Monday, January 15, 2007

Old Mother Hubbard: The Interview

Adam: Tell me about your son, L. Ron.

Old Mother Hubbard: He wrote some fucking books. Started a club or some fucking thing.

Adam: Scientology.

OMH: Huh?

Adam: He’s the founder of the Scientology movement.

OMH: Yeah?

Adam: Yeah, it has a lot of followers.

OMH: I know about his stupid fuck cult. I just don’t give a shit. Fuck. Shit fuck. I give not a shit fuck.

Adam: I was hoping for some insight into his childhood. I wanted to see how a child’s mother helps to set him on the right path early in life.

OMH: Fine, whatever. Let’s talk about whatever fuck. I hate this stupid fuck interview. Nothing but fuck questions.

Adam: What was he like as a child?

OMH: He was like fuck. Played with his fuck toys. I cook fucked his fuck meals and tucked him into his fuck bed. He was a fucking fuck child, just like anyone the fuck else. There was nothing special about him.

Adam: Why are you randomly inserting the word “fuck” into everything you say?

OMH: That’s how we do it up here. It’s our way.

Adam: Okay.

OMH: Next fuck question, Fucky Fuckafoo.

Adam: I guess we’ll start with what you’re best known for.

OMH: Oh that rhyme about my dog?

Adam: Yes.

OMH: How I went to the cupboard and it was bare? So my dog had to go without a bone?

Adam: Yes. What was the symbolism?

OMH: There was none. That actually happened. I checked my cupboard for a bone, and there was none. Only later did I realize people don’t usually keep bones in any room in their house, including the kitchen.

Adam: What about archaeologists?

OMH: Do you know a lot of archaeologists?

Adam: No.

OMH: Then shut up. Anyway, in retrospect I made some bad choices that night. I tried to find a bone for a starving dog, which is rather cruel because a bone isn’t going to sate a dog’s appetite. It’s like giving a thirsty man a glass with no water.

Adam: So what happened to the dog?

OMH: I couldn’t stand to see him starve to death, so I killed him.

Adam: That must have been difficult.

OMH: Not so much “difficult” as “tiring.” I had to punch it in the throat about seventeen times.

Adam: It never crossed your mind to go out and buy dog food? Or to just toss him something from the fridge?

OMH: That’s easy to say from your perspective, isn’t it? It’s not so easy when it’s happening right before you and you have to make that split-second decision.

Adam: Let’s move on. Were there any other famous rhymes written about you?

OMH: The one about the dildo factory.

Adam: I don’t know that one.

OMH: Well, they weren’t called “dildo factories” back then. They were called “dickories.” We carved “marital aids” out of wood. That’s what they called them back then. People had sexual urges, but society demanded such feelings be repressed and kept in the dark. Still, we made good money. I worked in the hickory dickory. On weekends I loaded cargo ships on the hickory dickory dock.

Adam: What does any of that have to do with mice running up and down a clock?

OMH: Well, it had to be changed for little kids. I think originally the “mice” were “vaginas” and the “clock” was a thirteen inch double-headed dildo. You know, one of those where two women can each use one end? I like to use one of those solo and pretend there’s an entire man inside of me, his wang the only thing sticking out.

Adam: Was L. Ron around at this time?

OMH: Also, this man inside me is controlling my brain and motor functions, and he forces me to sneak out of the house at night and rape the neighborhood topiary. Something about getting in touch with the good earth from which his mighty wood-dick sprang.

Adam: Have you read any of your son’s books?

OMH: No, have you?

Adam: No. Did he seem like a natural leader?

OMH: What’s a natural liter? Is that metric?

Adam: What?

OMH: Well, to try and use your odd terminology, I guess my little L. Ron could be described as a faux pint. Maybe an invisible yardstick. Definitely not a plastic mile.

Adam: You’ve lost me.

OMH: I’m not the one who started this, fuck jerk. Frosty fuck flakes.

Adam: You’re right, I’m sorry.