Some really strange stuff can happen when you're on a book tour.
Although I don't remember which talk show it was (probably not Oprah, I think I'd remember that - and be reminding you and myself of it constantly) like many of them, more than one show a day is filmed to be aired later. The show I was to be interviewed on was the last taping of the day, and I got to the green room just after the one before ended. The only person left was a woman who had been a guest on the previous show. I was too nervous and distracted to make conversation with her - I didn't even ask what her topic was. All I wanted to do was run into the adjoining bathroom to empty my pea-bladder one more time, and check my hair and makeup. She said she had to use the bathroom too, but took so long getting her stuff together, I really couldn't wait anymore (my taping time was imminent and well, you know), so I said, "I'll just be a second," and slipped in.
As soon as I locked myself in the bathroom, I heard the woman shout, "Bitch! C*nt! Whore!" Only, she wasn't usin' no asterisk, if you get my drift.
"WTF!" I thought (although I wasn't usin' no abbreviations, neither), "That woman's insane! She's going to kill me! I bet her show was on women axe murderers! Wait'll I get my hands on that damn publicist!" I know you're in awe of what a brilliant psychiatrist I am to possess such amazing deductive reasoning skills, but let me assure you, those kinds of snap assessments employing sound clinical judgement are simply all in a day's work.
I heard her curse some more and steeled myself. I had to get out of that green room so I could get on the show. Was I so intent on promoting my book that it was actually worth risking certain death (or, at the very least, a vast array of new prosthetic devices)?
What do you want from me?
I grabbed the only thing that wasn't nailed down (the metal toilet paper roll - clinical experience is one thing, but there's really no substitute for a sturdy, blunt object), opened the door, peeked out and quickly assessed the scene.
The woman was sitting calmly, albeit red-faced, in a chair. Using those same patented, finely honed assessment skills, I quickly determined she probably wasn't going to kill me after all. My superior clinical judgement was reinforced when she spoke.
"I'm so sorry. I was just here as a guest for the show on Tourette's."
And now, for your further amusement, one of the shows I did (in which I was not only asked about QUEEN OF THE ROAD - nudist RV park, armed robbery and all - but another weird book tour experience, this one involving killer crickets. Go figure):