Computer Virus Attack

A computer virus has become lodged in the word processing system of a well-known metropolitan magazine. The virus displaces every kilobyte of memory previously devoted to Nobel-prize winning authors in favor of the work of an unknown, frequently rejected author. No work appears to be safe from the virus. Manuscripts faxed from delis by Woody Allen to water-logged works air couriered from exotic seaports by John McPhee: all are infected. Long articles, short articles, interesting articles, dull articles, even the poetry: everything but the cartoons has been replaced with endless repetitions of the unidentified author’s previously rejected works, works which had already seemed pretty endless the first time around.

The program which produced these works has been variously described as a worm, a vermin, a tree frog, a howler monkey, a grouper and Rupert Murdoch, the last because it is insidiously taking over editorial responsibility for the magazine. One computer scientist labeled the rogue program an oyster, in hopes that it would only appear in months with an “R” in them; alas, his theories were discredited in May when not only were previously untouched areas such as Fashions and Book Reviews invaded, but manuscripts began to appear in whole new sections with titles such as “Thoughts at the Gym” and “Which co-workers are the Biggest Dorks.” The program even began planting reviews of its own, earlier planted essays, spiraling back on itself with even greater numbers of ever more effusive adjectives. (The bizarre sentence patterns formed in this way, though not capable of being understood, are believed to be the literary equivalent of fractals.)

Philosophers, theologians and detectives from the N.Y.P.D. all agree that what the virus has wrought in one influential magazine may portend even worse disasters in the future. “Suppose the perp. figured out the real money is in writing novels, screen plays and TV,” concluded this group in a secret, blue ribbon report. “Those guys use word processors, too. This stuff is bad enough in a magazine. Think what the world would be like if Meryl Streep and Susan Sarandon had to say it. And what if this kook has sports fantasies and gets into the baseball and hockey stats? Or power fantasies and gets into politics, world events and U.S. News and World Reports?”

While the theologians and the philosophers debate, while the editors scratch their heads, while the N.Y.P.D. goes out with its night sticks and sandwiches to stake out writing programs and Thesaurus purveyors, the torrent of words continues: a lava of previously discarded prose, devouring all, consuming all, finally overwhelming all editorial restraint as at last, after years of molten, subterranean existence, it spreads itself open to public view.

Yes, it is here. Yes, it is worse than a blog. Yes, the editors would press their delete buttons to get rid of it if they could. But, of course, they cannot. The worm, you see, has turned.

And yes, that was a bad cliché. And yes, it is embedded in a mixed metaphor within a silly conceit. And yes, there will be many, many more.

And yes, the virus can invade the bookkeeping system.

And no, one will never be able to drop one’s subscription.