I don’t get why the New York Times hates me.

Are you kidding me.

Most of the people I know in NYC, and I have my unwavering spies who surveil the lot of you bare naked and we can see your junk, are of the opinion, the New York Times is a bastion of Correct Liberalism, and if they like it, we will like it, too. So there. We don’t have time to look beyond the headline, and a lot of it is click bait anyway. Comments are click bait, too. I fail to see how you get traffic to a site in any overt way.

Such as covertly. Unleash thousands of bots, bots, bots. I’m not where I say I was. This is why there are publication schedules I paw through looking for Moscow. Then, look out. You. Will. Get. Traffic. All of it from Russia. I never kid. Just publish one word: Moscow. Boom.

I feel an ominous half-lidded pull through the Gates of Beauful. All the children are well-behaved, and the sluts have left. The drug dealers are always the last to leave the sinking ship. Everything is struggle. Everything is survival, everything is forbidding. There is no hope. Short people have nothing to live for. There is no explanation of this. Not in the New York Times. Who are the people beyond the Gates of Beautiful, and will they kill me. Or hang me from a crane. How important are you. How many hits do you get a day. Any day. Pick one. You cherry pick the planet half to death.

When is existence an existence. When is it enough. It is never enough. Existence is a hungry demon in your gut.   

Why is art important. Then, make it important. I forbid sitcoms forever. The extant of funeralism.

The Gates of Beautul are ony opened on the gloomy days. I don’t get why the New York Times hates me. What are bots and why are they from Turkey. The Chinese have lots of bots everywhere. The National Bank of China has hit my first page over a thousand times. Page 2, three times. We all wish the Internet made sense. How do we perform oversight supervision when AI when comes along, and your grandmother cannot turn on her computer. The landline rings. 30 miles each way. Most Americans have no idea how it works. We just want it to work.

I get a lot of traffic on my sites from the New York Times featuring people who live here and here and here, then, you are reading what I wrote two days ago. It’s a blog. I assume they just Google me. There are no blogs I know of that can go back to the future.

Street View kicks in. I know what your house looks like. I remain in awe of the tech. You do not know what kind of bike I drive. That’s the first thing: What kind of bike do you drive. You will never know. I am aware of the kind of car you drive. My own driveway obscures where the drive goes, and there is no indication anyone lives there. With a bike, the drive is becoming a field where the rabbits hide. It’s called habitat. Is there a house down in the hollow. There is. It requires a manual lock and chain. You have no idea how much a pain in the ass it is when you have to drop everything to unlock the Gate Monster Master Lock but if you hit it with a rock, it opens. We are as tight around here as Publishing.

You know. Editors. The kind of people who are addicted to this strange power they have, and I have never met a nice person among them. You can go automated with a swinging gate but you can slip right through those things, too. Obscurity helps a lot. Jack be nimble. Jack be quick. Jack in riots swinging a brick.