Ever since the P.Net staff began winning all sorts of journalistic awards for integrity and kudos from critics for our hard-hitting expose on termites and their effect on the hippo population, we've been inundated with requests from all sorts of celebrities and their agents begging us to grace them with our presence, to allow them to be interviewed by us.  Magazines have begun putting us on all the "A" lists and we're granted an automatic invitation to any of the "who's who" events going on around the nation.  To be honest, I don't even know what being on the "A" list means.  I'm illiterate and prefer my lists to be numbered.

Still, we're not the sort of outfit to pass up a good opportunity when we see one, so when Oprah's publicist called and invited us to spend an evening with her (Oprah, not the publicist), we'd be fools to decline.  As I dictate this, I am in the back of a taxi driving away from O'Hare Airport in Chicago, my destination being the Four Seasons Ritz-Carlton Hotel, and a flurry of questions are running through my head.  I mean, seriously, this is Oprah we're talking about here, idol to millions of fat people and desperate housewives alike.  Seeings how I royally botched the Will Smith interview that I did earlier in the year, I wanted to be especially careful and make sure that I got this one right.

The time is nearing 7:00 at night and I am supposed to meet Oprah at the hotel bar at 7:15.  There is nothing wrong with being a little bit early.  As the cab comes to a stop in front of the hotel, I cram some wadded bills through the slot in the plexiglass, the driver nodding in thanks because I definitely overpaid.  I have no belongings save for my voice activated tape recorder and the cabbie speeds off without an additional word.  I straighten my suit, attempting my best to look presentable fresh off a plane and I start towards the entrance.  I don't get but three steps in to my journey when I am suddenly surrounded by three men large enough to be playing offensive line in the NFL, their bulk and strength pushing me sideways.

"H-h-hey, what th--" I manage, shortly before a hand the size of Bigfoot's covers my mouth and muffles my protest.

"Easy man, we're heading towards that dark car over there," a voice from behind me says.

Useless to fight, I attempt to turn my head in a different direction and try to make eye contact with the car.  As I do so, the "dark car" turns out to be a stretch limo with a giant white "O" painted on the back window.  Obviously Oprah's, I tell myself, and I begin to relax a little.  The door opens and I am ushered inside, though a bit more harshly than I would consider proper.  Welcome to Chicago.

I position myself upright just in time to see the door slam shut.  The interior is dark, even the customary running lights along the floor appear to not be operating.

"Sorry about that," a voice from the darkness says.  "Despite this being my home, I rarely go out in public.  Surely you can understand this position for a person of my status.

"Oprah?" I ask, mostly for lack of anything better to say.

"Nice work, Sherlock.  Of course it's me, you moron."

She makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like clapping and suddenly the back of the limo is flooded with soft, dim light.  Oprah is seated at the far end of the limo and nursing what appears to be a martini of some kind.

"Was that a clapper you just activated?  You know, one of those clap-on, clap-off kind of things?"

"Yeah, ain't it cool?" she replied, half laughing, half talking.  "One of the best inventions ever to come on late night television.  I must have a thousand of those things around the house."

I'm not sure what surprises me most at this point, the fact that Oprah has a thousand clapper devices or the fact that she buys crap off late night infomercials.

"You look parched, and by that I mean sober," she says as she takes another big swallow of whatever she is drinking.  "Let's fix that.  What'll it be?"

"Uh, I'll just have whatever you're having I guess.  What is that, anyway?"

"Hang on and you can see for yourself," she replies calmly, setting her drink down and turning her attention to the fully stocked bar.  In a flurry that would make a "Cocktail"-era Tom Cruise proud, she begins flipping bottles and throwing so much crap in the air that I frankly lose track of exactly what she is doing.  Twenty seconds of this pass and she hands me a very full, bubbling martini glass.  "Here, try this."

I reach for the glass and study it for a moment.  I've never seen a mixed drink fizzle like the one in my hand, alternating between clear and blue in color.  "This looks really amazing, thanks."  As the glass nears my lips, I see Oprah's lips grow into a wry smile as the first sip takes its course through my digestive system.

"I like to call it 'Taste of Heaven' and it's a little concoction that I made up myself," she states proudly.

After another sip, things don't quite seem right anymore.  "I feel a bit funny," I try, but I'm not entirely sure what came out of my mouth.

"Oh, that's just the Angel Dust kicking in.  It feels that way on it's first run through."  She lets out a maniacal life that would put the fear of God into a rabid pitbull and begins to sip her drink again.

I try and right my vision, making slight corrections and adjustments where needed.  I noticed that I've already downed almost two-thirds of the drink.  Oprah knocks in sequence on the divider glass, something I can only presume is a known code because the car starts moving.

"Where are we going?" I question, mostly out of curiousity but with a slight inkling of fear.

"Let's see, what is tonight?  Tuesday?  Ah, yes, Tuesday.  Tuesday is the night that I pass out free weed brownies to the children at the park."

If I would of had any drink in my mouth at that moment, it would have gone flying out in a barrage of spit.  "You do what?"

"I'm kidding.  Lighten up, asshole.  Don't you know a goddamned joke when you hear one?"

"I- I..."

"Christ, another pansy reporter.  I thought you people from the PNC were different."

"Well," I attempt, "this wasn't exactly what I expected."

"No, of course not.  Everyone thinks they know Oprah.  They see Oprah on TV and every goddamned housewife in middle America knows the struggles that Oprah goes through.  Screw that.  No they don't.  Oprah is just trying to be Oprah, you know?  Oprah is out to have herself a little fun."

"Why are you referring to yourself in third person?"

"Oh, sorry.  I do that from time to time.  It's a habit that has carried over from my schizophrenic days."

"You used to be schizophrenic?"  I am hardly 15 minutes into the interview and I can't believe half of the things I am hearing.

"Sure, a few years back.  At least that's what they diagnosed it as.  I think it had more to do the heroin habit that I was keeping a lid on more than anything else."

If shock could be registered on a human face, I'm pretty sure that mine would read at least a 9.5 on whatever scale they used to measure it.  This is Oprah, the same nagging daytime TV host that is watched and loved by millions every day and here she is telling me about her casual addiction to a number of drugs.  I'm taking it all in but it seems so distant, like it's not really happening.  Oh yeah, the PCP.  Gotta remember that.

In mid-thought, Oprah makes a different clapping sequence and suddenly the booming sounds of Snoop Dogg are reverberating throughout the cabin of the limo.  "Oh!" Oprah yells over the music.  "This is my jam!"

Oprah begins grinding and shaking her body to the rhythm, the likes of which I've only seen in music videos and the occasional strip club in the hood.

"Damn, this makes me want to light up!  Come on, whitey, get up and dance with me."

"I- I," I stammer, "I'm really not good with dancing."

"Oh come on," she complains, her head bobbing in tune to the music.  "You can't be worse than Stedman.  Get up!"

"Really, I would rather no-"

Before I can finish, she's across the limo standing inches from where I am seated, her body still gyrating in ways that I thought illegal for someone like Oprah.  She must notice the look on my face because she starts in again.

"God damn it.  There you go again.  'Oh Oprah, you won a Peabody Award, you can't be dancing all around like that.'  'Oh Oprah, Time Magazine named you one of the most influential people of all time.'  It's always the same with you damn establishment types.  Always trying to pigeonhole Oprah Winfrey."

"No, Oprah, you have it all wrong.  I didn't mean it like that."

"Oh?  How did you mean it?  You don't find Oprah attractive?  You don't find Oprah sexy?"

"No, Oprah, you're - you're plenty sexy.  I just thought that I came here to do an interview, not get all hopped up on drugs and dance to rap music.

"Oh, so now you got a problem with rap music?  Are you some kind of racist?  You got something against successful black people?"

"Damn it Oprah, stop twisting everything around."  At this point it was a rather weak protest but I was running out of cards in my deck.  "This has nothing to do with you being black or successful or whether or not I like Snoop Dogg."

"You gonna make Oprah slap you."

"Oprah, please, sit down.  Can we talk like civilized human beings?"

"Oprah needs another drink.  And you need to finish yours, skinny man.  Drink up.  We have a long night ahead of us."

"But I-"

"No, you can't have any damn water.  Suck it up, flyboy, and drink the damn drink that I made you."

As she heads back to the bar, I look down at my recently forgotten drink and decide that I either follow orders or face additional confrontation.  It was quite obvious who was running the show around here and if you guessed me, you just lost at Final Jeopardy.  A flurry of bottles and other assorted objects go flying at the other end of the limo and I know that means Oprah is making herself another drink.

With a small sigh, I resign myself to wherever fate is taking me and down the rest of my drink one large gulp.  I have to admit that despite everything that has happened, I'm feeling pretty good at the moment.  Maybe that's the drink talking.  Oprah heads back from the bar, two drinks in hand, and opts to sit on my side of the limo.  Rather, she opts to sit on the seat right next to me in the limo.

She hands me the second drink and yanks the empty glass from my other hand.  With a swift throw that looked like something out of a ninja movie, she sends the empty glass flying across the cabin, shattering it into a million pieces.

"Yeehaw!" she yells, "I just love breaking shit."

I take another sip from my drink and try to make the best of it.  "Yeah, so do I."

"Hey, let's go kill someone!" she says excitedly.

I manage a stiff laugh.  "Yeah, kill someone.  That's a good idea."

Of course, I didn't actually think she was serious.

"I've killed lots of people," she states flatly.  "Mostly homeless boys and prostitutes.  Nobody ever misses them.  You want to know irony?"

"I guess," I say, shrugging my shoulders in an effort to appear nonchalant.

"Sometimes the kids I kill wind up on my 'Find These Missing Children' list that I do on air.  And they even give me awards for doing that crap.  Isn't that a hoot?"

"That's... something."  I take another large swig of my drink in hopes that it really kicks in and I lose my mind.  At least then I wouldn't be an accessory to murder.  No, just a drug addict.

At some point during the conversation, and for the life of me I can't figure out when, Oprah had reached out and put her hand on my leg and was currently making a petting motion.  I can't say for sure but I think that out of the corner of my eye, I saw her making seductive gestures with her tongue.

"Did you know that I had my tongue pierced?" she asks.

"No, as a matter of fact I didn't," I replied calmly, not that any new relevation could shock me at this point.  "I didn't think that the TV execs would let you get away with something like that."

She makes a dismissing motion with her hands.  "Forget about those guys.  I own them.  I have so much dirt on every exec I deal with that they are smart enough to leave me alone."

"Dirt?"

"Oh yeah, you know.  Mistresses, blackmail, drugs.  You know, the usual."

"But wouldn't they have the same thing on you?"

"No," she said menacingly.  "They don't know about it.  Nobody knows about it.  Nobody but us.  And it'd be a shame for you if something like that leaked."

I swallowed hard.  Having your life threatened by Oprah isn't something you seriously consider until it actually happens.  Trust me, she's a lot meaner looking in person.

"I mean, you wouldn't want them finding you at the bottom of some river or involved in an unfortunate traffic accident, now would you?"

"I get it, Oprah.  I get it.  It's our little secret."

"Good.  I like the way you operate.  You're a little slow on the uptake but when you get it, you really get it.  I like that."

The petting motions become more focused at this point, inching ever higher up my leg.

"Uh, Oprah, your hand?"

"What about it?  You ain't one of those soft, queer types, are you?"

"No, no, it's nothing like that.  I just, well-"

"Have you ever had dark meat?"

"I'm entirely sure that's appropria-"

That's when the punch came.  She might be a woman but she might as well have been Mike Tyson for all the force behind it.  Pain is shooting all through my head at this point.  A quick strike to the temple is enough to send anyone reeling.

"Now, you're lucky I didn't knock you out with that one but I figure that maybe you just needed a little push.  Next time, I won't be so nice.  Now, where were we?"

"Well, you were touching my leg and-"  I had to pause.  I needed another drink.  Finishing the remainder of mine in one fell swoop, I pass the empty glass back to Oprah.  "Do you think that I could have another one of these?"

"Do you think that your rude ass could be bothered to say please?"

"Sorry Oprah," I said, trying my best not to cringe.  I thought for sure she was going to hit me.  "Could you please get me another drink?  They are quite delicious."

She stares at me for what seems like eternity before she utters a "hrmph" and shuffles off to the other side of the limo to make me a third.

At this point, my head is throbbing and I am in considerable pain, though whether it's from the punch or the drinks I don't know.  I also don't know where this evening is headed and I'm not entirely sure that I want to stick around and find out.  I really don't have much in the way of options save one: the door.

Luck hasn't been with much at all this evening but, as I am sure some ancient poet or writer once said, it's never too late for luck.  The car slowed and stopped and I have never been happier to see a red light or a busy intersection in my life.  With nothing to lose, I yank the door handle open and speed off as quick as I can.

"Hey, you son of a-" came the faint reply from the limo.

The sounds of traffic and blaring horns drown her out.  I'm not sure where I am or where I am going, but I need to find a cab and find it fast.  I've only been in Chicago for less than two hours and I am entirely ready to leave.  A quick trip to the airport and I will be on my way home.  Home sweet home.  Still, I have a sinking suspicion that this isn't where my tale with Oprah is going to end.  But, for now, it's enough.