The world is a scary place. Due to budget cutbacks, all of our writing staff has been let go, and I, as senior editor, have entered into a constant drunken stupor. Because of the haze my life has become, and because I am unable to function without a stiff drink in the morning, it has become increasingly difficult to publish pieces on a timely basis. Luckily for you, the writers here are real writers, and not just little pansy asses, and because they are writers, they have to write. They are, as some would say, compelled to write.
Words simply fall out of their brains and onto the screen.
And so, even though, waving a half empty bottle of whiskey in the air, I told Andy and Andrea and Andy and all those other people to go to hell, they continue to write pieces and send them to me to be published at this fine, fine magazine. Point being, we're never going to get sick and we're never going to die. And now, what follows is the text of an interview I did for some magazine which isn't sold in any store I've ever been to, but is, I hear, a real magazine. Questions are in bold and were asked by a lady whose name I forget. Yes I would.