Questions, Questions, Questions

A: I’ve just heard a song called “There Are More Questions Than Answers”. Can this be right?
B: How can it not be?
A: If there is more than one answer to a single question it could be correct. Do you think?
B: Good point. Now let me ask you about questions.
A: About questions?
B: Correct. I’ve suddenly had the urge to find the most pretentious question in the world.
A: And where did this sudden interest come from?
B: I was looking at the questionnaires answered by celebs in magazines.
A: Why would anyone want to know that?
B: Just in case I get asked one day.
A: O.K. So what’s the best / worse question you’ve come across so far?
B: Well there are a range. For instance from the usually not too pretentious, but in this instance very pretentious, Guardian weekend section called ‘Who Are You?’
A: Isn’t this the page where they ask a series of questions based on song titles?
B: It is.
A: And which journalist is responsible for this?
B: Um… there’s no name.
A: Really?
B: Really.
A: I was being sarcastic…. Or was I?
B: Anyhow – a question from that for you – “They Shoot Horses Don’t They?”
A: How are you supposed to answer that? ‘Yes’?
B: I guess, or ‘no’.
A: So, you could ask “What Time Is It?”
B: It would be a pretty straightforward answer though.
A: You think?
B: The author of this next questionnaire has a name – Rosanne Greenstreet.
A: Is this a real name though?
B: I guess. The questions are a bit ‘Junior Ladybird reporter’s book of questions for celebrities’.
A: Indulge me, won’t you?
B: O.K. – “What makes you depressed?”
A: Apart from questions like that?
B: Presumably. Here’s a beaut. “What do you owe your parents?”
A: You’ve made that up, surely?
B: Not at all. Most people wax lyrical about their parents and say ‘everything’, or talk and cry about their lost parents, blah, blah..
A: Wax lyrical? What the hell kind of phrase is that to use in a blog?
B: Sorry. Another one – “What is the most important lesson life has taught you?”
A: Oh please?
B: Usually the celebs come up with a nice, bland, written by their PA statement like, “You make your own luck in this world” or “Money isn’t everything”.
A: Have they no shame?
B: Apparently not. One of my favourite questionnaires is the Q questionnaire.
A: ?
B: As answered by Morrissey.
A: For instance?
B: “Where do you see yourself in 15 years time?”
“Sitting in a pub saying “I could’ve been Elvis””.
A: Is there more?
B: Two more examples;
“What’s the strangest story you’ve ever heard about yourself?”
“That I’m racist. It’s a bit like the notion that Tony Blair is a worthy Prime Minister – it could never be substantiated.”
“What’s your personal motto?”
“Why put off today what you can wiggle out of tomorrow?”
A: Let’s return to the pretentious shall we?
B: OK. The best (or worse) by far, the over whelming best of the lot, worse of the lot, over the top, most nauseating of all time is from a character called Bernard Pivot. This was stolen by James Lipton and used in the disgracefully sycophantic programme that is ‘Inside the Actor’s Studio’
A: For instance?
B: For instance the first question is “What’s your favourite word?”
A: Surely this depends on the context?
B: How so?
A: How so?
B: Sorry went a bit Shakespearian then. How?
A: Well if you’re stuck in a lift I guess ‘Help’ may be a useful word? Or if you’re lost in a desert with no food, or water and the people who rescue you insist on you saying ‘please’ before they feed you then ‘please’ may become a favourite word? You think?
B: It’s definitely possible. The other questions are;
“What is your least favorite word?
What turns you on [creatively, spiritually or emotionally]?
What turns you off?
What sound or noise do you love?
What sound or noise do you hate?
What is your favorite curse word?
What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
What profession would you not like to do?
If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?”
A: Enough said. Do you want to hear my question?
A: What do you call a pregnant goldfish?
B: No idea.
A: A twit.


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