C: … OG: Hah. I mean pork. Pork sandwich. Not human. I'd never eat human. That's silly. C: O…kay. OG: You don't believe me, do you? C: Not so much, no. OG: Hmm. You look delicious. C: I'm…uh…going to go now. OG: WAIT! C: What? OG: You'd go great with the sriracha I've not been able to use. Please stay. C: …I'd like to, but I need to…milk my cat. Back in America. [Runs away, screaming, into the night] Sven, who has an article all about him, is last, but certainly not least. Sven: Who are you, and what are you doing in my house? C: I have an appointment. For an interview. S: Right. I remember now. You look shaky. C: Yes. S: Owen tried to eat you, didn't he? C: With sriracha sauce. S: That's a compliment. He never uses his sriracha on interviewers. C: You knew about this? S: …No. What makes you say that? C: No one warned me. S: That's why you should have interviewed me first. Or at least before Owen. C: … S: Irn Bru? C: No, thanks. I'm afraid I'll grow red hair and develop an unholy obsession with servers. S: You've been stalking me, haven't you? C: No. S: If you're lying to me, I'll send you back to Owen. C: I swear! I only read your livejournal. S: Oh. Okay. Irn Bru? C: Um…okay. S: Ah…puts hair on your chest, doesn't it? C: I think I'm having a seizure. S: Hmm…you're of no use to Owen now. You'd better just interview me. C: All right. Do you help Owen arrange interviews so that he can continue eating people? S: Yes. He pays me in Irn Bru, you see. C: Oh. S: Yeah. Quite a nice arrangement. C: Not for his interviewer. S: Journalists aren't real people anyway. C: That's why you don't write articles for Rum and Monkey? S: Sure. That sounds good. C: Any ideas on how I should end this article? S: Not a clue. C: Oh. S: Want some food? C: Is it human? S: Pot Roast. C: Stoner Meat? S: It's delightfully good. C: Why the hell not? Pass me a fork.

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