“One of the problems is newspapers fired so many journalists and turned them loose to start so many blogs,” Mr. [Alan D.] Mutter [media consultant] said. “They should have executed them.  They wouldn’t have had competition. But they foolishly let them out alive.” –The New York Times, 12/27/09.

Congratulations, Journalist #6134! According to our infallible records, you just turned thirty. You know what that means. You're ready to advance on the next exciting step of your career path—Termination!

Please report immediately to Inhuman Resources for your Termination Ceremony.  Don’t try to run. Two armed Sandmen will escort you to our offices in the ninth circle to make sure you don’t get lost. They’re authorized to terminate you with extreme prejudice if you try to run.  The pen may be mightier than the sword, but it’s no match for a laser blaster.

As you know, Printworld is a delicate ecological system. Too many content providers, and the value of content plummets. And with everybody writing and nobody reading these days, that ecological system is especially precarious. Think of this as our way of going green.

You will be granted a Final Exit Interview, then your body will be fed into the mighty metal jaws of the Shredder. Your corporeal form will be converted into nourishing compost to power our extensive bio-server farms. What better way to achieve immortality? And your death and transfiguration will be completely painless—we promise!

You will have your choice of classic rock tunes to accompany your Termination Ceremony—”Dust In the Wind” by Kansas,  “Don’t Fear the Reaper” by Blue Öyster Cult, or “Only The Good Die Young” by Billy Joel. Please have your choice selected by the time you reach Inhuman Resources. Also, please remove all metal objects from your pockets—we hate having to clean out the Shredder.

Inside the stately pleasure dome of Printworld, there is a never-ending orgy of sex and drugs and hedonism until you turn thirty. If by sex you mean looking at online pornography. And by drugs you mean too much caffeine, nicotine, and fructose. And by hedonism you mean working long hours for low pay. At least you don't have to worry about developing carpel tunnel.

Outside the Paywalls, there is nothing but a vast virtual wasteland, populated only by freeloaders, anarchists, and parasites. There is no Sanctuary! You won’t find Peter Ustinov among the radioactive ruins—or even Harold Evans. Don't  believe the lies that there is life beyond the Paywalls! These are viral rumors being spread by media heretics. We will hunt them down and destroy them...just as soon as we figure out their IP addresses.

The Paywalls date back to the early twenty-first century, when the voracious monster Googzilla stalked the Internet, gorging itself on free content. Publications that subsisted on ad revenue alone perished in the cyber holocaust. Only China was immune—they’re used to fighting dragons over there.

Recall the parable of the Times and the Journal. Both were behemoths of the Print Age, deforesting vast tracks of land in their wake. The Times chose to charge for “premium content” only—as if there were not already enough pundits on the Internet giving it away—and perished. But the Journal, guided by the ancient Australian sage Ru-Doch, blessed be His name, was an early adopter of Paywall technology, and survived.

“Information wants to be free”: hah! So does my pet robo-parakeet. He wouldn’t last five minutes beyond the Paywalls before he was gobbled up by some copycat consolidator. So get your obsolescent ass down to Inhuman Resources, pronto!

Don’t worry about your personal possessions—they will be reassigned to the next Journalist who occupies your cubicle. Let’s face it—one photo of family members/loved ones looks a lot like the next. He or she will be much younger and paid much less than you, thereby helping us maintain Printworld’s ecology. Also don’t worry about any sick days, vacation days, personal days, holidays, overtime, or other benefits you may have accrued—those were cancelled a long time ago.

Don’t worry about any of the content you’ve provided, either. It will live on forever in our databases. We’ve got oodles of storage space—whole terabytes of the stuff! Your byline, however, will be systematically deleted. No point dwelling on un-pleasantries.

Finally, according to our infallible records, you still owe us a 10,000 word article by Friday on the state of journalism. Just because you’re dead is no excuse to miss deadlines. We already have a large and growing staff of ghostwriters on our payroll; ectoplasm is so much cheaper to compensate than human beings. While most content providers have switched to temp employees, we have adopted a business model of eternal employment. Once again, congratulations, and welcome to the Team!