Click. "You're question is too sweet." Click.

  "Well, I'm NOT an interrogator.  Is this room soundproof?" 

  "It would be but now we're under constant surveillance!  Does that make you sweaty?" 

  "I'm wearing deodorant." 

  "Go! Take your questions to the other box.  And you two have a good road trip." 

  "Are we there yet?" 

  The next filter box would pit us against people who were "beautiful".  They'd managed to work personal care into part of their regiment.  "With a desire to be on TV, I'm sure." 

  "I'm more of a behind-the-scenes type if I'm a type at all." 

  A door closed in a nervous move not sounding like a nurse's shoe in a hallway of calmed neurotics.  The woman approached, lowered eyes.  "I'm sure I blew it.  I wanted to." 

  "Why?" 

  "I'm leaning in the direction of think tank." 

  "I don't even know what that is but it sounds like it would hurt my brain." 

  "What kind of question did they want?" 

  "I think they're seeking the perfect moderator." 

  "Let's just leave." 

  "That's not how to handle this." She looked at the list of allowed questions and pointed at two potentials.