Yellow Dog: Mr. Rice. . .
J.Rice:J.
Yellow Dog: J. Welcome. We are pleased to finally be able to sit face to face, to communicate, if you will, to share tongues in a Babel oriented society.
J.Rice: Yea, it's pretty cool. But could you put your pants back on, Isaac? You're making me nervous.
Yellow Dog: Of course. Now, Mr. Rice, I mean J., could you tell our readers just who you are, I mean, what makes J. Rice tick? Do you imagine yourself a poet? A rebel? A master of the fried egg? Who are you, man?
J.Rice: Well, Isaac, it isn't an easy question to answer. And it's one I often do to the tune of Led Zeppelin's "Lemon Song." But as simple as I can put it without drifting into French, the answer is yes.
Yellow Dog: I see. But why Yellow Dog? Why Zirconia, North Carolina to set up the world's largest collection of Soap Opera Digest back issues? Why the lisp?
J.Rice: Isaac, you ask a lot of questions. A damn lot if you ask me. But what I want to say is this: one day, the people of this planet, and I mean those who breath and defecate when I say people, will unite. And when that happens, they will be one. One flesh. One body. And they will want soap operas. Hell, I want them. And I'm not united with anyone. Well, almost anyone. If you don't count hookers, that is.
Yellow Dog: J., you lost me.
J.Rice: That's the damn point, Isaac. Interviews! Midnight mass! Blood! Guts! Axle Rose! Is there no end to it! We have a mission! They call me insane, they call me a lunatic, they say I sleep with a night light! Well, it's not true, I say. Ok. It is a night light. But a tiny one. And in the shape of Sylvester the cat.
Yellow Dog: But J., some people say that the on-line magazine is dead, the digizine, if you will. How do you respond to these people, these barbarians, these godless souls?
J.Rice: As Nietzsche said, "Of all writings I love only that which is written in blood." Our hair stylist almost paid the price for that little belief of mine. But thank goodness we have chickens.
Yellow Dog: Will there be a tour? A t-shirt? A sitcom?
J.Rice: In life, there is a t-shirt for everything. As far as the sitcom, I am currently negotiating with Fox for a movie version of my memoires, One More Word Out Of You And I'll Stop This Car. That kid from Married With Children might play me. Or the kid in the Life cereal commercials. We haven't decided yet who will work for less.
Yellow Dog: What about the church?
J.Rice: The Rectatarians are well. We're getting our own cable show soon. Oprah might convert. We're also working on Ted Danson, but frankly, I don't really want any bald men in our religion.
Yellow Dog: Is the web dead yet?
J.Rice: Of course. It's been dead for quite some time now. Where can it go now? Let's move on. There are new trends for the masses, new moods to swing the populace, new fasions to convince people are worth their time and money. Can I interest you in a fruity pebble and grilled cheese sandwich? It's all the rave right now in Fort Worth.
Yellow Dog: But about Warhol? Could he have been right? Is that it? Are we doomed to only fifteen minutes and then, kapoot? Back to the wasteland, hello Mork and Mindy, honey where's dinner?
J.Rice: Absolutely. That's all there is to this. The bus stops here. Get out and don't come back. There's no room for anyone who's looking for more fame. Unless you want to work for me, that is. And as for Lassie, hell, she ate her own feces. Can we ever forget that? What I advise the rest of the web patrons is to go home, wash your face, kick the cat, and remember that it was good while it lasted. REO Speedwagon no more. Yes we have no bannanas. And come to think of it, I wonder what is for dinner.
