My editor asked me about the future, or more precisely what I thought about the future of the adult Internet. I said, “I don’t know” and walked off. Apparently that wasn’t good enough, and I was strongly encouraged to write about what’s to come.
I went home and without delay started drinking, heavily. I started to dwell on the future of the adult Internet. Then I passed out.
I awoke at 3 a.m. … screaming, sweating, and having urinated on myself. It was the nightmare that did it to me. It went something like this:
Twenty-three years into the future, I was banished from journalism after a bar fight with my nemesis, that douchebag writer Eric Alterman. My life was a mess, which is not such a stretch from my real life presently, but still …
Anyway, all I can recollect from the evil dream is the following strange monologue I launched into during my interview with Charlie Rose’s disembodied head:
2028 has been a rough year, Charlie. You know I just bought a townhouse on Uranus. Not your anus, Charlie, but the planet. Great planet. I found it on Craigslist.org/Uranus. I decided rent out my palace in Baghdad. Sure, Baghdad was the hippest spot in the Middle East after the rebuilding, but once Yakov Smirnoff opened that damn dinner theater, it was never the same. Now it’s more like Branson, Missouri. I’ll take Uranus, thank you very much.
I’m stressed. My website is struggling. I started DirtyMarsWhores.slut two years ago. I supported the dot-slut domain all the way because I needed to differentiate myself from the dot-cunt, dot-skank, and dot-twat registered sites. Niche! Niche!
My site had always been the best. No one could match the content—or the traffic. Traffic, traffic, traffic … That’s all anyone wants to discuss. And then I launched my affiliate program: DirtyCuntCash.slut. Jesus, what a mess. To get eight-party billing these days is a bitch. And nobody at Matrix Content will return my holographic transmissions.
Day after day I work the Web; of course, now I can afford the Internet fees to surf at will. Why is it that you can buy a portable nuclear device at Wal-Mart but to get on the Internet is an ordeal? Two forms of ID! Retinal scans! Unbelievable! Ever since President Ashton Kutcher slammed the tariff on the Net it’s been a struggle between commerce and government. But I have bigger problems. My affiliate program is languishing.
But I persist. I visit the community boards daily to get the word out. YouAreAFuckingBastardAndIMeanItYouCocksucker.com is still the most popular of the message boards. The discourse is quite fascinating.
But there must be something more. The big Google Internext show on the revamped Mir space station was cool, but the Neptune Forum had much better snacks.
Oh, then there was the incident with the underage Zekblax, those female robots found in the red-light district on Mars. They’re replicants, sure, but you still need to verify proof of production date. Anyway, content producers usually scour the area for these fake human babes to be in movies and on websites. They’ve long since stopped using actual females for projects. Too much trouble; all their time is spent writing books and appearing on talk shows instead of having sex with Ron Jeremy. He’s still a big draw, despite the sex change.
The best thing about these android hotties: Once the scene is over, you just send them on their way. No money needed. And if they get wise, you just clobber them with a pipe wrench. Who cares! We’ll make more!
It’s marketing! I need to really get out there and find the right consumer demographic. I ask my iLife gadget daily what to do, but it has no answers because I’m too cheap to spring for the Jeanne Dixon chip. Maybe I should switch gears. Maybe VoD. But that’s a crazy scene now, like the Wild West. Companies actually send a girl to your home when you pay for a show. You watch the downloaded movie and a performer does everything to you that you’re watching. It’s nice, but sometimes you just want to be alone, you know?
Sometimes I wish I could get away. But porn is everywhere. The pornography section at my local Barnes and Noble is mammoth, and I’m tired of seeing Jenna Jameson video compilations at Starbuck’s next to the latest Hank Williams III CD.
I’m depressed. My affiliate program is down. I have no focus. It was cool when porn was so controversial and people tried to drown it with regulations and laws. Now it’s no big deal, just entertainment co-opted by the likes of Yahoo and News Corp. and GE a long time ago and submerged into a giant fish tank of media alternatives. Oddly enough, the FCC still freaks out, like after Super Bowl LXII when Paris Hilton’s daughter bent over and showed the universe her asshole during the halftime show. So what if a dove flew out of there?
Porn is ubiquitous. Porn comes with the Sunday paper.
Happily, blogs are dead. How annoying, anyway. Instead people just walk around talking very loudly and expressing varying degrees of wit as they show news clips on their PDAs, commenting to anyone who’ll listen.
I lost a good buddy the other day. He was a spammer. They shot him on sight. Poor bastard thought he could beat the system.
Maybe I should have gone to law school. This adult Internet thing is dragging me into an abyss of false hope and the continuing need to sleep with every model I work with. DirtyMarsWhores.slut must prevail. I need the cash and cache. …”
And then I woke up. Then I threw up.
