If you are still free we would love to applicant interview you.
So we have some questions for you here:
1.Why are you interested in SMC?
e.g.(what do you have to gain)
Plentifold opportunities await my net gains and filibuster notaries with the simple button press of "like". This will fill the coffers, and in its coffers, we will dance. I will collect your interest, all of it; and spin it into marble and gregorian lances.
2.How many audiences have you owned?
Nearly three. Two handed, and they landed me frisky just yesterday, frisking all the way. And? maybe eleven years ago, prior to that. Ownership though? Woe betides, and one must finger the nod to kowtow the phrase, "how Banksy of you!" Talk about cheap.
3.How do you incorporate infinity into your workplace.
Infinity is only prescribed through apertures; tele mandala types. Operators are standing, mind you, bye and bye, time after twins, latency ladled, and spooned into utopian fringe communes that see only through mirroring. You might ask, convex? Oh nary, more like a fusion; sandwiching sensory with yawn artists, clauses, and pals. Keeping the toke glowing, dig this tome: from pens and isles and inland girl-time, a treasure of circles may yet find perpetuation, and thereafter hardly will there be another withering of that fine finite gallop into landspeed records. But, as they say, aspics and sprayed, this has little to do with work, only the wobble of place. Then came four...
4.Where do you steal your office supplies from?
(we DO NOT allow that sort of behavior here)
I haven't stolen in weeks, myself, or stolen myself for a chance at riveting this else-wise and phoenix. Or months, as they say, have I been absent in the rim of two or four digit pinches and turtle-necking prances. Only air vehicles have I taken freely, as tho' they were mine, akin and as in the grabby-grab of Boris, the star of the latest Ayn Rand column. Standard fumes? Check. Free narcoleptics? Bingo, baby. And all the giveaways went scattered, like Las Vegas card decks. Or another bad Deniro film.
5.Would you consider yourself
"Investigative Artistic"
"Artistic Investigative"
or
"Autistic Enterprising"
Considerations on self and A.I. or I.A. or A & E networks have a chortle or two in the neck folds. I like hammer-on guitar solos. And I find it shameful that we pigeonhole "just the dictators". Stop investigating. There's a urinal awaiting in the journals of walled streets, stripes, and paradigms. If we keep on, it'll be winter soon. And Daniel, he don't bray, child. He's got the Oz, the CZ, and the heck: they are all portable.
6. Do you do "crank"
Nearly. Well, someday. I'll stop to smile when I do.
7.Are you opposed to animal experimentation?
Oh you! And also "how Fauvist". Gnarly how those trees bend on a clearly defined date, putting your arm around your pet in some consolation or participatory rise, the corduroy kind, wiped ween of burr and conduct not conducive to sky's pie or eyelids able. An answer? Experimental animals define the planet. Dig your Darwin; stop being a savage.
8.What is you favorite planet in our galaxy?
Jupiter. Today, it's Jupiter. That infernal spot, you know, the swirly purported storm whorl: that's my chicken little today.
9.Who's your Daddy?
Papa John. Pizza man. Oh yeah. I wrote a song about that cat. Cool mantra, too. Round, peppery, perfect. I became zealous quite after the fact. Too many lingerie ads, cross-sectioning my guile and keeping me postal. The next day it was clear: an all's well sigh and tine to bear fruit with. Sugary, even. With a hint, residual and knuckling its chuff with say, a bit of Saugus. You know the type-- real friendly, like the clerk who lingered too long with the change in your hand, thinking that crucifix around his neck was gonna save him from the strafes of yester-kin or future diplomacy. All shit, really. But the pizza man? He'd be the type to have kids with. And cool fonts too!
10.From where was your first taste of non human milk?
The milky way, buddy.
11.Did you buy gold before the price skyrocketed?
Yes. And I built a shrine with a missile in it as well. Color me bald, James Franciscus.
12."is you is or is you ain't"?
Can't have it without a saint, I say. Everyone forgets "it" though. My surpluses get weak in the knees and you guys, you and your fucking tertiary lips (deep, moist, and esophageal); shit buddy, we all groan for "it". Stop pockmarking me for an adverb. I'll stave that conjugation with knits of hari-cares and teat. Fuckin' right or what?
13.Whats your favorite TV show
Bury that in iodine. I'm a proud disowner.
14.Bagels or Biscuits?
Biscuits. More, please.
15. Belly ring or Toering?
Towering Inferno.
16.Toenail or fan mail?
Toenail, definitively. Mail art was cool once or twice, then all the shiny ones came through and I couldn't keep up with the bills (or the Williams for that batter). Babies are cool though. You gotta shine up to that, otherwise your druthers are bound for real estate and not ecstasy, and he don't lie, brother Bill. That, and the stamps don't fit the coitus so much, either. Too much stocky-on-one-side, sticky-in-the-middle, and a shitstorm heading southerly, like finances or ducts, squeezing linen or gosling threads or maybe even those lines the airplanes leave in the sky. I can't get any closer to tow that man fail. Like she said, the male has hiss, but the planet takes it out for a killing. I'll never be popular at this rate, so that's why I opt for feet.
17.Do you sleep in a coffin?
I would, once or twice, lie about the floor on some of those international flights I was telling you about. It got caught up in the magazines though, bound together in teal sheets and smelling like pear. I'd try to repeatedly view the movie, but it kept coming up with the same damn pirate theme. I mean, I like Johnny Depp and all, but that pattern of sleep made me weep for some other covenant. It'd get a little weird, I mean, like the time that other movie was playing (on the floor again, I mean, I was on the floor, but you, you were, like, over there or something), and that WHOLE POPE THING WOULD COME UP. Play it to a rubber ear, my friend. The floor was more than just another simple place to chalk one's expertise in knits and suave behavior.
18. Would you rather be mummified or excommunicated?
See, I'm both a mom and an ex-cop, so the tv series-style interrogating can cease at any moment's pause. Give in, sister. Give me all your lovin', copper-boy! I love that tong. Sigh...
19.Have you ever been an extra in a major motion picture?
There's no easy answer to this question.
20.Are you familiar with barbie magazine?
Well, who isn't? As it turns out, the service exit had this function with bottom-feeders. Locating itself close to the approximation of what would be deemed lips, these protrusions and protrusible feelers (whiskers, fingers, prehensile mustache-like appendages) would cull their catches and return the favor. Succulent as bivalves and other sorry lots would have you belie or leave in, passages of fresh-shorn compulsory vomiting would occur, as the red algae bloom wouldn't be all-too-sheen for a hominid to presume consumable; nevertheless though, through and again, passages of mucous, throat, and gargle, these aptly named "barbels", would sublimate the incarnation also with cherry-sweet incantations, as one would infer, quite blond in appearance, but also, tasty as a mint julep. As printed form would find their mats and weaves in sundry Egyptian loam, the motif of these elder dwellers-- catfish, sturgeon, and other ancient roe-- the culture arose simply by whisking: TAKE-TWO-BARBELS-AND-CALL-MEME-IN-THE-MORNING. The swig of this essential oil redeemed itself as an entirely different species, a specific magazine entry, and not portrayed, thank God, as some reenactment, or as a comely but obscene blog. But even then, it continued: three more barbels meant you might be happy, four on the left ear meant instant hetero-normative establishment approval, five depicted a backwater depiction of when-humans-return-to-bile, six was an unlikable chap named Bruce, and seven barbels? Well, you'll just have to see.
