Sunday, March 9, 2003

I recently flew to Stuttgart, Germany for a very important convention. Only publications that have garnered a readership of, oh, a ZILLION TRILLION gentle readers could attend this event. Naturally, I didn’t invite you along with me, though I did think briefly about you, gentle reader, during moments of in-flight turbulence.

And so I arrived at this quaint hole in the wall. After settling in, I made my way to the Conference Room to deliberate; peer publications The New York Times, International Herald Tribune, The National Enquirer, and MAD Magazine were present as well.

Just as the cheese and crackers were served, and just as deliberations were about to begin, a strange–and strangely chipper–woman bounded into the room.

“Hi hi!!” she happily chirped, saying one “hi” and one exclamation mark too many. “I’m Ann. I publish too.”

Mr. New York Times choked on his cheese and dropped his monocle into his wine glass.

“Wot in the blue blazes are you doing here?” he managed in an oddly British, yet clearly snooty accent.

“I prefer puce blazes,” I muttered under my breath.

Monsieur International Herald Tribune, who sat to his immediate right, gave him a hearty clap on the back, effectively ejecting the offending cheddar cube into my eye.

“Eeet eez, how do yoo say,” the Frenchman said, “perhaps a meestake that yoo are here, no?”

“Nope!” she replied. “Like I said, I publish.”

She sat herself down and started to help herself to some cheese and wine, much to the chagrin of fellow publishers.

“Um,” I started helpfully, “do you have a ZILLION TRILLION readers?”

“Yup!” she replied, sunshiny as ever.

“Are you sure these readers actually exist?” I pressed. “There’s a difference between the voices in your head and actual readership, you know.”

“Of course they exist!” she exclaimed. “My website’s the BOMB.”

“Aiiieee!” screamed the Frenchman. “Where iz zee bomb? I am, how do you say, too young and pasSIONate to die!”

Mr. NYT, a bit ruffled at having been slapped on the back, reciprocated by slapping the Frenchman upside his skull with his riding crop.

Before the whole room erupted into fisticuffs circa 19th century, I had already left the room and–bless the Germans for their practical efficiency–hopped on a helicopter back to the good ol’ US of A.

So I offer you, gentle reader, yet another website for your stalking pleasure. As Mr. Puck might theoretically say, “Stalk, eat, and stalk!”