Muhahahaha
A Medium Secret Evil Genius and Her Superb Method To Go Viral
Weird things happen on Buses.
So there I was, minding my own business on the bus, masturbating respectfully in the back seat so as to not disturb any fellow passengers, when I realised a dog was sitting on the chair opposite.
The dog had the most unusual ginger and white patterns like a map of Wales. It was kind of like a fluffy fox but with great big floppy ears and it was staring at me like dogs tend to when you are engaged in sexual activity, panting like a weirdo with his lipstick cock out. I tried to ignore him.
“I’m clairvoyant, you know,” the dog said suddenly in a voice like Alan Rickman. I figured I must be dreaming.
“I said I’m clairvoyant, you kn — “
“Yes, I heard you, DOG,” I snapped. “And I have two questions for you. What are you doing on this bus? Buses are for humans. And secondly, why are you staring at me like a pervert?”
The dog laughed and sneered.
“I’M the pervert? You’re the one with your cock out on public trans — anyway, it doesn’t matter. We don’t have much time and there are more important matters. I have a secret to share with you about Medium.”
“No thanks,” I said, turning away and looking out of the window. “I don’t care about Medium anymore.”
“Is that right?” the dog said. It jumped across the seat onto the one in front of me, mushing its wet nose into my ear. “It’s about how to go viral”, it whispered.
I pulled back and wiped my ear. “What the fuck? Why would you put your wet schmuck in my ear like that? I’m just getting over an ear infec — wait, did you say it’s about how to go viral?”
The dog nodded and stared at me with a big smile like a Cheshire Cat.
I zipped up my fly and took out my tattered notebook and pencil.
“Go on, Dog,” I said.
The dog panted, chased its tail a couple of times, and began.
“The technique is simple, Frank. Just go and find a writer called Judy Derby. First, read her story about the shocking workplace abuse of a guy called Roger, and you will know how her brain works. She is an evil genius. Then read her article about how Commenting Makes a Shocking Difference in Yer Stats.
Her technique is simple. At the beginning of the article, she mentions how she is an obsessive reader of Medium articles and has read every story by her top writers. This move gets the hungry vultures circling. Next, she discusses how she never fails to check out people’s articles when they give comments and fifty claps.”
I was looking rather non-impressed, and my stop was coming up.
“Don’t you get it?” the dog said. “Check out the comments and claps on this article. There are 8,500 claps, and the nature of some of the comments is enough to make you want to spew up your breakfast.”
The dog started dry-reaching and walking in circles.
“Please don’t do that,” I said.
I quickly checked the article, and by Jove the dog was right. There were now 8600 claps, over two hundred comments and not even interesting ones. The parasitic fickleati had come stomping out and laid down their rather predictable boring comments + fifty claps. There were hundreds of them. Some of them had even made comments telling Judy that they had given her fifty claps.
I was blown away. It was so damn simple and yet powerful.
“How can I ever repay you?” I asked without looking up.
“Just tell Graham I am fine. It wasn’t his fault, okay?” he said. Then he barked three times.
I looked up, and the dog was gone.
Who the hell was Graham, and why was the dog even here? Why would it lead me in such a direction? I knew I had to get off this bus and go home to write the article. If it were 2021, I wouldn’t have started writing already, but those bastards at Medium took editing out of the app. Why would anyone do something like that?
Anyway, it didn’t matter. I wondered if this could be it? Could this be my big chance to become the writer I’ve always wanted to be? I rang the bell to get off the bus and walked up to the front.
I turned to say thanks to the driver, but he was crying, tears flowing down the front of his lovingly ironed blue bus driver’s uniform. The guilt rose in me.
“Look, I’m sorry I was masturbating. I didn’t mean to put you in that position, and besides, you weren’t meant to see. Im just a — “
“What? masturbating?” he said, confused. “What do you mean by that?”
I laughed awkwardly as usual.
“Sorry, I have a strange sense of humour. Why are you crying, kind sir?”
He burst into tears again and blew his nose like the foghorn on the USS Abraham Lincoln.
“It’s just — I was driving this way yesterday.” He wiped the rest of the snot off his nose. “A dog ran out. And I couldn’t stop, it was just too fast, and I killed the darn thing.” He started wailing embarrassingly. I looked around, and an old woman gave me a greasy look like I had upset him. At first, I didn’t make the connection, but as I climbed off the bus, I froze like a stoned snowman.
“Wait. Are you Graham?” I asked.
“Yes,” the driver said. It wasn’t a grand revelation since it was on his name tag.
“And was the dog ginger and white with a map of wales and great big floppy ears?”
“Yes, it was,” the driver said curiously, sitting up.
“And did it have a voice like Alan Rickman?”
He looked confused. Of course, he wouldn’t know that. The dog was dead.
I apologised. “Anyway, this might sound strange, but I just spoke to him, and he said not to worry because he is fine and doesn’t blame you at all.”
The driver began wailing uncontrollably again, so I shuffled off awkwardly. Poor Graham.
I made my weekly trip to the post office, bought a pint of whiskey, milk, and some cashews, and headed home. Then I sat at my laptop with some milk and looked up to the sky, nodding at the fox dog among the clouds who had launched my career. I began to type,
So there I was minding my own business on the bus masturbating respectfully in the back seat —
FOOTNOTE: I check out everyone's articles who give me fifty claps and a comment. I just can't help myself, it's something I do totally spontaneously and without agenda. Oh, and I’m also a mad reader. Again, I just can’t help myself. I’ve read 97.6% of the stories on medium. That's it.
