Transcript of Grant Golland's Interview With Waide Barfield on The Tonight Show

GG: Hello Waide, thank you for appearing tonight.
WB (jovial): Good evening America.
GG: So, Waide, I understand you have a funny story for us tonight.
WB (personably): That's right, Grant, I had this interview scheduled for tonight, as you know-
GG: I should hope so
WB (like its funny): Well, some reporter today, he came up to me in the street and started trying to interview me-
GG: Like, right there?
WB (interjectively): In the street!

Shot of a concerned audience

GG: So what did you do?
WB (taken aback): Well what could I do?
GG: It's a tough situation.
WB (dismissive): I just politely declined.
GG: Seems reasonable.
WB (concerned): He honestly seemed really shaken up about the whole thing.
GG: I think he was probably, but let's move on to your campaign.

Shot of Barfield giving a sort of "here it comes" look

GG: First of all, you, as the Republican candidate, must prove your conservativism.
WB (pensive): I'm glad you asked Grant.
GG: I'm over here.
WB (oblivious): I stand for all of the most conservative things. It is a time for the Jesus to once again say what is on his mind in America today.
GG: And what is that?
WB (on point): Well take for instance, any political issue in America today.
GG: Like abortion.
WB (righteous): Well the conservative opinion is definately in favor of outcasting or even fining aborters, as for sluts, wanderers, runnaways and the like.
GG: How threatening!
WB (sternly): No, it's definately a message of love.
GG: Moving on, your campaign has run into a bit of snag, polls-wise, since pictures of your wife have surfaced on the internet.
WB (championic): The American people do not run off of polls and neither does this campagne!
GG: Well, to be fair though, pundits are calling it "a sharp break from conservativism" ... among other things!
WB (reassuring): I'm glad you asked, Grant.
GG: I'm sure you've seen the political cartoons. Can we get a slide of that up here, Jim?

Shot of politcal cartoon featuring headless torso labeled "Waide" next to bikini model with the caption "Topless"

WB (disgusted): The personal attacks can get the best of you, Grant, but let's not let this election stray from the issues facing America today.
GG: Well said, Mr. Barfield. Now, you've also come under fire for some of your cabinet choices
WB (noticing): Yes, yes, Ms. Monro.
GG: Any comment?
WB (citing wikipedia): For example, the American writer Cynthia Ozick called Munro "our Chekhov." In Munro stories, as in Chekhov's, plot is secondary and "little happens."
GG: I see what you mean. Any final comments?
WB (citing wikipedia): I'm glad you asked. Patriots, consider, remember the words of our president when he said that you can do so much for America. And as Americans, we are, in times of invitation and drought, both, always, like swayers in the winds of patriotism, are always, our lord, the father son and the holy ghost, amen.
GG: Great talking to you, stick around everybody, our next guest is Snoop Dogg.

Shot of band playing pre-commercial music, fade out over audience.

aww-awwaww, waw-weah wahhhhh, gyahh-we__ahh; or, is anything more vain than landing on the moon

Hastily nominated by the GOP this evening, Republican nominee Waid "Topless" Barfield "of dreams" and his army of sass-mongers invited me up for a brief interview shortly after their choice to nominate him to the role of soon-to-be marksman of the best Republican party in the approaching Presidential Election.

I arrived at his place, the place where they, Marc Bulger, his proclaimed campaign manager, Lewis Carroll, his acclaimed bodyguard/bo(d)yfriend/bodymovin, Wayne Coyne, the volunteer-coordinator, Alice Munro, his "Getta-oudda-vohte" (her Trannsylvanian-tact was difficult to transcribe) coordinator, were, and was berated by: commands --commands that just barely ended with politely-attached question marks--, long barracudas, the luck of one thousand winds racing through the Dong and the Huang and the Bo Hais --long-mostly-dead Mongaloid vikings swore morecore for these blusterings if were they not captured by a Sino-enemies' junk. Bellowing from the 'las plebes el vulgo' advisors who thrust their Waid forward, came the shrill interrogation of this very innocent reporter:

"WHO IS THE OTHER NOMINEE"
"WHERE IS HE GOING"
"IS COMPUTER PROGRAMMING REALLY THAT PROFITTABLE"
"ARRRAAAAGHHH"
"WHERE ARE YOU TAKING HIM"
"ARRAGGAHHACH"
"[WHAT IS] SENTIMENT IF TODAY IS CONSTRUCT WHEN TODAY IS DIGITALIA"

Placid and wading and swimming and strafing through the tense thicket of his potential cabinet members, the Waid, and his flip-flops, calmly flip-flopping toward me, spoke with immaculate goodness, benevolence in his heart, a lot of blood in his cheeks and hands, and jovial, adorable Vicksburg drawl in his voicebox:

"Hi there, I'm Waid Barfield, are you the reporter?" his heart sang the greeting via his vocal chords, into my ears. His voice, the same warm, unruffled voice that beckoned deer to prance across his crosshairs in the threatening Mississippi, levee-breakin rain, inclined fellow soldiers to raise their narrowed, focusing eyes to their gunstocks while drenched in Vietnamese blood and fear, swore gorecore to his father that he'd go back to "Business" school when he finished what had to be done for his country in Vietnam, kept its cool, (coooool) but wasn't sharp enough to be heard over his still-heckling fans:

"DO NOT GO OUT THERE WITH HIM WAID"
"WAID, DON'T SAY ANYTHING"
"AM I STILL THREATENED BY THE LIKELIHOOD OF FULFILLING MY FATHER'S FOOTSTEPS"
"ARRRAAGGGAHHHHAH"
"NO COMMENT WAID, JUST NO COMMENT"

And so, Waid, who's patience wasn't yet whet, smiled once or twice more, but three or four times less than he would've had he and I jammed-into the carpetted-quad and really spoken about his family,
his wife, whom at the same moment had been thrust, in her Noce & Ivory tiled kitchenette, into emotion, dropping to her knees to semble a stretched-out prayer against her Frigidaire stovetop that bore a skillet of her vacant-husband's favorite morningtime treat, mashed tomorrows and scrambled tears, repeated himself, politely declined to interview ("Maybe not right now. Is your name Grant?" "It's not" "Oh! Well I'm sorry, but I'll have to politely decline to an interview right now, maybe later though") and invited me to a dinner or some more personal kind of get-together later, though.

I met Waid Barfield this evening, and though his guerilla advisors screamed through him, Waid Barfield, Waid Barfield's ubiquitous sweat-based scent left me with a delicious taste, not unlike the taste of the Ferst blood suckled from an unripe swelbow, in my mouth.

the day after tomorrow's day: today

"I love you sheeya, won't you create and cradle my baby," she moaned.
"It's Shia," he orated as he wordlessly ripped off her fiberglass thong.
"Oh oh my stars and stripes," she moaned.
Shia soothingly caressed her eyebrow ridge and nervously muttered "You...are... a sweet meat pie." It was the first time he had ever given her such a compliment and he was worried she would
not moan in ecstasy at the serenade of his honey-mouthed nouns. And they both started floating toward the ceiling. Shia flailed but could not control his upward ascent. "What is this?1" he cried, "I thought we were going to really do it."
"This is it. I am going to float you until you are a lifeless floating shell; that I have sex with." She moaned. He kind of preened and liking this idea, had already inseminated his own his hands. Her face drooped to a metallic slavery. Eyebrows lowering, she spat quaaludes into his fat face. He caught one on his lower lip and, though he realized this was his premature punishment, he liked it and he didn't know why.
Fifteen minutes later he was the hottest hotshot of hot, shot. Little girls wanted to suck his dick, big girls wanted to suck his big dick, and everyone knew his shitty name. He could only think about the fame, and that one scene where he would make everything all over again: Robotron and Megan and him. It was only a matter of time and space, although certainly not space-time because that would be gay.

-We will now take a short break to find the Megan Fox video online-
-Video not found-

-30 years later-

"My what a charming VR session," she moaned.
"Yes, I too enjoyed it," he moaned. His old obsolete arms and legs had been replaced by robots. He turned into robots. They began to have dirty greasy robot sex while staring at his transformer posters. He slapped her with his tin robot hands, "is that how you like it?" he moaned. He shot nanobots all over her steering wheel and when that was covered he moved onto her protective chestplate.
"Yeah, yeah yeah yeah," she moaned, taking all of the nanobots in. She knew that these would kill her, like the fame killed who Shia truly was. She moaned her last passionate gasp and died. So he found a new dead body for his nanobots: Liza Minnelli.

<3<#<3
Nick and Roger