James Lipton, the man, the genius, the legend, considered himself in the mirror. Was this the face of a man who had changed the world with nothing but his innate curiosity? Apparently it was so! But that the Gods should look down up on this scene and consider their creation. James Lipton pulled out the nose hair clippers and took care of business. Mortal men have protruding nose hairs. And there was the difference.
A cup of hot tea awaited James Lipton in his tasteful study. Was it the most tasteful study in all of the world? Indeed, it might be. But James Lipton knew the dangers in speaking such pride aloud. It was enough to know in his heart that indeed his study was the finest in all the land, commensurate with his own incredible value as an Earth-changing legend. Hush now, James Lipton thought to himself. The truth can be enough. Sometimes it must be.
A stack of blue notecards piled chin-high sat blank upon James Lipton’s superb desk. It was as if they were throbbing with anticipation, electric in the delight of what fate awaited them. Would this card contain a question about earlier work? Or maybe influences? What about a question about childhood? But it was not for James Lipton to decide which lucky card would bear which impossibly important question. He was merely the vessel. Like this teacup filled with Oolong, James Lipton could merely contain the sublime, he could not direct it.
Of course, an interview of THE James Lipton would probably be the hardest interview James Lipton had ever conducted. And so he decided to rub one out, just to ease some of the tension. “I’m just going to rub one out real quick,” he said to the rows of leather bound books stacked in neat rows along the dark and impressive bookshelves that lined the walls of his study. He retired to the bathroom with a photograph of himself.
Minutes later, refreshed and de-stressed, James Lipton sat down at his desk. The chair’s creaking beneath his weight was a welcome sound. “Oh hello, old chair!” James Lipton said to the chair, and the chair replied by supporting and caressing his buttocks. “You are a chair above and beyond all other chairs” James Lipton said. To the chair. “Marvelous.” James Lipton gasped.
With his fountain pen uncapped and filled with life-giving ink, James Lipton bent to his task. “What do you…” he wrote, and then he paused and looked out the window. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms behind his head. James Lipton pondered the poetic fragility of the human condition and the sacred mystery of art. He leaned back and fell asleep for a little while. He dreamt that his beard had grown a beard, and that he had to interview his beard’s beard while sitting on a throne made of giant penises. When he awoke he returned to his notecards. “What do you think…is…the…”
“Well that is enough work for today,” James Lipton said to his notecards. “You can not rush brilliance, my little darlings.” He kissed each notecard.
James Lipton combed his beard and put on his monocle, grabbed his parasol and headed out into the glorious afternoon for a horse-drawn carriage tour of France, or whatever. The man is a ridiculous parody of himself!