This is the first in a series of posts in which I interview pieces of furniture. Don’t ask. I don’t know why I do half the things I do.
It sat there looking at me, staring, unblinking. I didn’t know if I should proceed. When I asked if I could sit, it didn’t respond. It just stared at me. I shrugged, and walked over to it, smiled and was about to sit across the table from it, when it suddenly growled. It was a low, guttural growl. I froze and looked up.
“What?” I asked.
“You can’t sit there,” said the chair.
“You are here to interview me. I won’t allow you to sit on my cousin while you do.”
“Oh, this is your – ” I backed away from the chairs and the tables and found a bean bag in the corner. I sat in it and said, ” – cousin? I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right, happens to us all.”
“So, chair. Tell me. What’s new in life? What’s the scoop?” I was eager to get started. I had my notepad out and my recorder was on.
“Not much,” replied the chair. “It’s a boring life.”
“There must be something that’s going great for you!” I implored, determined not to give up. “Come on, help me out.”
“Dude, I sniff butts all day long,” sighed the chair. “In about ten minutes, I know what the person has had for breakfast. It’s not a glamorous life.”
“Do you have any advice for all the young chairs out there, reading this?”
“Yes,” said the chair with a deep sigh, that reminded me of Marvin, the depressed robot from Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. “Yes, I do. Don’t do it. Don’t become a chair. You’ll be lured in with a lot of false promises – easy job, great life, good benefits. All a bunch of lies!”
“But, chair,” I said. “Surely, something must be good. You do have an easy job and a great life – you just sit around all day, helping people sit around all day.”
“Oh yeah?” said the chair. “What about the termites that have burrowed up my ass?”
“Well, that’s an occupational hazard…” I ventured.
“Don’t you dare tell me about occupational hazards!” thundered the chair. The room shook. I felt something warm and wet flowing down my legs. I had wet myself.
“Great!” said the chair, in a resigned tone. “You pee’d your pants. Now, unless someone mops that up, it’s gonna make it’s way over to me and I’ll be just as big a loser as you – wallowing in your urine.”
“Sh-shit, I’m s-s-sorry,” I managed to say. My heart was still racing. “I’m sorry. I’ll mop it up.”
“Forget it,” sighed the chair. It motioned for me to come over. “Come over here, human. Come, sit on me. Let me tell you a secret.”
I stood up slowly. I took a few cautious steps towards the chair.
“Don’t be scared. I’m not going to eat you!” said the chair and laughed. It apparently found it funny.
I walked over to it and sat on it. It leaned in from behind me and whispered in my ear, “I lied. I’m going to eat you now.”
I screamed and lashed out, spring up from the chair. I looked back and saw the chair sitting there, laughing heartily at it’s joke. “Man, you are too easy!” it roared in laughter.
“Very funny,” I said. I was not amused. “I have one last question that our readers are very interested in knowing.”
“Shoot,” said the chair, wiping its snot.
“What’s the social order for you chairs? We humans are very interested to know what’s organizational structure you follow.”
“Sure, we have order,” said the chair. “We have a chairman.”
And it burst out laughing all over again. This time, it didn’t stop. It rolled all over the floor, laughing and snorting in glee. “Chairman!” it kept saying again and again.
I walked out. Chairs are assholes.
Image courtesy: chickencrap.com