A Tray, a Douche, and a Dream. In Three Acts.

“You’re not nervous?”

“A little, I suppose.”

“Do I make you nervous?”

“You more-or-less confessed a desire for my body. On the internet. On your blog. Where (I presume) this interview will appear.”

“You presume correctly. Let’s talk about why you said the word ‘confessed’ to describe how I express sexual attraction.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Excuse me, Mr. J, but I believe I’m the one that’s conducting this interview.”

“What’s so funny?”

“I’ve always wanted to say that. Now, shall we discuss the implications of the term ‘confession?’”

“You are conducting this interview.”

“Damn straight.”

“Well, it sounded right. To say, I mean. It’s not, er, normal for a gay man to show an interest in–”

“–a red-blooded, Adam Smith-lovin’, gun-totin’ conservative dicktard?”

“Not in so many words, but yes.”

“That’s interesting. I don’t remember confessing to anything.”

“Hrm.”

“My attraction to you reads as a confession because of its non-normative nature. With one word, you effectively policed my sexuality. Job well done.”

“I don’t follow.”

“How surprising. Keep this up, and my prostate’s gonna spontaneously combust.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“I believe I’m the one that’s conducting this interview.”

***

“Do you think you’re privileged?”

“Not particularly. I worked my way up. Still am. Newspapers quote me.”

“In other words, you’ve done some pullin’ on your bootstraps.”

“Yes. What does this have to do with trays?”

“An awful lot. You believe that the school owes you a tray when you dine.”

“Well, yes. It’s far too uncomfortable to get up during a meal when you’re eating with a professor or a date.”

“If your meal time interactions with people hinge on a hefty slab of plastic, you might be socially retarded.”

“Excuse me?”

“What? Should we install toilet seats in the dining room chairs because it would be too awkward to excuse yourself to go defecate?”

“That’s not a bad idea, actually.”

“…”

***

“…and that’s why the administration should stop nosing in our business and bring back trays to the dining halls.”

“…”

“Are you asleep?”

“Sorry. I was.”

“You’re really gunning for ‘Interviewer of the Year,’ aren’t you?”

“My brain does this odd thing where it shuts down after a prolonged exposure to nonsensical ideas. I watch re-runs of The View right before bed.”

“I don’t think I said anything nonsensical.”

“Of course you don’t think you did, Mr. J. My prodigious brain says otherwise. Anyway, that’s not the point.”

“Huh?”

“Honestly, I could care less about the hackey drivel that comes out of that carrot topped mug of yours. You hold my interest to the extent to which you are capable of fucking me doggy style while shouting out the names of all the Republican congressmen in alphabetical order.”

“Then why did you ask to interview me?”

“Because, silly. I needed a nap.”

“May I leave now?”

“I believe I’m the one that’s conducting this interview!”

“This interview is over. Oh, and thanks for not bringing up Craigslist.”

“My pleasure, Mr. J.”