Billy gets interviewed (or, be careful what you ask for)

Monkey 0 has interviewed me. And may I just say, monkey - yeesh, thanks for the softballs. So, here's to it:

1a. why do bad things happen to good people?
Because the gods are irrational savages, more like the immature, bickering gods of Greek myth than the all-knowing, all-compassionate, all-powerful God of monotheistic traditions. Just for example: Gary, the god of blowdryers, is jealous of any mortal with better hair than his, and regularly sends freak gusts of wind to ruin your perfect hair day. Jealousy of mortals in general is a major motivator for these gods, so good people are a natural target.

1b. why do good things happen to bad people?
See 1a above. Also, the gods are easily bored, so they like to fuck with us, just to see what happens. And everyone knows it's the bad people (see also: The Godfather, Boogie Nights, Bonnie & Clyde, and Butch Cassidy & the Sundance Kid, just to name a few) who are by far the most entertaining.

Either that, or the world and its ways make no more sense than your morning bowl of cereal. One might as well ask why the good Cheerios always get eaten first, because, after all, we all get eaten in the end.

Unless we get Raptured first.

2. the Russians have just been faking all this time and finally they launch a massive all-out attack by hovercraft and take over San Francisco along with most of the western seaboard. you escape capture and retreat to the hills. what is your plan?
Along with my fellow escapees, I organize a matriarchal society in which each female gets her pick of several husbands (or wives, in the case of lesbians; and we necessarily have to share our spouses, as, sadly, women still outnumber men). Our peaceful, Utopian culture thrives in the rich farmland of Mendocino county. Rather than foment rebellion, we lure the Russian settlers to our community one by one with our excellent marijuana crop. Eventually, under the tutelage of the new members of our society, we perfect our vodka output and soon convert the remainder of the invaders to our way of life. This becomes a political wave that sweeps the country and finally sets us on the path to peace on earth and bounty for all its inhabitants.

Or, I take along a stack of Tarkovsky movies and practice my Russian in anticipation of my eventual capture.

3. we all have memories of an unforgettable teacher, someone who came along during our formative years and brought something really special and unique into our lives and now occupies a warm, sepia-toned corner of our memory. equally inevitable, sadly, is the teacher burned into our psyche in flaming letters of hate as high as the very outer reaches of our imagination. share with us, if you would, a story of the latter.
You caught me off guard with this one, monkey 0. I've been dredging up long-lost school memories for a teacher worthy of my hatred, and I fail. I can only surmise that this is due to my highly-developed talent for forging my parents' signatures, allowing me to simply avoid the teachers I didn't care for.

There was one legendary harridan who presided over 5th grade in my elementary school. Mrs. J was a classic Wicked-Witch-of-the-West type, complete with bird's nest hair, warts, and obscene flaps hanging from her upper arms (which she displayed in sleeveless shirts even in the dead of nasty Mountain West winters). She tormented my older brother for a year (she was known to despise boys even more than girls, and was rumored to have thrown a pair of scissors at one unfortunate kid), sending him home every afternoon with a stack of math problems on mimeographed sheets half-an-inch high.

The year before 5th grade, my family lived abroad, so when I returned to school on the first day of 5th grade, I was no longer on school rolls, and therefore wasn't assigned to a teacher. What twisted instinct was it that caused me, then, to voluntarily sit in Mrs. J's classroom? Her beady eyes instantly divined my family resemblance to my detested, beaten brother, and she smelled new blood. What lust for Dickensian drama burned within my 10-year-old breast in anticipation of a year of gothic conflict?

Whatever it was, I recall keen disappointment at learning I'd been assigned to Mr. F's class instead. That dispersed quickly, however, as I gazed at Mr. F's dark skin and flashing teeth. His faintly accented English danced me deliciously through 5th grade, and my perverse attempt at self-immolation was mercifully foiled.

4. there are certain animals you're not allowed to have as pets without a special license from the feds. jaguars, for instance. which one's at the top of your list?
Humans. Followed closely by - coincidentally enough - jaguars.

5. and finally, just because I know you have mad skills, give me:
5a. love in ten words,
5b. hate in five,
5c. confusion in three,
5d. and, finally, perfection in one.
Oh, monkey, slipping me the shiv wrapped in flattery. You will not see my revenge coming. But it will be sweet.

5a. Honey, see that giant zit on my ass? Could you...?
(Or, for the more romantically inclined, Antigone's reason to Hémon for choosing death in Anouilh's version, "Do anything for you except change my essential beloved self.")

5b. Ecstatic desire for _____'s humiliation.

5c. What the fuck? (Oh, that was too easy, wasn't it? How about "Football players' stats?")

5d. Rebellion.

interview game official rules: offer void in IN, LA, CO, AL, and HI, and where prohibited by law. leave a comment if you want to be interviewed. if you do, I'll ask you five questions. you update your blog with the answers, and you'll explain the rules and include an offer to interview others in the post. when someone asks you to interview them, you ask them five questions. and if you press the button that gives you a million dollars but kills someone you've never met, then the creepy guy in the suit comes and gives you the money but then he takes the button away and gives it to someone else you've never met.