As is the tradition of the M. A. Rothberger Symposiums, Dr. Smith interviewed Mr. Meyer before the symposium began. An interview such as this one is so useful, and for so very many reasons, that we feel it unneccessary to explain their great purposes any further. Indeed, all of the numerous purposes of the following interview should be obvious.
      At first, they talked about the Internet, that fascinating field of inquiry that shall never become tiresome, no matter how often it's discussed at length with exactly the same things being said every single time.
      Mr. Meyer has his own web site. Dr. Smith was suprised by this; he found it utterly impossible to reconcile the fact that Mr. Meyer is such a learned and highly esteemed intellectual, the universally-aggreed upon assessment, with the fact that basically all web pages are written by complete idiots. This is certainly a valid point, and which undoubtadely discourages Mr. Meyer from working much longer on his web site, especially since he has tirelessly devoted himself to it and yet gets so little satisfaction from the hum-drum response from his selfish readers. But Mr. Meyer said that yes, he had had a web site for some time now. Indeed, it is common for important men (even those as important as Mr. Meyer), to have their own personal web sites. "No," said Dr. Smith. "You must be lying." "I'm not lying," Mr. Meyer said. "I have a web site." "It simply can't be. You say you have a web site. And I'm saying you don't. Because you can't." "Yes I can," countered Mr. Meyer. "And I do." "No you don't." "I can assure you that I do." "I'll be assured when I see the damn computer screen with your little faggot face all over it."
      Frustrated, Mr. Meyer procured a huge shovel, which he immediately and without warning thrust it into Dr. Smith's his bowels. Citing the pain this caused to Dr. Smith, Mr. Meyer elected to remove the shovel.
      Dr. Smith's wife then appeared, and announced to a surprised audience that Mr. Meyer's penis was a full three inches longer than was Dr. Smith's. Measurement with a ruler largely confirmed this.
      Soon, the best episodes of "Manimal" became the object of discussion. It was revealed that when Manimal turned himself into the wolf, people tried to shoot him all the time but never could. Maybe it was because they were so scared by the wolf that they couldn't aim the gun correctly.

808000">AT!"
JM: I'm not writing a web page to get rich. I mean, I wouldn't be surprised if that happens, but you can't expect it to happen. That's the key.
HS: That's not true.
JM: Whatever. No one ever makes more than a few million $$$ off those things. If you want real money, like a holy-cow-it's-a-money-machine kind of money, you've got to get the go into getting your merchandising.
HS: Merchandizing?
JM: No, merchandising.
HS: But wait a second, Jamie, that's what I said.
JM: You absolutely did not say merchandising!!
HS: What do you mean? You're telling me I didn't say merchandizing?
JM: No, I'm telling you you said merchandizing, but you should have said merchandising. There's a difference which we can discuss later.
HS: Oh, I get it, Bigshot. I pronounced it with a 'z' sound. Christ, what an idiot I am! Oh, I'm so impressed, Mr. Big Shot Jamie Meyer, for you have dispersed light on the complete idiot Hoke Smith and it's such a big fucking deal that you were again right and dogshit-for-brains Hoke M. Smith was dead-fucking wrong. Mark one up for His Royal Highness The Prince of Fucking Parnassus Jamie Meyer.
JM: Glug.
HS: Anyway, Jamie, why are you writing a web page? And what does merchandiSing have to do with it?
JM: Aw Christ, who gives a damn, Hoke? I just don't care anymore.
HS: Is it for the new creative possibilities?
JM: No, I don't even know why I did it. My web page was just a big fucking waste of time.
HS: So, exactly how did you go about creating your web page?
JM: Let's see, I sat down in front of my computer and typed out a bunch of shit. End of fucking story.
HS: Boy, I'll bet that's a lot of fun. Now, can anyone do it, or does it take special skills?
JM: Yeah it takes some abilities, like not having any standards and not having anything to say about anything. Say, Hoke, what are those lights out there?
HS: Christ in Fucking Heaven! It's�Commando X!
Comman-
do X:		 I have just landed and am awaiting instructions.
JM: Please tell Commando X the pass code.
HS: Um, it's around here somewhere, hmm. Oh dear, I think I left it home.
JM: Dammit, Hoke, we don't have time for these games!
HS: Look, Jamie, by the Zambisi in my Hamburger, Commando X is really a girl!
JM: That's strange. . .Central Command didn't say anything about a "she."
HS: So, Commando X, hehe, why don't you come over here, sit on my lap and we'll talk about the first thing that pops up?
HS: Wha�Commando X, where are you going?
JM: Hoke, I too am disappointed that Commando X has left.
      
    Note: At this point Mr. Smith abruptly left the stage. After several confused moments, he returned, and assured the audience that he got some stuff that would fuck everybody up!

JM: [inhaling material] Oooooh, man!
HS: [inhaling material] Wheeew-eee. . .aaaw. . .
JM:  The slime can ooze out the truckstop but it can never return unless both houses trust King Arthur.
HS:  . . .and on a pale moonlit night with golden soldiers eating strawberries in the skies with their cousins, who look like a lost packed bottle of Crackerjacks. . .
    And like this they talked for eighteen consecutive hours, until the police came. The honored guests currently have trials pending.