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We interrupt this regular web site...
R.: Okay. Hey, hello? I know you're there. Stop tweaking and speak up.
J.: Who the (censored) are you?
R.: Who the (censored) am I? I'm your readership.
J.: I don't see how that's likely.
R.: How so?
J.: Well, my readership is a vast scattered empire of individuals. You're just one voice. And I can't even see you. Step out into the light.
R.: I am the representation of your collective readership. Your hive-mind readership, if I may. And you couldn't see me if you wanted to. I'm all mental. It's like that George Strait song where he sings 'by transcendental medita-shun, I go there each night.' Like that. I see you, but you don't see me.
J.: Not a very fair game.
R.: I'll give you that.
J.: So what do I call you? Reader? Ship? Constant Reader?
R.: How about...Simon?
J.: Simon?
R.: Simon.
J.: Okay, but that just (censored) arounds with my dialogue structure. I've already applied you the moniker of 'R.' You know. Since you're the readership hive mind thing.
R.: So change the structure.
J.: (gasps)
R.: Come on, really. Who will it hurt?
J.: I can't change the structure!
R.: Look, can I be frank? Can we be frank?
J.: Change the structure? You might as well tell an elephant he's supposed to have fur.
R.: Look, the site's getting stagnant. People are muttering to themselves. Why, just yesterday, a reader muttered to someone that your dialogues have hit rock bottom. And another commented that they seem to be heading downhill so much that they're "like an avalanncce." Their spelling mistake, not mine.
J.: People like my dialogues.
R.: Other well-known writers question your sanity.
J.: They do not.
R.: They do. ... Look, will you please fix my name?
J.: But it's --
R.: Do it. Quit being a virtual stick in the virtual mud.
J.: Fine.
S.: Ahh. Much better.
J.: Will you go away now? I have a dialogue to write. I'm behind.
S.: I'm telling you, the format's dead, man. It's not working. Nobody's reading dialogues. I mean: that whole project thing you started? Who's really sending you dialogues?
J.: Everybody. And their mother.
S.: Well, I'm not seeing it.
J.: Deeply Shallow takes up all my freaking time, okay? Demand, demand, demand. All you do is demand. I don't have time to post all of the dialogues people send me.
S.: Show me.
J.: Show what?
S.: The dialogues. All of the unpublished -- look, can we get back to the point here?
J.: I don't know what your point was supposed to be.
S.: You're not moving mountains anymore, J.
J.: I didn't set out to move mountains, stupid.
S.: Okay, you'd do well to remember that I'm not just one reader, (censored). I'm your entire readership. When we all check our mail next, we'll find an email generated by you, insulting us. Your traffic'll drop off so fast you'll need a piano and the Empire State Building to measure how fast.
J.: My traffic's already gone.
S.: What?
J.: Yeah. Stupid Wired article ran, and then my host went freaking bankrupt, so I was down for awhile, and now I'm back up and everyone's forgotten all about me. Maybe I should start doing something different.
S.: See, now, that's the spirit. Liven things up.
J.: Maybe I should just dump the whole web thing and pick up garbage for a living instead of write it.
S.: ... Okay, not what I meant.
J.: I don't think I'll even write today's dialogue.
S.: Zing! Fwoosh! Kapow!
J.: What?
S.: Zing! Fwoosh! Kapow!
J.: I don't get it.
S.: It's what you need on this site. You remember that Calvin and Hobbes strip where Calvin's all pissed about something and Hobbes is talking about how autumn is like fireworks and he spreads his tiger paws wide and yells, "Zing! Fwoosh! Kapow!"? Well. You need that on your site. Zing! Fwoosh! Ka--
J.: Kapow. I don't get it.
S.: Simply? Boobies. Your site's missing boobies.
J.: Wait, wait. I can't believe that all of my readers are simply after porn.
S.: Yep. Every last one of us. Even (whispers).
J.: But she's the biggest, most literary supporter of my serious work!
S.: All she wants is porn, J.
J.: (censored).
S.: Sorry to break it to you. You gotta do something different. Rearrange the furniture. Paint the walls. Offend the neighbors. Prank call the pizza boy. Come on. Liven it up.
J.: I'm not good at lively. I'm good at somber and moody.
S.: Your readers don't dig that about you, J. I'm surprised any of us have stuck around this long. In fact -- ouch -- seventeen readers just gave up permanently. They ain't coming back. That leaves you with...let's see...forty-one regular readers.
J.: God. Forty-one?
S.: Wait -- ow. Thirty-eight.
J.: I thought more people cared.
S.: Porn, boy. Porn.
J.: Maybe you're right.
S.: Good boy.
J.: Maybe I'll even start charging for access! Because my porn will be the best porn of all time!
S.:
J.:
S.: ... No.
J.: No?
S.: You charge and it's all over. We all leave.
J.: I don't get it.
S.: Look, I'm tired of this. You're at thirty-one regulars now. Do something quick or we're all going away. You have twenty-four hours. Give us covergirls in bikinis with flags on them. Make us feel patriotic while we're...well, you know.
J.: I can't just change the direction of the site like that. The readers will come. If I only produce quality work, they will come. And one day, people will love me for who I am.
S.:
J.:
S.: Yeah. Well, good luck with that.
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