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WEB FED NEWS YEARBOOKS Earthdate April 2000 |
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WEB FED NEWS YEARBOOKS Earthdate April 2000 |
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INSIDE SCOOP |
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HAULING… YOU'RE KIDDING, RIGHT? As a new "Commander" you learn to haul commodities from planet to planet to pay off your ship loan. This enables you to leave the solar system and venture into the vastness of space beyond the Sol link. As a "Captain" you continue to haul, but now are able to accept contracts and do jobs that pay much better than before. The faster you haul, the more you make. Pretty soon you advance to "Adventurer". By now you should be able to haul commods at a very fast rate, making groats hand over fist. It doesn't take long before you reach the rank of "Trader". At this rank you are able to select what you haul. Buying low and selling high is your battle cry! After you make your fortune as a Trader, you earn the rank of "Merchant". This is where you become the CEO of a successful company and run it to make profits. To run a successful company you have to do a couple of things. You have to get factories that will produce well, making huge profits for your company, and more often that not, you will have to haul in commods that your factories will need to function properly. The madness continues into "Journeyman", as you push your factories to make you more profits. Once you reach your goal of profits you bask in the rank of "Guildmaster", and "Explorer". The hauling continues in these ranks as you collect the things you need and try to pile up your groats in your bank account. The rank of "Squire" is growing near! Here, you own your own planet and command your own destiny. All through the ranks you have hauled your way to success and profits. As a planet owner you must do the same to be successful. There are exceptions to every rule, but for the most part every "PO" that wants to promote must haul out the commodities that their planet produces. How fast you promote up the ranks is entirely up to you. But one thing is certain, you must haul, haul, and haul!
TRUTH
OR DARE It seems I have a problem in my duchy. Two PO's in particular are getting quite a reputation. The following log I received from Jasana. Apparently it was recorded in a truth or dare game late one evening. Jasana says, "Go on 9 and act
like a dog...barking and wagging your tail and such until
someone takes pity on you (who's not privy to the dare)
and tosses you a bone..." Jasana says, "Come on
Geiiga...really get into it...let yer inner mutt
free"
WHO ARE
YOU??? I awoke in FED yesterday to an advertisement on Channel 9. A new website has been created and FedCitizens have been invited to send in actual pictures of their owners. I thought about this advertisement for sometime. At last, my curiosity got the best of me, and I called up Tattoo, my faithful Stagehand to dust of my 20th century contraption commonly know as a Personal Computer and pulled up the website. Although not many had sent in their pictures, there were in fact a couple of folks that had. I was torn in the beginning. Do I push the link that would unveil the pictures? In a state of turmoil, I walked away from my computer and begin to pace my office. Needing additional fresh air, I ventured from my office and wondered around Stage until I came upon my library. Fondly trailing my fingers across the spines of my favorite plays, novels and short stories, I begin to ponder things in a different manner. It is common for me to lose myself in a book or play. As I read the text, everything comes to life for me. Picking up one of Shakespeare's better-known works, Romeo and Juliet, I begin to think. Every time I read this book, I have a picture in my mind of what Romeo and Juliet looks like. I remembered that every time the play is brought to life, I am distressed because neither Romeo OR Juliet looks like I have imagined. That's one of the powers of text. Look around you. Although Stage was created and described merely with quotes from the great works of Shakespeare, many of you have used other bases for creating your worlds. We have used words to build the pictures we wish for others to see. We've also worked equally hard to describe ourselves in a manner that portrays us as wish others to see us. Returning back to my office, I asked Tattoo to put away the computer. I do not wish to see what the owners of FedCitizens look like. I wish to wake up in Stage and live in my world and let my imaginations run wild.
FREE
REIGN OF THE UNIVERSE Woohoo! You paid off your loan and made Captain. Well... actually, by now 90% of Fed has left my little merchie butt in the dust and made PO - but enough of that. So you think you're hot stuff, huh? You can go anywhere in the universe you want to... and haul. Yes, the exact same thing you did last rank, only now you have to do jumps, between duchy hauls, LPs not at the link, and angry POs, GMs, and JPs (side note: Corel WordPerfect thinks it's all smart... making PO with an 's' on the end become Pos... I can't change it... that's when things are so smart they don't count for people that are writing to the Federation Chronicle... shame!) that want your hide because you take too long delivering the goods. Ain't life grand? So what else does that bring? How about tips! With F key binds you can really deliver the cargo quick. And quick delivery means happy bosses. And we all know what happy bosses bring... bwhahaha, happy bosses, isn't that an oxymoron? Anyway... big tips! It's almost frustrating to be earning 10,000 IG per run with 3 megs in your pocket because your boss overpaid you when giving you cash to buy a 600 ton ship. So you've hauled for all of five minutes and you're done. You get another 5 megs and *poof*, you have 4,000x more money than it cost to pay off your loan. It's just sick. So have fun, you've now got free reign of the universe NOTE: Fed Census reported that in 1999, 60.58% of Captains are now gone from Fed... 40.23% immediately went to every planet in sight and hit a DD planet to became gone from our midst. 15.34% are cramming Earths loos because they get nauseous from hyperspace jumping and are vomiting. 5.01% are in Earth's hospital's mental ward because access to thousands of planets after the mere seven available at Commander overloads their little newbie brains.
SCOUNDREL'S
CORNER: HOW PEOPLE ARE ALMOST TOTALLY NOTHING LIKE
PYRAMIDS Those of you that know me are aware that I spend a rather large amount of my time in DataSpace in the Starship Cantina. Some of you have even gone so far as to classify me as a "Cantina Rat." I am not exactly sure how to take that particular label, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it's probably not sincere flattery. All those times when I appeared to be loafing about half-trousered with no apparent purpose in the back booth of the cantina, I was in fact loafing about half-trousered with an Important Purpose. I was studying strange phenomena. Behavioral aberrations. Weirdos. It had to be done. The things I've seen in the Starship Cantina defy any sort of logical explanation. Someone had to figure it all out, come up with some reasons, some sort of definitive scientific essay documenting the inner workings of the enigmatic creature known as the snert. No scientists were available to undertake this project. You therefore got me. Some four-to-six thousand years ago on Earth, monuments in the shape of pyramids began to nearly simultaneously appear in a vast variety of cultures across the face of the planet. Scientists to this day marvel at the architectural prowess of our ancestors. The truly intriguing mystery, however, is not the methods of construction, but rather the time of construction. During this period various cultures that had no contact with one another had adopted the pyramid shape for their monuments. The Great Pyramids of Egypt stood watch over the people of the Nile at roughly the same time that step pyramids and temples were being erected by different cultures in North and South America. People with no contact, no relation to each other acting in approximately the same way at approximately the same time. Mystifying. And so it is with snerts. Different snerts, completely different people, employing the same types of behavioral patterns. The snert – or Snertis Annoyis – truly saw his heyday when the galaxy of Fed DataSpace found its home in the AOL universe. There were literally herds of these creatures in the Cantina and elsewhere in those days, and no amount of negative social reinforcement or boiling oil poured down from the battlements would keep them out. Nowadays the flock seems to have dwindled, but even in this enlightened age a sighting is still possible. And true to form, the snertly person is nearly guaranteed to follow one of the following patterns. There is nothing new under the sun.
This particular subspecies of snert evidently feels that the only way he or she will be heard, noticed, liked, appreciated, worshipped or venerated is by repeating the same statement no less than ten times. This snert will be intimately familiar with cut-and-paste or will perhaps even have gone so far as to download a mud-client front-end that allows the same command to be sent over and over with no more effort than a press of the enter key. If these tactics fail to garner a response, Snertis Repititus can immediately evolve into
Snertis Capslockus TYPES EVERYTHING IN UPPER CASE. This is generally annoying to most DataSpacers, considered to be yelling. When confronted with the matter and politely asked to leave off the caps, Capslockus will claim that his or her CAPS LOCK key is broken. Any person with an ounce of sense will then be forced to wonder just why it is that all of Capslockus' other keys seem to work, keys frequently used such as A and E (and in some duchies, Z). I mean, really now, just how often do you really ever use CAPS LOCK, anyway? Hmm? Snertis Capslockus can further evolve in desperation to
It has been said that vulgarity is the effort of a weak mind trying to assert itself. Nowhere is this more evident than in Snertis Vulgaris. Apparently this person feels it necessary to display his or her strength of character with the impact of ceaseless cursing. Worse, the language spewed by this particular breed is generally not even all that imaginative. I, for one, would at least be mildly amused if Vulgaris took pride and care in his or her craft, but it usually just takes the form of everyday trucker-type stuff. Not the finely woven tapestry of filth discerning scoundrels have come to expect.
Anyone who has spent even a small amount of time in the cantina has inevitably stood witness to this curious phenomenon. In the space of just a few minutes, a score of people arrive in the Cantina, one after the other. Once arrived, each in turn brutally butchers themselves with the old Arix army knife and are carted off to their final resting place by the cleaning droid. As an added treat, the snert about to find his demise in this scenario may have given himself a name such as 'Xisstupid' where X is invariably the name of one of the IBgames staff. I cannot even begin to speculate what this person is hoping to accomplish.
"Can I have 2 meg?" 'Nuff said. With changes made to DataSpace awhile back, also a member of
Certainly, one must be able to read to merely exist in DataSpace. But when it comes to reading the Official Guide, there seems to be hordes of illiterates. Certainly Snertis Solicitus above can be forgiven for not knowing that money cannot be given to a Groundhog, being a new player and all, but when a Baron happens to drop by and says, "Uh, what's a munchie," it becomes ridiculous. My personal favorite, usually asked on channel 9 is "Hey, what's the inputs for a Kats factory?" I don't know about you, but I don't have all the inputs to all the commodities memorized. You know what I am going to have to do to answer your question? I AM GOING TO HAVE TO REFER TO THE GUIDE. OOPS, SORRY ABOUT THAT LAST SENTENCE. I GUESS MY CAPS LOCK KEY MUST BE BROKEN AGAIN. SNERTIS NEWSDROIDIUM SEE ABOVE.
ALSATIAN'S RAMBLING AFTERTHOUGHT ON PLANETARY DESIGN There are not too many places in Fed that are hospitable to dogs, I think. I wrestle from the postman letter after letter from planet owners wanting me to explore their real estate, but there's always a catch. "Don't leave any fleas, the inhabitants might not like it." "Make sure you wipe your paws before you enter the mansion." "Please don't pee on the trees, it messes up the planet checker every time." You know the atom reducer is broken. I can't manage Icedrake's time-saving trick of shrinking planets to nice little liver snack sized pills and popping them in down my gullet. No no, I have to take my four little muddy paws to each and every planet and walk the territory. I prowl the buildings, making those annoying little clickity-click toenail sounds. I climb all those mountains, wade through the swamps, get slung out of catapults and brave dangerous hurricanes. I dodge wars, uprisings, and holocausts at every turn. And the planet owners won't even let me take a little bladder relief break. Askhellion tosses me a planet every once in a while, but then he makes me bring it back and drop it every time. He says no playing keep-away, doggy. Be good. Give a poor mutt a break! I want to wade in the mud and track it in the house. I want to roll in something dead and then lay on the best bedspread in the castle. I want to swim in your hot tubs then shake the water off my fur all over your living room rugs! I want to water your trees. (Just as I was getting all indignant and full of canine righteousness a beetle wandered in front of me. I took off sniffing its trail, losing my train of thought, until Hazed whapped me on snout with last week's edition of the Chronicle and reminded me I was on the way to a review.) To submit your planet for review, write the beetle-chasing dishonorable canine at SavageAlsatian@aol.com. Next week Discworld is up for review. Remember, your planet only gets one formal review, so make sure it counts. The highest award a planet can receive is the coveted Walrus of Merit Award. Also given out is the Carpenter Award… "Psst", whispered a flea in my ear, interrupting my standard closing remarks. "How do we know when a planet is tossed a Walrus or Carpenter? What makes a planet 'good'? What is it that turns another into just a backyard down the street that we visit to do our business on?" Icedrake had warned me there would be times when the voices in my implanted frontal cortex might drive me to chase my tail, but I don't think he was talking about fleas in the ear. When your brand new planet arrives, still with the Slarti's tags attached – the ones that say 'To Be Removed Only By Consumer', what should you make of it? Well, that question is easy. You design your planet to please you. Subject to the restrictions imposed by the workbench checker and Federation Game Rules, your mudball/rock/garden/space sea should be whatever tickles your fancy. The workthingies that have to live on your planet report only to their overlord and factory owners. I happen to be partial to MilkBones and Liver Strips on every location and liberal use of fire hydrants. So what happens when you request a review from yours truly? I consider a planet review a method of promoting tourism. Proud of what you've done? Then submit it for review and show your stuff to all of DataSpace. But be careful, now your planet not only has to please you but should please your potential visitors, too! The Advanced Guide to Federation gives some very good pointers on planetary design, and regular classes are scheduled in Fed on that very topic. When I sniff at a planet, there are some things that tend to make me sneeze and wrinkle my nose at the smell. First among these is an unfinished planet - Fedizens, make sure you have completed your construction before you request a formal review. You only get one shot at it, and those unfinished locations will never make it in another review. Second among the top disqualifiers for planetary exploration are those pesky spelling errors. Now, I don't mind a bit; a bone by any other name (or spelling) tastes just as good. But these ear mites, they can't stand to see a perfectly good description of a lovely green garden ruined by their inability to read through a page of misplaced vowels. Every time we pass a misspelled word they burrow deeper into my ear canal until I howl at the pain! Even if the spelling is right out of Webster's, check your grammar. Read your location descriptions out loud. Invite critics to your planet. Can't find a critic? Just tune 9 anytime. There's a whole universe full of them. When you settle on a theme for your planet, consider your audience. Should you decide you absolutely must design the planet around some obscure subject, you may have immediately restricted your pool of admirers to a very few obscure tourists. That may be exactly what you want in your planet, and some of your audience may really appreciate your efforts, but this reviewer may not know what the blazes you are rambling on about. I may have some enhanced intelligence, but the origin of my transplanted brain is still suspect. The Walrus of Merit Award is bestowed on a planet that the reviewer considers exceptional. Carpenter awards are given to planets that aren't quite up to Walrus standards, but are still worth checking out. What defines where this canine drops a Walrus or Carpenter? This is the part I really like – it is purely subjective. A really good planet makes me forget my notepad and drool in anticipation of the next location around the bend. A really good planet puts a visual picture inside this small doggy skull. A really good planet bribes me with 20 pounds of kibble... er, never mind that last one. If you're aiming for a Walrus or Carpenter, check out these past award winners. Pay close attention to theme, descriptions, and the uses of events and/or objects. Planets awarded the coveted Walrus include Facet, Felinity, Haunt, Honshu, Sin, Tiempo and Timeline. Carpenter-winning planets open at this time are Boomtown, Harmony, Hovertonia, Kingsbay, Mist, Mtnbrook, Neverneverland, Paragon, Roma, Stage, Tempest and Weasel. For a complete list of reviews of these planets (and other award winners that may be closed) check the Federation Archives at http://www.ibgames.net/archives/fed/index.html.
It has often been asked, at least in the circles I travel, how in the galaxies everybody who populates Fed has learned to fly starships, participate in galactic trade, balance beer bottles, and all those thousands of complicated procedures we take for granted. This would include walking if you were the one who was emptying those beer bottles. So, as yet another public service to you, my loyal readers, I have spent the last few weeks investigating the Feducation system, and even have a few noodle-hard facts to offer you! The following is a breakdown, by rank, of the key things people learn as they live. All I ask is that you realize this is only the interpretation as offered by myself and a few of my friends who are known to drink motor oil, and is in no way an actually official anything. GroundHog to Adventurer Trader to Merchant Furthermore, these people also encounter the unintelligible wonder that is DI COMPANY. Figuring out how to build a factory the first time around usually gives a new company owner a brain hemorrhage, but after being released from the hospital (they learned about that while learning the "sun bad!" lesson), they typically set up a full complement of factories before realizing you need to actually set wages so that they'll run. Even though by these ranks they're moving up, buying rounds is still a wise idea to keep the higher-ups in a good (read: soused) mood. Journeyperson to Explorer Flying into the sun is still bad. Squire Thankfully, these wonderful people are gifted with insightful knowledge (sun bad!), so they usually only break a few small parts of their planet off while backing it into a parking space in a duchy. Thane Of course, the main pastime of a Thane is hauling in still more junk for builds. Naturally, you're doing different builds now, so none of the leftover junk from Squirehood is suitable. You also learn about exhaustion, carpal tunnel syndrome, and how caffeine jitters will make you take a wrong turn hauling (sun bad!). Industrialist to Technocrat Baron (or baroness, but for
simplicity's sake, it's baron) Barons party a lot, and they are more or less entitled to it. Expect to buy a few rounds, but once the resident baron is drunk, drinks are on them. Duke
Sun bad. Even though nobody ever does make use of it, here's my email address in the off chance you'd like to let me know anything. You can write to me at Horatio_TheWriter@excite.com.
Friday night and Saturday morning (not this past Friday and Saturday morning, a week or two back depending on when this is published) were the worst times I have ever spent in Fed. Normally, the search for the GM isn't bad. Grab a soda, prop your feet up, keyboard in the lap, and let that num pad go! Except it seems like this time (the fourth time I have had to search for the GM), he knew I was experienced and decided to be a pain. I got my 1,000 TCR on Friday and settled down for the search. I'm a bit rusty in the ways of SOL... it's been two years since I explored it extensively. Well, the small planets went first. Castillo, Titan, and Venus all fell to my keyboard. Then, for various reasons, I had to leave the computer for over an hour. So, it was starting the search over. Castillo, Titan, and Venus were once again left with no stone unturned. Next came Mercury and Mars minus their complex and dangerous areas. So that left the sometimes confusing Moon and the rather large Earth. No GM. So... into the ruins! Oh dear, I went north in the Lines Room. I died. Grr... suddenly, I remember I hadn't searched the mansion. After much banister sliding and some disapproving looks and remarks from the butler, I determined that the GM was not there. Not interested in trying ruins again or entering the caves, I went to sleep. The next day, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I was ready for some more vigorous GM searching. I began to search and Fed crashed. Got back on and asked the helpful Channel 1 person (Phiddie again I think, did I mention how helpful she's been? I did. I think I'll do it again. Phiddie is extremely helpful.) if crashing resets the GM. It does. So that implants the awful thought that perhaps the GM was on Castillo pre-crash and he's in the ruins again post-crash. Hoping I'm wrong, I begin the ritual search. Then, in a corridor on Mercury, A CORRIDOR, I am transported to the GM's infamous study. The exchange when like this:
Although, would punching the guy who is trying to promote me make me Satan? Who cares... I'm (was actually, GM (ironic twist of fate I'm a GM and writing about punching the GM. . . see my earlier (WAY earlier) column on GMs, what they are, what they aren't at http://www.ibgames.net/archives/fed/aolyearbooks/yb9708.html.) now) a trader! P.S. Did I just break every rule of grammar by using that many parentheses all at once? Try and break it up like a math problem and see exactly what I'm trying to say. If I'm even saying anything at all...
CAN YOU
FEEL IT? Wow! Suddenly the MultiVerse is charged with excitement again! Creatures are talking and rumors and speculations are running wild! Every since a new Empress seceded the throne of Ming, it seems that she is one of the hottest topics of conversations. Even the supposed war between Swald and his minions against the lovely Duchesse Satin of Honalee has ground to a halt while all of Fed waits with baited breath to see the changes that Empress Catty will bring about. I'm excited! Suddenly Fed has gotten a huge shot in the arm. Players who have been sleeping are slowly awaking to see what changes will be made. It's almost enough that Ming the Merciless was overthrown. But what's in store? I don't believe anyone is quite sure, and that gives rise to all sorts of rumors. Couple that with the fact that suddenly others are claiming that a more legitimate heir to the throne is waiting in the shadows for the chance to obtain their rightful position. While this is all wild speculation at the moment, many are tuning to comms and tapping into their intelligence resources to find the truth. This is an exciting time for Fed, but in the excitement let's all remember one thing. There are owners behind the characters. Lines of RP shouldn't be crossed to make attacks on the opposing side personal. This is what we've all been waiting for! Good Gaming everyone!
SCOUNDREL'S
CORNER: QUEST FOR THE GRAIL "You must choose, but choose wisely. For even though the true grail can grant life eternal, a false one will take it away." Sounds bad. Sounds like a pretty important choice. Bah. I've just been about shopping for a birthday gift for my girlfriend.
"Hey honey, what would you like for your birthday?" I was rather proud of the fact that I remembered in advance. No gift reminder, no self-implanted electroshock prod set to go off a week prior to her birthday was needed. I just remembered, which for me is like one of Hercules' labors. Normally I have to ask around on any given day just to find out what month it is. Maybe I've been cloned one too many times. "Oh, nuthin'," said she. Ugh.
The candlelight flickered, causing her beautiful profile to dance merrily upon the wood grain wall in shadow. Gentle music caressed our ears as we sat gazing lovingly into one another's eyes across the small table in the romantic bistro. The dinner had been light and fabulous, the sparkling wine aged to perfection. "Happy Birthday, love," I said, and handed her a tastefully wrapped package with a pretty blue bow. She smiled at me and delicately unwrapped her gift. "Um, there's nothing in here." "Yes, and that's exactly what you asked for. We aim to please." That night I tossed and turned as the rain drizzled upon my head and fleas munched heartily on my legs as I lay upon her back porch. Negotiations with her two dogs had failed, neither agreeing to let me shack up in either of their houses. Blasted curs wouldn't even spare one of their blankets.
Modifying one's time machine is not really as hard as you might think. All it really takes is a short ritual involving a wrench, a screwdriver, a claw hammer (when you realize you don't really know what you're doing with the wrench and screwdriver) and some ample curses (to accompany the beating you are about to apply to the time machine with the hammer). After a few adjustment mistakes which led me first to the Jurassic period, then to a small village in ancient Greece, I arrived at my destination: One Week Ago.
I sat there in my desk chair, thinking. I assumed the exact pose of The Thinker there in my chair, to better facilitate the considerations of Just The Right Gift. My thoughts spun in circles, a never-ending loop. How about nope nope got her that already what about no she'd hate that hey how about nope that would be very handy but kind of a cheesy thing for a gift surely she'd like a nope nope well what about the second thing lemme think about it some more nope nope I just can't think of anything at all wait WHAT ABOUT A… It didn't seem I had been there for a long time pondering, but when the gift idea finally popped into my head I found I was parched with thirst, ten pounds lighter and that a vulture and family had roosted upon my head. Shaking off the solid inch of dust on my clothing and chasing off the buzzards, I ran out the door past the answering machine which had a blinking 87 in the display. I was headed to the store.
The candlelight flickered, causing her beautiful profile to dance merrily upon the wood grain wall in shadow. Gentle music caressed our ears as we sat gazing lovingly into one another's eyes across the small table in the romantic bistro. The dinner had been light and fabulous, the sparkling wine aged to perfection. "Happy Birthday, love," I said, and handed her a tastefully wrapped package with a pretty blue bow. She smiled at me and delicately unwrapped her gift. "Um, what is it?" She asked, looking down into the box. "It's a remote starter for your new spaceship. You get a button thingy to put right on your comm unit that has a transmission range of over three thousand miles. You just push the button and the ship starts right up, gets the life support systems going and puts on a pot of coffee. It's great." My voice began to falter as I noticed the corners of her mouth turn up in almost imperceptibly in that Thank You I Will Try To Appear To Love It For Your Sake Even Though This Is Quite Possibly The Dumbest Gift I Have Ever Received kind of way, the bane of gift-givers throughout the entire universe.
I applied the same delicate touch with hammer and vulgarity to my time machine and once again traveled backward through the temporal tides exactly one week. God that was a stupid gift now what am I going to do what about a no no how about WAIT A MINUTE… The corners of my mouth reached nearly to my ears as I grinned mischievously and raced off to the mall. I found myself standing in front of a store heralding itself as someone's Secret. I briefly wondered if they really thought it was a Secret, since everyone in the mall (particularly the males) knew it was there. In mere minutes I was heading towards the gift wrapping stand bearing a bag full of intimate apparel made from approximately the same amount of thread typically found in a roll of dental floss.
The candlelight flickered, causing her beautiful profile blah blah blah… "Happy Birthday, love," I said, and handed her a tastefully wrapped package with a pretty blue bow. She smiled at me and delicately unwrapped her gift. "Ahh, got yourself a gift, did you? Um, thanks." That night, dressed in a shapeless full-length flannel gown adorned with duckies and bunnies, she encouraged me with a foot in the posterior to once again rest well with the mutts.
Bash, curse. One week ago. Oh God what am I going to do AH HA! I roared off in my hovercar to Hot Lovin'-The Adult Toystore down on First Street. Then, for the next five days I also roared off in my hovercar to Hot Lovin'. On the seventh day, I resolved that this was going to be the day, by God, that I set foot in there. I was not going to be intimidated or embarrassed, no sir. I was going to throw open that door and march right in there. Yup. Well, maybe lunch first. After lunch, which I really didn't want, I again pulled up to the curb in front of Hot Lovin'. I cut two holes in a paper grocery bag and pulled the bag over my head. I stepped though the front door of Hot Lovin', and immediately glanced to the cash register to see who was working the counter. Any man walking into a store like Hot Lovin' has the desperate, burning hope that the counter will be manned by either some hairy ugly fat man chewing on a cigar butt named Lou or some hairy ugly fat woman chewing on a cigar butt also named Lou. For some reason, it is much easier to buy the sorts of things sold at Hot Lovin' from someone that, in your opinion, would never have need to use them and in fact thinks they are some sort of kitchen utensil. This, of course, never happens. I found myself peering through the eyeholes in my bag at a petite, beautiful girl who gave me the immediate impression that she had just been at bible school prior to the start of her shift. I froze in stark terror at the prospect of having to deal with her as she froze in stark terror at the prospect at being robbed at gunpoint from the guy wearing a bag over his head that just entered the store. After patiently lying to her about the horrible acid scars that I had suffered on my face, which she did not, of course, believe, I got around to shopping. "I would like the (thing) on the second shelf there next to that other (thing). No no, not that (thing), the (thing) there with the (thingy) attachment. Yes, thank you." "There you go, Olias Focauld," she said, after handing me my purchase. "I do hope those scars clear up for you." I resolved next time not to wear my NewsDroid ID Badge. The interior of the bag had suddenly become very hot as I bolted out the front door.
The candlelight yada yada… "Happy Birthday, love," I said, and handed her a tastefully wrapped package with a pretty blue bow. She smiled at me and delicately unwrapped her gift. "Oh my GOD!" She exclaimed. "It's a (THING)! Thank you!" With that, she scampered out of the restaurant. I reclined in my chair with a smile. The perfect gift. I, um, haven't seen her since.
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ALMOST TOTALLY NOTHING LIKE
PYRAMIDS