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My First Interview (standard:humor, 870 words)
Author: Reid LaurenceAdded: Oct 19 2006Views/Reads: 1902/1133Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Ever get the feeling you might put that pen down and never write another word as long as you live? I know I have, but then, what do you do to fill in the gap? Find another hobby I suppose... but what?
 



“So tell me Mr. Laurence, how's the writing going? Do you have anything
in progress that you'd like to talk about?” 

“Not really. I kinda gave it up for a while. It's such a tough business
to get going in.” 

“So, what are your plans for the future then? What kind of things will
you be investing your time in if you don't write?” 

“I wanna be a stand-up comic, that's what I wanna do. I was always class
clown when I was a kid but I just never followed through. I got some 
jokes I can tell you right now if you're interested. Whaddaya think?” 

“Alright then,” said my interviewer, wondering why he'd even continued
talking to me after finding out I wasn't interested in writing anymore. 
“Let's hear your stuff. I'm all ears.” 

“Okay, okay... don't rush me now. I'm new at this but here goes...
Whaddaya call a guy with no arms and no legs who hangs on the wall?” 

“I don't know?” replied my baffled interviewer. “Tell me, I'm dying to
know.” 

“Art.” 

“Whaddaya think? Didja like it? Am I good or what?” 

“Well, it's kind of tough to say after only one joke but I like your
unabashed delivery. Maybe you can pull it off, I don't know.” 

“Okay wait then, I got another... Whaddaya call a guy with no arms and
no legs who sits by the door?” 

“I really can't say,” said the interviewer. “What do you call him?” 

“Matt.” 

“You seem to lean a lot toward no arm, no leg jokes,” remarked the
journalist. “How about something a little less morbid?” 

“Oh... I don't know,” I answered. “It must be my mood. I've been
depressed lately, what with giving up writing and all. Let me think.” 
And after a few moments of deep thought, I recalled something that I 
thought was sure to get a laugh out of my interviewer. “Okay, here 
goes,” I said. “Whaddaya call a guy with no arms an no legs who goes 
for swim?” 

“I don't know but I thought we were done with the no arm no leg jokes.
Weren't you gonna try something a little on the brighter side?” 

“I would I guess but it's just the way my mind's working today. I just
can't switch gears. What am I gonna do? I stand in the shadows of 
giants like John Greasem an Bora Snoberts. I mean, whadda people see in 
them anyway? How many times can you write 500 page books about 
courtroom procedures? For that matter, how many times can you write 
huge novels that all say... ‘and then he took me in his arms and kissed 
me', over and over and over again. I don't know. I just don't get it. I 
squeeze out a little 200 pager I think people might find interesting 
but no dice, it never seems to work.” 

“So that's what this is about. Your jealous or angry or what?” 

“All of the above.” 

“And that's what's got you down?” 

“You said it.” 

“So what're you going to do about it?” 

“Hell, what can I do. Brush up on my jokes I guess.” 

“Alright then. Hey,” recalled my interviewer, weren't you gonna finish
the one about the guy with no arms an no legs who went for a swim?” 



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