Since taking the helm of this fine publication I have met with many an optically-perfect eye-opening fact, not the least of which is the dire economic condition of this fair journal, despite its remarkably low operating costs and general refusal to pay any of its contributing members or associates.
Put shortly, we are nigh unto "tits up," as Editor Dave is so fond of putting the matter.
I will openly admit that, in the rush and hurry of other projects, I have somewhat lost contact with the overall drift of economic development on this brave binary o'erhanging firmament, the Internet. As we began to explore our economic straits, it quickly came to light that much of what I recalled being the headwaters of a revenue stream have since gone to dryness, to a greater or lesser degree.
"Perhaps," I ventured, "we should place the banners of advertising upon the Poor Mojo's Almanac(k) firstmost page? Doubtless, many an advertiser would pay handsomely—"
"Naw," brayed Editor Dave, "that doesn't work— shit, you get like a thousandth of a cent per clickthrough, or somesuch similar shit."
"Mayhap," I ventured, "We could offer a selection of our works for free, and then demand a payment for greater access to what we have to offer—"
"Have you ever heard of Omni or Salon?" queried Editor Fritz.
"Precisely. Even the New York Times is hardly pulling that off. Probably, they aren't pulling it off at all, and they just float their site based on revenue from the physical newspaper."
"Then possibly we should have a system of paid membership, with the site secured thusly such—"
"That only really works for porn sites."
"Well, then add the appropriate anatomical photographs— x-rays, or somesuch similar graph— and—"
"Naw," Editor Dave interrupted, "won't work. You just go to these XXX-Password websites, and they have all the logins for all the porno you'd ever want. I mean, everything . . . "
All stopped and simply looked upon Editor Dave.
"Or so I'm told. You know, by . . . people."
"Yes. Have we considered the sales of teat-shirts and other knick-to-knacks?"
Now it was the turn of mine to be gazed upon by silence-struck Editorship. "Shit," Editor Dave sighed, shaking of his head.
"We already do that," explained Editor Fritz gently.
"No wonder no one buys the damn t-shirts," Editor Dave mumbled. Why do they persist in believing that I hear not the aside-mumbles?
"Well, then, to what degree have we profited?"
"A net of seven dollars— and that's with none of us pulling a salary."
"I don't get a salary?" my assistant Rob asked, growing in panic.
"To tranquility, Rob. You, as always, are paid."
"What?" Editor Dave asked, setting hands to oaken tabletop, agitated "What?!? This little prick—"
"— pulls a fucking salary and I'm busting my ass with—"
"Sufficeintsy!" I bellowed, "Please, go and recline in the parlor. I have much to consider. Rob, roll away the table and store the chairs appropriately. Also, disinfect where Editor Dave set his hindquarters."
All this time noble Editor Mojo simply looked upon all of this and shook his great, shaggy head. He feels shame at us, as do I.
A broad survey of Internet-based businesses leaves one with a less-than-sun-besotted outlook on the matter. As far as I can spy, nigh unto no economic gambits have resulted in a favorably outcome. Is it not the case this Internet is like some vast and blighted waste, where no seed— no matter how ingenious or fecund— may find purchase? A sad state of affairs.And, in my darkest hour, it was Rob who came to me with a lighted-tunnel end: Camgirls. Camgirls? you query, much as I queried Rob, what are these?He went on to explain it was a phenomenon whereby adolescent humangirls with little wherewithal— but bequeathed of decent computers and digital webcameras by rich daddies and mommies— look forlornly to the immediate left of their cameras, pout, and catalogue their relatively boring doings and sayings. These incitements set fourth, they offer the following simple contract: should an anonymous websort suitor fulfill one of their wishes (conveniently managed by the Amazon's automated wishing lists), they will intern electronically mail that websort suitor a digital picture of their "goodies" (by which, I eventually discovered, Rob meant to say they barred boobies or snatched— although these two latter euphemistic synonyms also confused me, until Editor Dave drew the diagram.) So much like vixenish reverse-djinn, freeing flesh in exchange for wishes!Rob continued to note that the fair journal, with its "rambling bullshit no-one fucking gets" already more-or-less approximates the weblog journal such camgirls offer, and we might just as well go "holy hog."So, then, find linked here our List of Wishes. Grant one— and include either an electronic or physical address— and you shall receive no less than one digital picture of a PMjA Editor sans his top.
Certainly, this does little to address the root problem of the PMjA's economic insolvency, but it must be agreed that a compacted disc or printed-text book does indeed dull the pain, no?
Awaiting Our Boon,
The Giant Squid
and his PMjA Staff
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