An Interview With Octomom

Brace thyselves.

NBC, after catching word of my crackshot interviewing skills–most notably with Barack Obama and Myself–offered me $8,000 last week to interview Octomom. I refused. They upped the offer to $80,000. I said no, shut off my cell phone, and locked myself in my apartment. They burst through the door, bound and gagged me, and dragged me in the back of an unmarked white van to an undisclosed location on the Mexican-American border, strapped me into a chair, held a shank to my side, and forced me to interview Octomom. OH, THE HORROR!

Now those sharks are forcing me to publish the transcript on my blog, because they claim that “the look of utter fear and loathing in your eyes won’t translate well through a visual medium.”

–THE INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT, 1.24.2011–

Octomom: Hi!
Me: LET ME OUT OF HERE YOU BASTA–(my yell is cut short via a slap across the face from NBC Executive).
Octomom: What’s your name?
Me: I don’t have to answer that, do I?
NBC Executive (shortly): No. Don’t be a fool, Tori.
Octomom: HI TORI!
Me: THAT’S NOT MY NAME!
Octomom: One of my kids is named Tori, I think.
(I shudder.)
Octomom: What’s that supposed to mean, bitch?
Me: I don’t know, why don’t you go on Oprah to cry about it?
Octomom (to NBC Exec): Are you going to let her talk to me this way?
NBC Exec: Nope. (He tasers me.)
Me: OUCH! THAT REALLY HURT AND IT’S STILL HURTING!
Octomom (evilly): Hehe. He. He.
NBC Exec: You start asking questions now, Tori, or headlines tomorrow are going to read, “Nubile Young Journalist Found Dead While Escaping to Mexico to Save Failing Career.”
Me: Wow, I actually heard the capital letters in your vocal inflections. I guess that’s why you’re a big shot TV person. Wait–did you just call me a journalist?
NBC Exec: What if I did?
Me (shrieking): SCUM OF THE EARTH! I AM A WRITER! A WRIT-ER!
Octomom (tapping her fingers rapidly on the arm of her chair and grinning vacantly into space): I’m publishing a memoir!
Me (bruised and beaten): No…no…this is not happening.
NBC Exec: Hehehe. Hehe. He.
Me (staring at the dirt floor and shaking): So, um, w-what’s the b-best part of being a mom, N-N-Nadya?
Octomom (an evil smile spreading slowly across her face): That sweet baby-smell after their baths. You know, when you’ve just fished them out of the pool and–
Me: You bathe your children in the pool?
Octomom: It’s the only place they all fit.
Me: Ew.
NBC Exec: Keep asking questions. (He is now smoking a cigar and has donned a pair of dark sunglasses.)
Me: Um, how do you maintain your youthful good looks?
Octomom: I love that Henna & Placenta hair conditioner you can buy at CVS.
Me: OH GROSS! GET ME OUT OF HERE!
NBC Exec: One more question, and you’re free to go. Hehe. Hehehe.
Me (frantically swallowing the bile at the back of my throat): Tell me more about this m-m-m…m-m-em…I CAN’T!
(The shank digs into my side, drawing blood.)
Me: TELL ME MORE ABOUT YOUR MEMOIR! OH, SOMEONE, ANYONE, SAVE ME!
Octomom: It’s an in-depth look at the struggle for, achievement of, and ultimate vapidness inherent in the American Dream. Critics are already calling it “a literary tour-de-force” and I haven’t even written Chapter One yet! Tee-hee! Oh, and it’s in second person.

I fall to the floor in a dead faint. I wake, my nostrils filled with ether fumes, on the floor of my apartment. There is a single note pinned to my shirt: Watch your step, young journalist. Sixteen baby-eyes are watching you.

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