Blue Randolph 33Posted: October 16, 2015
Today’s Daily Prompt:
Interview someone — a friend, another blogger, your mother, the mailman — and write a post based on their responses.
A man in a red shirt has agreed to be interviewed; we’ll call him Ian.
I begin with some easy warmup questions, such as his favorite color: it depends on the day, but most of the time blue.
What else can I ask? Favorite number: 33, because I like saying it.
He’s curious as I take notes: what are you doing? I didn’t say that much.
I explain that I’ve been having some problems with autocorrect, and that it takes me twice as long as it should to type anything on my phone anymore.
I move on to another question. If you could do anything for the rest of the day what would you do: hike. Where? Red River Wildlife Refuge. There are still plenty of trails we haven’t seen.
Who’s your favorite celebrity: T Swift. Why? Because she don’t need no man.
I laugh and beg to differ; she needs plenty, in succession. Cause she’s so dreamy, and I like her music.
I ask if he’ll ever shave again: probably not. Why not? Lazy. But I will if you want me to.
I would never ask someone else to remove their hair; depilation is my Achilles heel. I unfortunately spend enough hours a week on it to be diagnosed with an obsessive disorder. But I keep this information to myself so as not to interrupt the interview.
He’s on to me, though: you’re just making these questions up as you go.
I admit the truth of that statement and move on.
What would you ask me? What’s your favorite position?
I apologize to him; I’m sorry I didn’t catch that. He repeats his query with slightly more vulgarity. I sidestep.
That’s a great question.
He is amused.
My next question seems to be a tad inflammatory; he becomes visibly agitated. What do you think of Donald Trump? Fuck Donald Trump. I’ve unfriended people on Facebook because they support him. I can’t really argue this answer, but then I notice something.
Did you just check out my boobs? Yes. Well, I looked at your necklace, and then worked my way down. I don’t remember that necklace. He bought it, so I remind him of that.
You bought it. Yard sale? Yup.
What’s your dream job? He puts some thought into this one before answering. Mechanic. Even though I know I can’t do it anymore.
He counters with a question of his own. What’s yours? I could be the queen of England.
I believe he enjoys this answer.
I’d love that. I’d pee off Big Ben every day; just open a window and go.
I’m not sure how my British readers will take that question and answer set. With a grain of salt, I hope.
I raise my phone to take a picture of him.
Did you take a picture? Yes. Why? To go with your interview.
He is not happy with the picture I took. I took another, later.
What would you name it? Randolph. Also no hesitation.
Where would he live? I’d potty train him and he’d live in the house.
Where would he sleep? Our bed. He says this very matter-of-factly.
You’re gonna pick up s hippo every night? No, I was gonna build him a ramp. I wonder to myself where a hippo ramp would go in our bedroom.
How big do they get? I don’t know; I’ll go look. He googles. Oh. Six hundred pounds. Never mind, I thought they were pot bellied pig size.
We laughed together, and watched a video about a pygmy hippo.