Interview With a Professional Wicked Witch
The wiry news reporter shifted uncomfortably in her sticky chair of candy cane as she leaned forward to get a better look at my aged and haggard face.
"Well...hehehe," she began, compulsively rubbing her hands together, "I'm just a little nervous...because...um...I've never actually met a real wicked witch before. So, tell me...Ms. Witch...is it...how long have you been in this profession?"
All right, I understood that she was a human being. Really, I am quite used to their obnoxious questions and their fear of witches. I had heard this song and dance before, but I just couldn't understand why everyone had to be so HUNG UP about the fact that I happened to do evil fairy tale witchcraft for a living? We were all good at something, weren't we? Unfortunately, since having good people skills was not one of the requirements on the job resume, I was terrible at it. In any case, I planned my words carefully, seriously wishing that I had at least borrowed that hourglass from the Wicked Witch of the West before my interview. That way, it would be over with before it even started, and at the very least, this woman would stop pestering me. Seriously, why do all the other witches get all the cool bizarre powers that leave New Age experts raging with fury? While the popular wicked witches have all kinds of fun with flying monkeys and telekinetic crystals, I'm stuck with this STUPID oven that turns obnoxious children into useless gingerbread people! You might not believe it, but I'm allergic to gingerbread. Ever wonder where the hag- like warts came from? No, it's not like automatically when you become a witch your face breaks out. It was the gingerbread, not the witchcraft, trust me. If only I had one of those walking cottages like that old Russian lady, Baba Yaga, maybe I could get it to walk me out of this boring forest, away from this giddy village of gingerbread people, and get me to a dermatologist.
The reporter continued to fidget, as her palms began to sweat. Quietly, she tapped her pen abruptly against her notebook, waiting impatiently for my response. "Um...did you...you heard me, right? I asked you if..."
Sighing, I leaned forward in my own chair, which was made out of gingerbread, and answered her question. "See...there's been a misunderstanding. I mean, when I went to college and got my degree, I did not think that I wanted to spend the rest of my life stuck in this disgusting cottage made out of spoiled candy!"
The reporter nodded, to show that she was listening, and began to scribble down some notes. "No," I continued. "Actually, for most of my life I've been a plastic surgeon among the world of fairy tale creatures. I am the legs they stand on! I mean, remember how they turned that pretty princess who married Shrek into an ogre? The genius was mine! And...believe me, Snow White wasn't half the woman the Evil Queen was, let alone the "fairest in the land," until she got some plastic surgery! Next thing you knew, these seven miners decided to live at her house. Weird how that works. Anyhow, I was famous, until that stupid princess wannabe came along and sued me because I couldn't make her lips shame the red, red rose like Sleeping Beauty's. Anyway, I had no job, so when I saw the application for the position of Mean old Hag, yeah...maybe I didn't exactly want the job, who would, but...let's just say that no one else wanted me. And, here I am. Any more questions? I'm afraid the frogs for my potion are going to burn if we don't rap this up soon!"
The reporter nodded with an insincere smile. "Eh heh, and...alright, I don't want to accuse you of anything...but, there's been some talk around town that you turned a couple of schoolchildren into gingerbread people with your evil spells. Now, what would you say about that?"
At that moment, all I wanted was for someone, anyone, to get my broom and then HIT HER WITH IT! Here I was, giving her my precious time while the frogs I took days to catch would burn to a crisp, and she was asking me these DUMB questions. Next thing you knew, she'd want me to do a love spell on some poor, unsuspecting soul.
I eyed her with a narrowed glance. "See...first of all, I did not put a spell on those children. Second of all, they were NOT the sweet, innocent little children everyone makes them out to be!"
"Yes, well, we all know that young children have their...er...moments," the reporter began, as she messed with her frizzy chestnut hair. "But...why did you turn them into gingerbread people?"
"Well, it all started on a regular, sunny Friday afternoon," I began. "You see, their father was a poor woodcutter with an awful wife. I swear if that woman didn't leave my customers stranded in the woods for me to find, I would...I would...I don't even know what, but it would be bad! Anyhow, one day she found out that Hansel and Grettle had been stealing all the bread and using it to make trails through the woods."
"Well...sorry to interrupt," the reporter sighed. "But...didn't the children make that path when they believed that their parents planned to leave them in the woods?"
I shook my head with a smirk. "Their parents threw them out because they had this nasty habit of going to people's houses and eating it, particularly the roof and the window sills. I swear, I had just had those chocolate shingles installed (it cost me a FORTUNE) before those terrible children showed up and ATE my roof!"
"Well...what do you expect starving children to do when they see a big piece of chocolate? After all, your house was made out of candy, wasn't it?" the reporter asked, obviously bewildered. "That's what they want you to believe," I cackled. "Anyhow, they were wanted in five states for property damage done after they ate people's homes. So, I made them a deal. If they stopped eating my roof, and help me build a new one, I would give them plastic surgery for free. That way, no one would recognize them, and therefore, no one would catch them and throw them in a tower with Rapunzel! You honestly think I'd let that wicked witch who stole my top client for hair growth formula take these children? You have to understand that the house-eating children were very demanding. But...of course...with all their whining, I got a bit upset. I figured if they liked candy so much; why not just make them into gingerbread people too? It would be less time consuming than trying to do plastic surgery! And less messy."
"Eh heh heh," the reporter laughed lightly, obviously horrified. "And...where are the children now?"
"Well, those rotten brats...apparently the girl was expecting the whole long golden hair, and lips that shame the red, red rose, with skin white as snow like I gave all the other whining girls. So...she and her brother shoved me to the oven. I swear it took me three potions to turn back to my normal form! And, worst of all, those rotten children never fixed my roof. What's more, while I was trapped in that oven, they STOLE all my pearls!"
"Oh," the reporter smiled. "And...well...my son says that witches can cackle. Can you cackle for me? I think it would add sort of a nice touch to the article."
My red eyes sneered with flames of fury. This was the LAST straw! See, I can deal with all those people telling me I'm not a "real" witch, or that I'm a bit unorthodox, but this was IT! Treating me like some sort of ugly old...wait...yeah, it WAS on the application for the job...but!
With that, I grabbed the startled reporter, opened the chocolate chip door, and shoved her out, slamming it behind her. Maybe not too impressive of a stunt for a witch, but HEY! I don't get paid nearly enough to explain the top reporter in Candy Land being savagely transformed into a gingerbread woman.
And we all lived happily ever after. I got to sit around in my little house, and I NEVER had to see that reporter, or Hansel and his obnoxious sister again.
The wiry news reporter shifted uncomfortably in her sticky chair of candy cane as she leaned forward to get a better look at my aged and haggard face.
"Well...hehehe," she began, compulsively rubbing her hands together, "I'm just a little nervous...because...um...I've never actually met a real wicked witch before. So, tell me...Ms. Witch...is it...how long have you been in this profession?"
All right, I understood that she was a human being. Really, I am quite used to their obnoxious questions and their fear of witches. I had heard this song and dance before, but I just couldn't understand why everyone had to be so HUNG UP about the fact that I happened to do evil fairy tale witchcraft for a living? We were all good at something, weren't we? Unfortunately, since having good people skills was not one of the requirements on the job resume, I was terrible at it. In any case, I planned my words carefully, seriously wishing that I had at least borrowed that hourglass from the Wicked Witch of the West before my interview. That way, it would be over with before it even started, and at the very least, this woman would stop pestering me. Seriously, why do all the other witches get all the cool bizarre powers that leave New Age experts raging with fury? While the popular wicked witches have all kinds of fun with flying monkeys and telekinetic crystals, I'm stuck with this STUPID oven that turns obnoxious children into useless gingerbread people! You might not believe it, but I'm allergic to gingerbread. Ever wonder where the hag- like warts came from? No, it's not like automatically when you become a witch your face breaks out. It was the gingerbread, not the witchcraft, trust me. If only I had one of those walking cottages like that old Russian lady, Baba Yaga, maybe I could get it to walk me out of this boring forest, away from this giddy village of gingerbread people, and get me to a dermatologist.
The reporter continued to fidget, as her palms began to sweat. Quietly, she tapped her pen abruptly against her notebook, waiting impatiently for my response. "Um...did you...you heard me, right? I asked you if..."
Sighing, I leaned forward in my own chair, which was made out of gingerbread, and answered her question. "See...there's been a misunderstanding. I mean, when I went to college and got my degree, I did not think that I wanted to spend the rest of my life stuck in this disgusting cottage made out of spoiled candy!"
The reporter nodded, to show that she was listening, and began to scribble down some notes. "No," I continued. "Actually, for most of my life I've been a plastic surgeon among the world of fairy tale creatures. I am the legs they stand on! I mean, remember how they turned that pretty princess who married Shrek into an ogre? The genius was mine! And...believe me, Snow White wasn't half the woman the Evil Queen was, let alone the "fairest in the land," until she got some plastic surgery! Next thing you knew, these seven miners decided to live at her house. Weird how that works. Anyhow, I was famous, until that stupid princess wannabe came along and sued me because I couldn't make her lips shame the red, red rose like Sleeping Beauty's. Anyway, I had no job, so when I saw the application for the position of Mean old Hag, yeah...maybe I didn't exactly want the job, who would, but...let's just say that no one else wanted me. And, here I am. Any more questions? I'm afraid the frogs for my potion are going to burn if we don't rap this up soon!"
The reporter nodded with an insincere smile. "Eh heh, and...alright, I don't want to accuse you of anything...but, there's been some talk around town that you turned a couple of schoolchildren into gingerbread people with your evil spells. Now, what would you say about that?"
At that moment, all I wanted was for someone, anyone, to get my broom and then HIT HER WITH IT! Here I was, giving her my precious time while the frogs I took days to catch would burn to a crisp, and she was asking me these DUMB questions. Next thing you knew, she'd want me to do a love spell on some poor, unsuspecting soul.
I eyed her with a narrowed glance. "See...first of all, I did not put a spell on those children. Second of all, they were NOT the sweet, innocent little children everyone makes them out to be!"
"Yes, well, we all know that young children have their...er...moments," the reporter began, as she messed with her frizzy chestnut hair. "But...why did you turn them into gingerbread people?"
"Well, it all started on a regular, sunny Friday afternoon," I began. "You see, their father was a poor woodcutter with an awful wife. I swear if that woman didn't leave my customers stranded in the woods for me to find, I would...I would...I don't even know what, but it would be bad! Anyhow, one day she found out that Hansel and Grettle had been stealing all the bread and using it to make trails through the woods."
"Well...sorry to interrupt," the reporter sighed. "But...didn't the children make that path when they believed that their parents planned to leave them in the woods?"
I shook my head with a smirk. "Their parents threw them out because they had this nasty habit of going to people's houses and eating it, particularly the roof and the window sills. I swear, I had just had those chocolate shingles installed (it cost me a FORTUNE) before those terrible children showed up and ATE my roof!"
"Well...what do you expect starving children to do when they see a big piece of chocolate? After all, your house was made out of candy, wasn't it?" the reporter asked, obviously bewildered. "That's what they want you to believe," I cackled. "Anyhow, they were wanted in five states for property damage done after they ate people's homes. So, I made them a deal. If they stopped eating my roof, and help me build a new one, I would give them plastic surgery for free. That way, no one would recognize them, and therefore, no one would catch them and throw them in a tower with Rapunzel! You honestly think I'd let that wicked witch who stole my top client for hair growth formula take these children? You have to understand that the house-eating children were very demanding. But...of course...with all their whining, I got a bit upset. I figured if they liked candy so much; why not just make them into gingerbread people too? It would be less time consuming than trying to do plastic surgery! And less messy."
"Eh heh heh," the reporter laughed lightly, obviously horrified. "And...where are the children now?"
"Well, those rotten brats...apparently the girl was expecting the whole long golden hair, and lips that shame the red, red rose, with skin white as snow like I gave all the other whining girls. So...she and her brother shoved me to the oven. I swear it took me three potions to turn back to my normal form! And, worst of all, those rotten children never fixed my roof. What's more, while I was trapped in that oven, they STOLE all my pearls!"
"Oh," the reporter smiled. "And...well...my son says that witches can cackle. Can you cackle for me? I think it would add sort of a nice touch to the article."
My red eyes sneered with flames of fury. This was the LAST straw! See, I can deal with all those people telling me I'm not a "real" witch, or that I'm a bit unorthodox, but this was IT! Treating me like some sort of ugly old...wait...yeah, it WAS on the application for the job...but!
With that, I grabbed the startled reporter, opened the chocolate chip door, and shoved her out, slamming it behind her. Maybe not too impressive of a stunt for a witch, but HEY! I don't get paid nearly enough to explain the top reporter in Candy Land being savagely transformed into a gingerbread woman.
And we all lived happily ever after. I got to sit around in my little house, and I NEVER had to see that reporter, or Hansel and his obnoxious sister again.