In our constant efforts to provide our readers with timely reporting on all things literary, we recently commissioned the highly inquisitive cub reporter, Ronald Templeton, to venture to Brooklyn and wire back a report on the literary scene.

Unfortunately, due to the economy, we could not provide Tempeton with anything other than a typewriter, one piece of paper and rubbing alcohol. Nevertheless, Templeton rose to the occasion.

The result is an *outstanding* piece of journalism:

BROOKLYN–The literary scene moved to the internet while you were all off in coffee shops working on your novels and talking about Raymond Carver and Fart Scott Fitshughballs. I apologize if that was obscene, but that’s life on the internet.

The literary scene moved to Brooklyn and everyone yells about their feelings or just sits there brooding because the bar they’re reading at doesn’t have wifi and now they can’t show everyone the multimedia aspect of their reading. They even brought their projector and everything. It’s called their laptop and they will show it to you, using their hands.

The literary scene is alive and well, it’s getting an MFA, it’s working on a novel, maybe a collection of short stories, it’s really excited, it wants to talk to you, but you’re not so sure.

The literary scene is writing a memori about its feelings just like all the poets do.

The literary scene is sitting at home thinking about the other literary scenes out there that it’s not hanging out with because it has to finish up this story and if this literary scene doesn’t cut it then who even knows anymore, then this temp gig “to have more time to write” wasn’t a good idea, it was just more stalling, more idling, more kicking of the fucking tires with little to no forward progress, another reason to drink, to stall, to dick around with the feelings of strangers, to detach from all this, just fuck it, oh my god, I honestly just

The literary scene doesn’t need the literary scene it has all of the Norton anthologies it will ever need, thank you very much.

The literary scene has a present for you and that present is fucking literature so why don’t you open it and quit dicking around on your computer waiting for someone to explain why being an active participant in the world around you is relevant to your fucking interests?

The literary scene is constructing a glory hole. But not lasciviously. Oh no. For glory.

The original report:

The Literary Scene