The top-secret number-password to the high-security entrance to the artificial life laboratory is given to us by a close informant and once we enter we have grand visions of creating the greatest interactive multi-media narrative environment ever produced by artists of this or any other generation. We are convinced that we are the ones to build this new foundation of existence since it is we who have been recently praised by the most widely-read entertainment periodical as "the absolute best orgasm in the network." Before we can even begin to start our work, though, one of the new programmers, thrilled to be involved with the "cutting-edge" project, has a kind of full-body pre-ejaculation and the ooze that erupts from his/her body (no one can tell what sex it is) destroys the workstation we've been granted from the West Coast corporation that wants to associate itself with our enterprise and its market potential. Consequently, we order five greasy pizzas and watch the ooze embalm itself on the machine which will never be of use to us again.
A few emails later we have assurances that new corporate sponsors will emerge and that we are to forget about it all over the holidays and proceed to Sicily (what have we been waiting for?).