As you might well expect, I am regularly invited by various 'magazines' to offer some heavyweight counter-balance to the torrent of dross that habituates such pages. At times their fees can be semi-lucrative but I am not in any way driven by such crude mercenary sentiments; I deem it a duty to offer definitive rulings upon whatever conundrums animate their feeble imaginations.
So imagine, if you can, my utter horror at receiving such an entreaty from something called "Hello!" (note the frightful exclamatory mode wedded to a fatuous sub-greeting) in the form of what they call a 'Questionnaire' (a hideous conflation of Romance language and crass Americanisms, so jarring upon the ear).
These upstart felons launch a violently intrusive assault upon the deepest sanctity of my privacy by expecting me to answer a range of scurrilous questions that can offer no meaningful elucidation or exegesis to the Great Unwashed. While I prevaricate somewhat here, perhaps it may be judicious to leap to an unexpurgated exemplary illustration of the 'types' of information they seek.
"What is your star sign?" they enquire. Not only is such information held on a strictly need-to-know basis but the question is a veritable Trojan Horse that invites me to throw my weight behind the ghastly pseudo-science of astrology simply by providing an answer. I will not tread that path.
"Who is your favorite movie actress?" Answering this question may in no small measure lead the reader to suspect that I have any interest whatsoever in the shallow 'goings-on' of vapid celebrities and air-headed sirens of the screen. This question is simply impossible to answer with any real sense of moral probity.
"What is your pet and what is its name?" This abomination requires no further comment.
"Do you have a favorite spoon?" Now why on Gods earth would anyone at all need to learn the answer to this impudent frippery? I am well known for my predilection for fine cutlery but I simply cannot see how my sharing my erudition on the subject will advance the couture of those unable to understand such niceties.
"What are you doing right now?" I would have thought that the answer to this is superabundantly clear: I am struggling to control an incandescent wrath at their tortured syntax and intrusive assumptions.
I could go on. And even further on. But as Shelley famously noted "'Tis better to remain acquit than expunge to the latter dross". And so this uninvited intrusion was hurled into my 'delete box' from where there shall be no escape, not even for the paltry inducement of $500 that they dangle before me. A stand simply must be made and, as ever, I am the one to make it.
