Graphs can help simplify complex ideas.
Whiz kid Matt Mullenweg sits in his parents’ garage, hunched over a computer he crafted from salvaged parts. He is anxiously looking for signs of activity on his newly launched blogging site, WordPress.
“Hey, we have a subscriber!” he says excitedly to his companion, Mrs. Feebles. “Somebody named Peg-o-Leg posted something!”
Matt stares intently off into space, lost in an interior dialogue only he can hear. He snaps his fingers decisively. “I know! We’ll put our best posts up on our homepage and call it Freshly Pressed. Today’s lucky blogger will be Peg-o-Leg because… she’s all we got. We’ll leave her post up for, um, let’s say a week. Or until we get more bloggers. Make it so!”
Mrs. Feebles does not reply because she is a cat.
A year later
The fledgling WordPress operation has moved into a storefront in a strip mall in Van Nuys. It is conveniently located next to a Thai take-out restaurant. Sadly, Matt Mullenweg suffers from a severe lemongrass allergy.
Business has expanded to the point where he has been able to hire a human assistant, Charleen.
“Freshly Pressed options today are a free-verse ode to belly button lint, something from Peg-o-Leg on talking to herself, and an advertisement for genuine, Christian Louboutin handbags and shoes,” Charleen tells Matt.
Matt stares intently off into space, lost in an interior dialogue only he can hear. He snaps his fingers decisively, a move he is becoming known for. “Read me the one about the knock-off designer handbags again.”
“You can’t choose that for Freshly Pressed!” Charleen protests. “Besides, you picked it last week. Better take this Peg-o-Leg post. It’s not too horrible.”
“Well, if we have to…OK.” Matt says, reluctantly. “Make it so.”
“Make it so? MAKE IT SO? Do it yourself, Captain Picard, I’m not your flunky,” Charleen says, indignantly. “I’m only helping you out because Mom said I had to. You know she likes me best, right?”
WordPress Worldwide Universal Industries, Inc has taken over the top 50 floors of the tallest skyscraper on the eastern seaboard. The task of selecting Freshly Pressed posts now falls to a bullpen of talented Story Wranglers. (Did I mention that they are all really, really good-looking? Stunning, actually.)
This looks just like the Story Wranglers bullpen, except they are smokin’ hot studs and studettes.
The dedicated staff is criminally overworked now that WordPress has grown to encompass 60,000,000+ bloggers. Story Wranglers wade through an average of 1.3 million posts every day to select Freshly Pressed winners. I am not exaggerating.
Matt Mullenweg’s assistant, Mrs. Vandenpoop (a human,) enters his mammoth corner office.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Mullenweg, but it’s about the email I got from Peg-o-Leg today.” Mrs. Vandenpoop gestures to the tablet in her hand as she crosses half of an acre of silk carpet to reach his desk. “She says she has been with you practically from the start. That half the bloggers she started with have dropped by the wayside, but she remains loyal. Yet you don’t write, you don’t call. She wants…” she begins.
“I know what she wants.” Matt explodes. “To have that comment etiquette post she wrote made into required reading for all new bloggers,“ he ticks off on his fingers as he continues, “to be Chairman of the Board, and to have her own, permanent spot on the Freshly Pressed page. She sends the same damn email every day! That’s why I had my Sadness Engineers create a special, lead-lined spam folder just for her rants. And why I told you never to read them to me.”
“I thought you’d want to hear this.” Mrs. Vandenpoop worriedly scans the message. “Let me see…”ungrateful…people who knew you when….” oh, here it is. “I am at the end of my rope.” she says, “If I don’t get Freshly Pressed again soon, I am going to climb to the rooftop of the tallest building I can find and throw myself off.” I think she means it.”
Matt Mullenweg on his way to Nova Scotia to see the total eclipse of the sun. Or it could be P. Diddy. They spend so much time chillin’ together, people get them confused.
Matt stares intently off into space, lost in an interior dialogue only he can hear. He snaps his fingers decisively, a move he has become known for. “That reminds me. When the chopper sets down on the rooftop, tell the pilot we have to swing by and pick Diddy up on our way to that party in the Hamptons. Make it so.”
“Yes, Mr. Mullenweg.” Mrs. Vandenpoop says as she backs out of the office, bowing. “Whatever you say, Mr. Mullenweg. Right away, Mr. Mullenweg.”