I interviewed a man who ate disused orphanages for the government.
"So, what's your favorite part to eat?" I asked him, after the initial pleasantries were concluded.
He looked at me like I had just asked him whether I could insert my finger into his nose. "It's a job, man," he said, like this was self-evident.
After that, I tried to get assigned to fewer puff pieces, but I was the newest hire so I got stuck with them. My editor told me I was good at it. "They really open up to you," he said. "You get good quotes and no one has mauled you yet."
I didn't have to ask what he meant. Everyone remembered Trevor.
So I interviewed the woman who lived in a giant shoe because a witch told her it would cure her infertility. She was nice. Offered me tea, told me all about her bunions. She seemed a little old to be worried about infertility, but I'm not a witch so I try not to judge.
What convinced me to quit the journalism racket was when I was sent out to interview a bear. My editor called me Trevor by mistake in the email. I grabbed my "World's Best Figure Skater" coffee mug and my copy of Robert's Rules and got the hell out.
The bear had some very cogent views on the energy crisis, according to the next week's paper. But I didn't read them. Print is dead anyway.
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