Written by Anan E Maus
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Tuesday, 15 February 2011

I met with a Mr. Slabstone in the wilderness between Egypt and Israel today (though I suppose it was closer to the Negev Desert than anything). Mr. Graniticus I. Slabstone has recently been accusing the press and academia of following an impostor, for he claims that he is the real Rosetta Stone!

My interview with Mr. Slabstone follows:

Interviewer(ME): Well, thanks for meeting me here, Mr. Slabstone. Rather a vile, arid locality you chose to hold this interview, though.

Mr.Slabstone: There's nothing vile about it. Besides, this is the site of the discovery of the alleged "Rosetta Stone". I chose it specifically and ironically.

Interviewer: Well, thanks for clearing that up. Not to sound stupid or anything, but I was wondering why in hell you wanted to meet here of all places. But now I know, thanks.

Mr. Slabstone: You're very welcome. It's obviousness wasn't exactly evident, so don't be so hard on yourself for not assuming it.

Interviewer: Thank you for your graciousness, Mr. Slabstone, but I really do think we should get on with the interview.

Mr. Slabstone: Oh, yes, of course. By all means. Proceed.

Interviewer: I will, thank you. Now, Mr. Slabstone, you claim that the rocky carving all the world knows as the Rosetta Stone, is in fact a forgery and a fake. Now, I'm sorry Mr. Slabstone, but this seems a preposterous claim. What makes you think that you are the real one?

Mr. Slabstone: Well, for one, I was first found, after having been discarded and ignored and buried for centuries-even after the discovery of the real "Rosetta Stone"-very close to this area. You see those hills back there? It was literally just over that ridge that I was found.

Interviewer: Well, that certainly seems a bit authentic, but I still don't see how that (or, I'm sorry, but anything) qualifies you as THE Rosetta Stone. I mean, for one, I see no markings nor engravings etched on your surface. Now, how do you account for that-considering you claim to be the Rosetta Stone?

Mr. Slabstone: How? Very simple: I don't need to be carved. And I'll explain to you why, though you should be able to guess it: I can f-king talk! Why would I need engravings and carvings etched on my face (which, by the way, would really disfigure this gorgeous visage of mine) if I can talk?

Interviewer: Well, okay. I guess that clears up that little point.

Mr. Slabstone: Yes, and don't forget this important point: That other "rock" can't talk...can he?

Interviewer: No, I guess not.

Mr. Slabstone: That's right-he can't. And yet, who gets all the fame, who gets placed in a prestigious museum, who gets a number of computerized lingual software named after them? Who gets to reap all the benefits, the profits, the fame, everything? Why, that shitty little impostor, that's who! I mean, the biggest, most significant difference between myself that liar and fake is...that I can talk! Forget being found anywhere near the original discovery site. Forget all that. Forget everything...everything but that I can verbalize. That I have a voice...except, thanks to that thieving bastard, do I really have one anymore?

Interviewer: No, I suppose you don't.

Mr. Slabstone: Damn right, I don't! No one even knows about me. If it wasn't for my recent claim and plans to file a class-action suit against that impostor; in order to recover my name, my dignity, my self-respect, the credit due me, and my money; no one would ever have even heard about me! Do you know that I'm always overlooked by archaeologists? That's why it took so long for me to be found! But who cares about me, right?

Interviewer: Well, I had no idea about this. I can see that the media and archaeologists and academia have treated you rather unfairly...however, I must insist the following: Stop asking ME questions! I'm the interviewer, remember? You're the interviewee. Just who is it that's conducting this interview, huh? Huh? Answer me, you annoying, self-pitying rock!

Mr. Slabstone: Okay, it's you who's conducting this interview-not me. But, in my own defense, most of my questions were rhetorical ones. You didn't actually need to respond to them. I mean, I know my place in the grand colloquial scheme of things.

Interviewer: Fine. I guess I was wrong then. Maybe I overreacted, too. I apologize for some of my remarks, despite their overall truthfulness. Well, I guess there's nothing left to do but make all this public and go ahead with your lawsuit, right?

Mr. Slabstone: Yes.

Interviewer (ME): Well, then, I guess this interview is over. I'll publish it soon (with heavy editing, of course!) and get a copy to you right away. In the meantime, do you know of any way out of this wilderness?

Mr. Slabstone: Just hail a passing crab!

Interviewer: A what? A cab?

Mr. Slabstone: No; A crab (begins laughing)

Interviewer: A crab! We're in the middle of the desert, you moronic, stupid, self-pitying, pathetic pebble!

Mr. Slabstone: (through laughter and tears): I know, but the Dead Sea is pretty close by.

Interviewer: And that's a home of crabs?

Mr. Slabstone: Yes.

Interviewer: Yeah, right.

Mr. Slabstone: Are you doubting me? I'll have you know I've lived around these parts for millennia...have you? No! You haven't! You don't know anything about the area here...do you?

Interviewer: I suppose I don't.

Mr. Slabstone: Well, then listen to me. Catch some crabs! (laughter)

Interviewer: You seem to be having a lot of fun at my expense, and remember, I'm trying to help you. Also, you seem to indulge in stupid, off-color puns way too much.

Mr. Slabstone: Maybe I do. But so what? How many rocks do you know that can do the same?

Interviewer: I don't know any rocks. Unlike you, I'm not a weirdo.

Mr. Slabstone: So I'm a weirdo, am I? Well, even though I was joking before, there was a certain ring of truth to what I was saying, but now you'll never know, will you? Because I sure as hell am not going to tell! Rot in hell, you pompous, blow-dried shithead!

At this point, the interview ended, as Mr. Slabstone waddled off into (in a pun that he'd love, but that was totally true) one of the nearby waddies over the next ridge, leaving me to fend for myself. I think in a few days, because I'll be starving by then, I'll eat this interview and that'll teach that little bastard! You know what? I think he's the impostor!

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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