Some fucker had the audacity to ask me for an interview after a reading. So I gave it to him.
He was white, tall, had long hair, and wore glasses. Argyle sweater. Apparently his name was Pete.
Pete: Hi Stu.
Me: Hi Pete.
Pete: So, what's your chapbook about?
Me: It's poems about the aftermath of drunken sexual encounters with strange women.
Pete: Oh. Doesn't seem very riveting.
Me: I guess not.
Pete: Wouldn't you agree that the subject has been beaten in much the same fashion as a dead dog?
Me: Probably.
Pete: One of the poems you read, I found, was very offensive to women.
Me: Oh.
Pete: Aren't you going to defend yourself?
Me: Nah. In fact, the subject bores me. Sex and drinking is infinitely interesting, malleable; while gender politics seems to be the sole focus of the intellectually stunted.
Pete: That's a bold statement.
Me: Only if you think there is some kind of intellectual fulfillment in making the dialectic of the penis vs. the vagina the point of convergence for all of history. If you're a guy, I think it's even more useless. Foolhardy. Dishonest.
Pete: Oh. Well. Don't you think you're just contributing to the further...
Me: Hey, can you buy me a drink? I'm trying to save up for an eightball later.
Pete: Uh...
Me: Nevermind. Hey, your questions are boring as fuck. Why don't you ask me about our justice system? Something important. You're wasting my time.
Pete: Who is your favorite poet?
Me: South Park Mexican.
Pete: Who?
Me: I gotta take a shit, dude.
---
I get out of the can, and he still thinks it's okay to interview me.
---
Pete: Why do you mix Spanish in your poems? Seems affected. Adds nothing to the meter.
Me: Hey. My last name is González; makes sense, right? Is your last name douchebag? Because you're mad reppin' that right now.
Pete: I hate that word. Even for an ad hominem it's bad.
Me: You're right. Strike that from the record.
Pete: It seems sexist.
Me: Hey, do you have sex with girls or boys?
Pete: Girls, dude.
Me: Ever had sex with a tranny?
Pete: Uh. No.
Me: Me neither. I don't think.
Pete: What is "Coyote Real Fuckin' Ugly" really about?
Me: It's about the fact that I'm just another male pig wallowing in a sea of mud and excrement, who has no appreciation for the love of a good woman. The fact that I am trying to escape from her is a testament to my very weakness, and indeed, the weakness of all young males. Shallowness. Frivolity. Triviality. The entrancing lure of homosexual lifestyles.
Pete: That's kind of what I suspected.
Me: Hah.
Pete: Do you think the world needs more of this poetry?
Me: I don't think it matters. You are the arbiter of your own taste, and if something you read offends your little namby pamby fucking senisibilities, then perhaps you should stay away from the elements that spawn said scribblings.
Pete: Hmm... I don't get it.
Me: It's hard to get anything when your head is wedged up your asshole. Where's my drink?
Pete: You know what? I don't think you're tough at all.
Me: I don't think I even insinuated a stance of toughness. You're inferencing. Projecting, probably.
Pete: Fuck you, dude. I don't think you're clever, and your chapbook sucks. Everything inside it is cliché riddled and empty.
Me: Thanks for your assessment. Can I get that in a blurb? And fuck you, by the way, you emasculated, sanctimonious prick.
---
At this point, he shoots me the bird, and exits stage left. As for me, my night wasn't done. I had to clean the tables in order to cover my tab. Good times.
FUCK YOU.
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