I have to interview Santa this evening. That would be the fake Santa at the mall. The one, who in the words of Buddy the Elf, (loosely paraphrased), "smells like beef and cheese and sits on a throne of lies..."
I whine to the Guy in the Boxers about how my career as a journalist is so pathetic. I mean, interviewing the Santa at the mall for chrissake?
The GITB says I should do an x-rated version of the Actor's Studio:
"Santa, How often do you slip the yule log to Mrs. Claus?"
"How big is your yule log?"
"Do you ever get really plotzed and stagger out to the barn, kick down the door, weave meanacingly in the the dim light of the broken threshold, swinging your whisky bottle for emphasis as you scream: 'Okay, Rudolph, you cheeky little publicity whore, won't you guide my sleigh tonight? Heh, heh, heh...'?"
Yeah, my editor will LOVE that. At least I get to interview firemen next week. An evening at the firehouse with real live firemen. Ooooooh, I can't wait to ask: "Can I slide down your pole?" I guess I should make sure they have one. Wait, I think the firehouse is one-story. Damn it.
1 comment:
Ooooh, firemen! Lucky girl. We had a false alarm at my last job (cancer support center in a huge fancy house) and they hurried over to check out all the rooms. We gals just stood in the center hall ogling. It was good.
What do you think is the appeal? The ability to run into a burning building? The rubber pants? I haven't figured it out.
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