Once upon a time…
…in an enchanted forest of Interweb there lived a kindly old oracle by the name of Google. Most days would find him smoking a long pipe and—seated at the end of a very long line—dispensing answers to the person at the head of said line. See, everyone came to Google when they were looking for something they couldn’t find.
One might inquire of Google, “where can a man go to find a good pub around here?” and he’d then magic up a scroll instantly. On the scroll would be a carefully-constructed list of pubs and over in the marginalia would be a bunch of advertisements for pixie dust, faerie potions, &c. As it happened, he paid for his various sundries and such out of the monies which he received from the witches who paid for these advertisements.
Sometimes, though, Google’s hand would cramp up a bit after a long bout of magical writing like that especially on summer days when the sun grew hot and rather than handing the person a scroll he’d just get a twinkle in his eye and ask, “are ye feeling lucky?” and if the person nodded, he’d then just tap his wand on their shoulder and they’d instantly be transported to the top place which would have been on the scroll, if only he’d penned it up as before.
This carried on for some time as things tend to do. But then one day the witches hired a man whose job it was to count all the beans in the King’s silos. They wanted the man to use his advanced forms of math to cypher up the sum total of lost monies that Google was incurring by this practice of not scribing down those advertisements.
So the Royal COB (Counter-of-Beans) then set about to find out how often Google was taking this shortcut (“one soul a’ hundred”) and further, the total loss in pixie dust monies (“I fully a’sure ye it’s nigh less than a hundred-thousand-thousand of the paper scrip they call dollars a month’s sail west o’ here”). Well, the witches were fit to be tied, I’ll tell ye.
“Ye can’ot be doin’ tha’ anymore, Google”, they said. “Ye’re costin’ us out of hovel n home, ye are!”
…that’s the story of why Google can’ot just send ye on yer way anymore without the fairie dust adverts. The Royal COB and the witches simply won’t let him.