We've done the demi-puppets a favor the last couple days by allowing them to briefly escape the oppressive bourgeois phoniness of their own blogs.
Has anyone actually read Maud Newton, Galleycat, Sarvas, and the rest? Have you noticed the rigid conformity and sameness? Ritualistically sucking-up to such an extent; bowing and genuflecting on cue over every establishment-writer event; lavishing insincere praise on their aristocratic overlords; all while playing the role of "Writer" with a capital W and with constipated expressions, has to be exhausting.
They clearly enjoy hanging out in our neighborhood, where they can drop their plastered-on faces of literary importance and practice being human. Not with their own names of course. After all, when all is said and done they're still puppets!
Much has been made by them of their "cooperative" (blatant rip-off of the ULA without the edge or the fun). All they've done to date is write the word self-importantly on the side of the large toybox in which they dwell. At the end of the day the establishment caretakers who control their strings come to collect them. "Hmm. Curious," one of the caretakers ponders, rubbing his chin. "Several of the marionettes are scattered all over the room!"
He collects the toy-like things, formless and lifeless, without spines or substance, in his hands. Then carefully, before closing the lid, he arranges them back in their proper places in the puppet box.