"Waiter!" Evil Editor waved his Snoopy mug at the barista. "Another cuppa joe.”
An ordinary-looking man handed Evil Editor a fresh mug of coffee. "I'm here to interview you. You must feel honored to be nominated as one of Gawker’s Hotties In Publishing. What’s it like to know that minions swoon every time you eviscerate their queries?"
Evil Editor gulped his coffee. "I'd trade every minion on the net for a single citation in a scholarly journal. I could out-deconstruct Derrida, given half a freaking chance! Why can't someone delineate how my blog conjoins the hermeneutical paradigm of subsemiotic reliance on the other? Instead I get moles. No one takes moles seriously!"
The man nodded. “Is it true that your falling-out with Grisham was the result of a passionate love affair that ended when he dumped you for an intern at the new HarperCollins imprint?”
Evil Editor took another swig. “We had a meeting of minds! He has deeper insight into the hidden cellars of the human soul than Plato, Nietzsche, and Destiny’s Child combined. I left him in despair that I’d never match his intellectual acumen. Grisham, mon ami, mon frere!” Evil Editor wept.
“I understand you have the knowledge to halt global warming. Could you share that with us?”
Evil Editor stared in horror at the mug he was about to raise to his lips. “What is this slop I’m drinking?”
“Kopi Luwak. The most expensive coffee in the world. I hoped it would act as a truth serum, allowing your inner intellectual to emerge.”
Raising his arm to dash the cup to the floor, Evil Editor suddenly relented. “I guess you’re right. Coffee that's been digested through the intestines of a civet can't be any worse than the slush waiting for me back at the office."
--Tracey S. Rosenberg