RUBYSTONE REVEALS ALL!!
The Man-Pony Interviewed

By Sunshine Skip Whippet

I'm escorted into a lounge overlooking the Atlantic Ocean by an oriental midget wearing blue lipstick named Pierre. I'd heard RubyStone had picked up a few strange tastes while touring Europe -- hiring a blue-lipstick wearing oriental midget as your butler being one of them.
The RubyStone Ranch is a beautiful, sprawling piece of land, it's exact whereabouts I've been asked to not disclose. RubyStone has had to chase more than a few sex-starved fans off his land with his peacemaker, old magenta.
"Why Old Magenta?" I ask Pierre, who gazes back at me sheepishly. "Why not something more traditional, like Ol' Blue, or Ol' Grey?"
"Monsieur RubyStone names heez weapons however he pleezes," Pierre responds in his strange Parisian/Mexican/Chinese amalgamation of accents. "Zat ees the way of the Man-Pony."
Displeased with the little man's reply, I begin to swat at him with an issue of Town & Country I discover in the crack of the sofa. The little man finally leaves me be after sustaining a paper cut above his left eye, leaving me be to inspect the various pictures and trophies which adorn RubyStone's walls.
There's a picture of RubyStone shaking hands with Herve Villechaize, also known as Tatoo, the plane-spotting dwarf from Fantasy Island. After a moment I realize that something seems out of place, and after considerable picking and peeling, I realize that Tatoo's face has merely been pasted on, and that the midget is actually that aqua-lipped chinaman, Pierre.
What kind of man would take the time out of his day to alter a photo in such a manner? And why Villechaize? This RubyStone -- a riddle wrapped inside an enigma coated in french onion chip-dip. I could only pray to Neil Diamond that the interview would finally reveal the mysteries by this sinewy-muscled, leather-clad Dick Turpin with the wild mane of chesnut locks.

Three and a half hours have passed and I've taken to building forts with the cushions of sofa. Suddenly, I hear the unmistakable patter of moisturized feet on a mohair carpet. I peek my head out of Fort PowerForce to see the man himself, the Man Pony, RubyStone, wearing only a loincloth. An aloe vera-based, soy powder-charged, flax seed-charged almond milkshake rests in his gruff hand, a roasted piglet in the other.
"Welcome, Mister Whippet," he grins, revealing a speckle of red lettuce clinging to one of his incisors. "Shall we begin?"

Whippet: So, you've spent three months in Europe, three months in a new land, three months soaking up foreign charm and culture -- how has it changed the RubyStone?

RubyStone: Not a whole hell of a lot, Sunshine -- at least not culturally. Emotionally, however, I'm charged. Sharp. Speedy.

Whippet: Speedy?

RubyStone: Speedier than a Trans-Am. A trans-am filled to the brim with jet fuel.

Whippet: Wow, jet fuel -- that's pretty fast.

RubyStone: Your darn right it is. Europe gave me time to think -- no more mister nice guy. It's time to take back the streets. I've got a bone to pick. I'm ready to rumble.

Whippet: Rubystone, you cliche-ridden man-among-men, what was it? What was the lance that pierced the boil?

RubyStone: Let's just say I've done a lot of listening lately -- you see, I had a companion on my European adventure, and he set me straight. He showed me the light -- and it was dim. He showed me the goodness and kindness inside of me -- and it was weak. He showed me the power of darkness -- and it was brilliant. Brilliant.

Whippet: Now this mysterious companion of yours -- it all sounds very intruiging, and I'm sure our DAW audience is dying to know just just who it was you were travelling with, but first I've got to ask you...what's with the roasted piglet?

RubyStone: A lot of folks have this misguided, pre-concieved notion that I'm some sort of bead-wearing vegan. Not true. I do eat meat -- free-range meat. Clean meat. Pure meat. This piglet spent it's two weeks here on Earth free to run and roam where ever it pleased on my 14-acre ranch. It drank sweet, chemically-UNtainted milk from it's mother's bosom. It knew fresh air and clean soil. And perhaps if it had lived long enough to develop good, strong legs for walking, it could have enjoyed all of the earthly splendours provided here at the RubyStone Ranch.

Whippet: Totally wild. You know I just have one more question for you, you oily, oily man...Just who was it that accompanied you through Europe and warped your--

RubyStone: (interrupting) I'm sorry, Whippet, but I've got to run. I'd love to finish this interview on another occasion, perhaps? You see, it is now time to begin my DAW re-entry training. A harsh regiment of exercise, eating naturally, and living with the rodents and fur-bearing creatures of the land. I will run among the wild inhabitants of the RubyStone ranch, wearing nothing but this loincloth and a pair of black socks. I will steal vegetables from my own garden. I will encourage Pierre to shoot at me if he sees me -- I want to live like an animal -- an animal foxholed by society. At night, I shall burrow into the soil of the land for warmth, or perhaps the hollow of a tree, or perhaps the trunk of my car, if Pierre does not spot me and begin shooting. And Pierre is a good shot.

Whippet: Right. Well, it's been a pleasure and I hope to continue this interview when we've got more time.

RubyStone: Thank-you. And put the cushions back before you leave...



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