When you're interviewing for a job, you hear about companies that make use of "stress interviews," where the interviewer will ignore you for fifteen solid minutes, or suddenly begin screaming, or something equally bizarre. The concept is to see how you react under stress. The more I heard about stress interviews, the more I thought it would be kind of exciting to go through one. I'd have a lot of fun with something like that, especially if it was a job I didn't want: maybe I'd begin singing selections from "Oklahoma!", or take off all my clothes, or something.

Ironically, the closest I came to a stress interview during my job hunt earlier this year was my interview with Comedy Central.

The interview was a dream come true, since Comedy Central was, hands-down, my #1 choice for an employer. The open position was "Director of Online Sales," which appeared very similar to my pre-Computer Stew position at ZDNet: come up with new online ad campaigns, and manage their Web sales team. No problem. I was there. I was so there.

The interview was also the most expensive I've ever had: because I had to travel down to New York City for the day and rent a laptop, it cost me around $250.00. But hey, this was Comedy Central. It was worth it!

The Comedy Central offices are located in the Newsweek building in Manhattan, and when you step off the elevator, it's just the craziest experience. Bright lights, multiple TV monitors turned up REALLY LOUD, and enormous scrolling LED displays which literally wrap around the walls and ceiling. It's pure sensory overload. It's great.

This was not the first time I had seen it, though: a year ago, we had shot an episode of Computer Stew where I came into their offices dressed as "Whizzo," the helpful robot from the future. We were going to try to get Whizzo booked on their show "BattleBots," but they immediately called security, without giving us even one useable frame of footage. Fortunately, I had been dressed head to toe in aluminum foil, so no one recognized me.

I sat down in the lobby, next to the South Park pinball machine, and waited for my interviewer to arrive. He eventually did, and led me through the offices (dingy and cramped in comparison to the lobby; typical New York City) to a small conference room. He asked me if I needed anything to drink. I told him that since I had been travelling all day, I could really use a rest room. He chuckled and pointed the way.

When I returned, the stress interview began. From the get-go, he started laying into me. "I want to be honest with you," he began, "I don't think you're right for this job. This is a sales position. I look at this resume, I don't see sales. I just don't see it."

"Well," I began, launching into my spiel, "I've worked for seven years at one of the top ten websites in the world, and for most of that time I worked with the sales team, creating new online ad opportunties. My understanding is that this job is very similar."

"You're not a sales guy," he said. "Just because you've worked with a sales team doesn't mean you're a sales guy. You've got to look at this from my position: I've got to find someone super-qualified to fill this spot, and I don't think you're the one." I'll condense the conversation, but he went on like this for about fifteen minutes.

He's testing me, I said to myself. He wants to see if I can sell myself. So I vowed to remain as polite and positive as I possibly could. "I think that I am the one," I responded. "Not only do I have more online advertising experience than anyone else, but I have extensive experience travelling with our sales team, pitching our products to ad agencies. Also, with Computer Stew, I was largely responsible for prospecting and selling my own advertising, which I did for two years."

But no matter how I argued it, he just dug in his heels and came back at me even more ferociously. It was such a desperate situation that I almost started to laugh. I appreciated the honesty, which was all too rare in interviews, but it was like this guy had a vendetta. "I think this is a waste of my time," he said. "I don't want it to be, but I think it is. Why don't you tell me why you think you're qualified for this job."

OK, now this was a joke. Wasn't it? What had I been doing for the last hour? These wacky Comedy Central guys, playing with me. This was a stress interview, right? I looked for a smile, for some signal that he was kidding. He wasn't.

"I've been doing the Web since the Web began," I started again, trying to think of a fresh way to present this, "and during those seven years, I've been continually involved with online advertising in one way or another."

Once I finished my final pitch, it was like a dam burst. I have never seen such an instantaneous transformation in my life. Suddenly we were best friends, suddenly everything was relaxed and easygoing. "Very good! All right, can I answer any other questions for you?" he asked jovially.

We chatted for a few more minutes, me feeling very confused, and then he escorted me out of the conference room, laughing and slapping my back. "Need anything else?" he asked. "How about another trip to the bathroom?"

"That's all right," I said. "You didn't scare me that much."

He chortled at this, and I left the interview feeling that I had somehow passed the test.

It is a sad state of affairs that the corporate response I received most often after interviewing was no response at all. My take on this is that the high-tech economy is so bad that companies will post an open position, conduct interviews, but never receive the OK to hire anyone. Rather than calling interviewees to relay this awkward news, most companies elect not to follow up with any further communication.

So I never heard back from Comedy Central, despite five separate follow-ups by phone and e-mail. To my knowledge, the Comedy Central job was never filled. But hey, it was a funny experience, and now I've been through a stress interview. I'd like to see someone try to rattle me now.