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WEB FED NEWS YEARBOOKS Earthdate April 2001 |
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WEB FED NEWS YEARBOOKS Earthdate April 2001 |
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INSIDE SCOOP |
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TOP TEN THINGS I MISS ABOUT AOL FED Remember way back when, when Fed DataSpace was on AOL? I do. I remember it very fondly. There would be literally hundreds of us playing at night, sometimes over 1000 players! And no alts, you could just use your AOL screen name as your character name. (Yes, that's why I am named Bizcarp, but that's another story!) I miss those days, and here are the Top Ten things I miss about AOL Fed:
And, the number ONE thing I miss about AOL Fed:
Ideas for a top ten list? Or a great roleplay or story you'd like to see it? Email Bizcarp@aol.com and make it happen!
In the normal state of things, we of the Fed population rarely agree on anything. Some say one particular planet has fabulous ale, other people says that that same planet's ale tastes like transmission fluid. Someone might find a ship's paint job to be fantastic, while someone else makes a comment amounting to an invective stating an elephant must have sneezed on the hull. However, I think we all agree that the lack of effects from sleep deprivation in Fed is a good thing. Ponder this for a moment: we can keep running around like loonies, hauling goods, party-hopping, etc., and all we need to do to recharge is to drink a couple beers. (Actually, if we could do that in the real world, I imagine the overall stress of people would go down dramatically.) If Fed were playing by real-world rules, as we ran around, we'd start making mistakes. Little ones in the beginning - flying to the wrong planet, accidentally unloading the ship before you've technically landed, and the like. The longer you're awake, the worse it would get, until the point where you're trying to refuel a bar stool and are whipping your ship while screaming "giddyap!" Of course, it could be truthfully said that this already happens. Half of us forego sleep in the real world to be in Fed, and the other half fall asleep at the keyboard. But that's cheating. You start acting strange in Fed because you really are going strange in the head. (For all of you who asked "going strange?," be quiet. We know we're insane.) So maybe this is a good thing. Maybe we should be glad for the apparent confusion between beer and sleep. Many of us dream of that. However, this begs an important question: How does one get drunk on sleep?
In recent years, nearly everyone has seen those yellow books called something like "Astrophysics for Dummies" or "Quantum Mechanics for Dummies" or "Reading Dummies Books for Dummies" and such. Well word has it those authors make fabulous sums of money, and since I'm always out for money, I decided to write Fed for Dummies. And I'm giving away the first draft for free. You can buy the extended final draft for $24.99 later.
The first thing you should always do when entering Fed is claim you started somewhere between seven and twelve years ago on AOL. This always makes everyone respect you, since absolutely nobody, including staff and people who played then, remembers that Fed started on AOL in August of 1995. (Note: If anyone remembers when Fed started on AOL and calls you on it, always claim you're right because the current year minus 1,995 is whatever number of years ago you claimed to have started. For example, "Well, moron, 2001 - 1995 = 7, doesn't it?") Another good plan is to demand help about absolutely everything from absolutely everyone, the whole time insisting that you read the manual cover to cover. Everyone will be happy to do your thinking for you, we don't mind at all, it's our pleasure.
One good thing to remember about Fed is that it's a race. The one goal is to rush through every rank as quickly as possible. (Note: Doing the work yourself is for losers. Demand arts facs from everyone, demand money from everyone, demand puzzle answers from everyone. We're masochists, we love to be ordered around by some whiny newbod.) So the first order of business is to demand someone tell you how to get a planet. And be sure to do it on the comms. We all love it when a Commander demands to be told how to talk to people in the same room, like that cleaner thing, on Nine. Second order of business is to demand money. And if you do manage to get money and make Duke in a week, brag about it constantly, we all love to hear it. We also love to hear you whine about how bored you are and how stupid the game is. It's music to our ears.
Fed is a social game, and like promotion, your goal is to speed through the social aspect too. The best way to speed through that is to lie, and lie a lot. (Note: Take the lying into reality too! Tell your wife you really aren't having an affair with that person on the computer. It's fun and exciting.) Other things you can do are:
Eventually, a time will come when you'll get angry about a new rule or another player or something. Or sometimes you just get tired of lying and demanding and whining. The one true way to deal with this is to kill yourself twice, or DD. (Note: Once you get over it, you can return the next day and pretend you never left. In which case, begin at Chapter 1.) Some people may suggest you DD gracefully, for instance say goodbye to your friends, leave a short tasteful post, and go. Others may say you should have some fun with it, go in a blaze of glory, die an explosive death in the Arena. I say nay. You should whine and scream. Burn your bridges. Swear on open comms. Swear at staff. Scream insults. Throw a tantrum like a spoiled brat. There's no reason not to, you are leaving after all, and you'll never want to return.
Every once in a while I tune to channel nine to wake the late sleepers and see if there’s any new poodles running around in Fed. This week I muzzled my usual barking routine when I heard some distressing comments from the locals. Apparently there were a few disgruntled people that were unhappy to find out that some newsdroids get compensated for their efforts in the form of a complementary account. First of all, we all have complementary accounts. Just look up your account on the web page if you don’t believe me – see, right there. It says complementary. Now some folks have to pay for the privilege of a complementary account in the form of strange currency like dollars and pounds. Some of us resort to more vile means – acting as Newsdroids or event hosts, navigators or latrine cleaners on Earth. In exchange we get to grovel to her demi-goddessness and endure public humiliation every Sunday morning when our offerings are put up for public display (or when someone decides to visit the loo right in the middle of our shift). Case in point – your own planet reviewer, Alsatian. I used to have a good life; sitting in front of my own cozy doghouse behind the mansion, eagerly snarfing up treats from all the lower ranking busybodies who wanted to peek at what their significant other was up to while they were supposed to be hauling. All the newbies would try to lavish me with hugs and kisses. The black cat even stopped by occasionally for a little snarl and spit fight. Ah, that was the life. I gave it all up for the title Dishonorable Senator. Now I have the opportunity to spend hours wearing out my paw pads tromping through notoriously bad grammar in the hopes of sniffing out an occasional shining example of a planet. I don’t have a wallet, there’s no hope of ever owning my own piece of real estate, and I don’t even get to sleep in the doghouse anymore. Some days I forget to tune off and end up having to assist a groundhog looking for their permit or poor person embarking on a stat-improvement program. Laying my exploration notes aside, I do the best I can. By the way – if the last trader I helped is reading this – I’m really sorry I told you to give that object to the lady in CDs, I didn’t mean Barb, and they really will let you back in Fed if you tell them I did it. All your body parts will be returned. It takes hours and hours to produce these reviews, too. Have you ever considered what it’s like to use a keyboard with dewclaws instead of opposable thumbs? I have to type the entire article without spaces, then go back and use the mouse to insert a blank between every word. The rest of the job takes time as well. There are hours each week spent on thinking that I really should get started with my articles and repeated trips to the cooling unit in my ship to forage for food. Then there’s always a few rounds of Solitaire to get in the mood, and sometimes I have to investigate a poodle or two before I can settle down to more mundane pursuits. Hanging around the bars waiting for inspiration counts as well. It all adds up. For my efforts I get whapped on the nose regularly, threatened with muzzles, and the title Dishonorable. And worst of all - I get no fan mail. None. Nada. No good doggy pats on the back, just junk mail on how to get out of debt, offers to visit sites of questionable content (they usually require increasing that debt), and sometimes a request for a planet review. The closest I’ve come to fan mail is a copy of the "I Love You" virus. Feeling sorry for the hound yet? I figured you wouldn’t – but give the rest of the newsdroids and volunteer staff a break. If you look closely at the hours they spend for that complementary account, they’d make more per hour looking for forgotten change in the public comm-stations. Meanwhile, the planet review for Bex didn’t quite make the deadline this week because… well, er… thinking up good excuses takes up time too!
Fed has many people in it from different parts of the world. Different beliefs and styles of life come into play. Fed is also a social game of role-playing. There is no book on what you should role-play either. Some make a serious approach to role-playing (if you can think of one, by all means tell me about it) and others make a rather different approach. Catspaws evidently likes cats, so she’s a cat and shows a passion in it with her planet Litterbox. Rere, she’s different in another sense, she comes up with a sticky solution to violence: whippy cream. A nice treat to burns too – the temperature of the stuff engulfs burns from engines, factories and laser blasts. On a plus, it tastes great. Alsatian is a dog and lives up to it all too. Whether in his articles, the comms, or in a room Alsatian still maintains his status as a dog. Him being a dog always makes an excellent place to get rid of chocolate or any left-overs you may have from the dinner table. He is also is good at hiding things so noone will find them – digging holes and forgetting where he buried stuff. Klingons, gods, goddesses, demi-goddesses, elves, monkeys; almost anything you can think of! And when it all comes down to it – does it really matter who is what? Someone out there will find it amusing. In my case, I adopted the w00kie role-play. I didn’t come out and put the two zeros in place of the O’s, because I wanted to have a rebellious look. The whole idea behind that was to keep away from being Chewbacca but still make it obvious whom I was mocking. So everyone has his or her own unique role-playing schemes. From churches to animals to covering people with different food items – there isn’t a normal one.
For three weeks now Aibo has been sulking – which means that for three weeks I’ve not had anyone to do my work and there’s not been a planet reviewed. Things had been getting pretty tense around the doghouse and Mars and Sol, well - anyplace Hazed was likely to show up. No amount of begging, whining or barking to my mechanical companion had helped. I even tried sulking myself but too soon the growing mountain of dirty food bowls and empty Alpo cans pushed me out of the corner. It was time to take desperate measures. I was time to ask for advice. No, not you! I meant advice from someone wise and all-knowing. Advice from the demi-goddess herself. I begged an audience with Hazed via tight beam, instinctively cringing in case she sent a nose-whapping back. I admit I sort of implied that I might have a mostly-finished review in paw, but the trick worked and she allowed me to visit her without a good flea-soaping beforehand. As soon as my muddy paws crossed the portal of CDs, she held out her hand for me to turn over the goods. They say that once the manure is in the milk it’s too late to grab the cow’s tail, so I’d planned my strategy well ahead. Laying my muzzle in her outstretched hand, I acted like a pitiful hound and gave her the soulful poor little puppy dog gaze thingy. (Hey, if you ever need to beg your comms back or get your alt reinstated, try it. She melts like a commander navigating south of Mercury.) "Oh, poor little puppy. What’s wrong?" she asked with a frown. I heaved a sigh - one perfectly modulated so that it neither moved my muzzle out of her hand nor sprayed her with nasal discharge - and placed a paw in her lap. Everything would have gone smoothly if it weren’t for all that mud on my paws. Hazed snatched her hand back, quickly scooted her lap from under my filthy appendage and snarled, "What do you want, mutt?" The story of Aibo’s personality change, my return from the tryst with Fifi, and the horrid weeks of sulking I’d endured spilled out of my mouth like water in a sieve bottomed barrel. Hazed listened politely without comment, but every once in a while she seemed to have a little choking fit over her drink. As I whined the last bit of my tale and begged her advice I’d almost swear she started chuckling. "Alsatian," she whispered as she leaned forward with a gleam in her eye. "I think you are getting just exactly what you deserve in life, sweetheart." I blinked a dozen times trying to comprehend what that could mean. It had been far too long since I’d enjoyed a classy paramour, chewed on a t-bone, or drank from the loo. I couldn’t imagine what else I deserved. Hazed leaned back in her chair and smugly sipped her drink before continuing. "Aibo, being a robot capable of complex processing, has become aware of her identity. And you, poor mangy mutt that you are, have to live with it now." "Woof?" I grunted, still not understanding. Hazed put down her drink with an impatient sigh, leaned towards me again and proceeded to educate yours truly. "Aibo (thunk) is a girl (thunk) and you have hurt (thunk) her (thunk) feelings! (thunk thunk thunk)" You know, I really hate it when she emphasizes her point by thunking my skull with her fingertip. Somehow through a rapidly developing headache my brain absorbed this new knowledge. I didn’t exactly like it, but I understood what she meant. Hazed ran through several scenarios by which I could get back in Aibo’s good graces, discarded them one my one, and settled on the standard ‘get her something special’ solution. I figured that even if it didn’t work, since it was her demi-goddessness’s suggestion it might buy me another week without a review. After discarding a dozen ideas for gifts that no robot would have use for (I was partial to pizza pans, but Hazed shot that one down), Diesel came to the rescue by pointing out that Easter was coming up soon, and last week a new stall opened up in Earth’s marketplace selling those cute little robo-chicks and bunny-droids much sought after by parents wishing to fill the Easter baskets of their little ones. What better way to appeal to a mechanical heart than a small cuddly creature made of lanzerik and powerpacks? I took a moment to slaver Diesel generously with a canine snog on the cheek, then hurried to Earth to make my selection. I’d been partial to the bunny-droids dyed blue as a pup myself, but wondered if Aibo might be more delighted with a pink robo-chick running around the house. I even considered asking if they stocked those holiday mechanical pups – scaled down, of course. I wasn’t looking for direct competition, just enough brownie points to get Aibo back in the kitchen, on the word processor, and curled up next to me at night in my cedar-filled bed. The first indication that this wasn’t going to be an easy task came when my chin hit the pavement of the road to the marketplace. Deep in thought, I’d tripped over some debris piled on the pathway. I soundly cursed the hobo for littering as I untangled my feet and wiped the dust off my chin. Just as I started to trot off to my task once again, the pile of debris moved and shook with a clatter. I cautiously leaned over to sniff what, at first, I’d mistaken for nothing more than discarded papers and rusted scrap metal. The debris shook again, dislodging the papers that had landed on it when I took my spill and revealing one of those bunny-droids I’d just been thinking about! This wasn’t one I’d take to Aibo, though. One of its legs appeared to be missing below the first joint and both ears were dented and bent into shapes that made the creature resemble a tinguey. The blue dye had long since faded to a mottled rusted hue, and loose screws protruded from nearly every hinge. "Don’t do it mister!" the creature sputtered as it tried to right itself on three unsteady legs. It toppled once again as it lifted a paw to grab one of the loose sheets of paper and thrust it in my direction. I took the flyer without glancing at the writing, horrified by the creature now laying in a pile again and blocking my path. My stare was drawn from the clanking mechanical pet by the rumblings of the cleaner droid as it turned the corner, headed straight for us. Knowing the cleaner is not a device to be deterred from its duty, I stepped off the road. It scooped up the broken rabbit-droid with efficient dispatch and rumbled past with its burden. Just as it rounded the corner, I saw the rabbit-droid pop up its little head and cry out beseechingly, "Beeeeex. Beeeeex. Beeee…". I was stunned. The shock of hearing the rabbit-droid bleat out the name of the next planet in the review queue drove thoughts of my immediate mission right out of my head. For several minutes I forgot about the flyer I held; when I finally brought it to my snout to read my mind filled with questions – who was that rabbit, how did he get in that shape, and what did he have to do with Bex? The flyer had a short message, hand written and reproduced on poor quality wood products: A robot is for life, not just for Easter. At the bottom were several crude drawings resembling the bunny-droids and robo-chicks I was just on my way to shop for. A chill ran down my spine as I contemplated the implications of that slogan – indeed, what would happen next month when Aibo tired of playing with the little chick, or the rabbit-droid starting leaking lub-oils all over the carpet? A gift like that might get me back in the doghouse and Aibo in my bed, but did I really want to have a cold mechanical nose sneaking up between us in the middle of the night? What would we do with the droid once its paint faded? What would I do with Aibo if Fifi started returning my calls? All of these questions began to make my head pound even more than it did with Hazed’s finger-thunking. I spun around like a windmill in a whirlwind and headed for my ship, intent on visiting Bex to try to find what connection this system had with cast-off and broken pet-droids. It was my good fortune to find Bex an orderly planet with a functioning central government (despot) headed by Governor Koenig. Only tight organization and careful planning would have placed nav-buoys to guide the visitor through the asteroid belt and orbital junkyard in space. I was extremely grateful to see these; without Aibo my navigation skills are about as effective as a screen door on a submarine. Planet side had a nice comfortable feel to it as well; as I emerged from my ship local senior citizens were there to great me and distribute maps and even a tipping guide to use during my visit. None of them seemed to have any ideas concerning the connection between Bex and broken pet-droids. After briefly refreshing myself at the Silly Sahib Sandwich Bar, I quickly searched through the locations adjacent to the landing pad for clues, but came up empty. The planet seemed to be a shining example of a peaceful and well-governed system. Oh, the paint might have been peeling in a few places and employing elephants to haul the fire-fighting equipment seemed a little odd, but for the most part the businesses and markets in this system appeared lively and prosperous. Sniffing for droids, I wandered onto the beaches of Bex. As urgent as my quest was, I had to stop for a moment to admire the special set of fjords Slarti’s had prepared just for display on this planet. There wasn’t any sign of robo-chicks playing in the sand or swimming in the ocean, so I continued my search – being very careful to stay on the marked paths. Oddly enough, the areas off the beach were quite closely guarded, and signs warned of possible mine fields just off the beaten trail. A short gondola ride took me to Bex’s primary tourist area, the Savannah. For a minute I thought I’d hit pay dirt; the wildlife didn’t look quite real. But I sighed in disappointment when I tapped one, hoping to find it was a larger variety of bunny-droid, and found it to be a hollow plastic mock-up instead. The canoe ride in the amusement area would have been pleasant had I not been intent on my search for clues, and I was entirely too fidgety to endure the guided tour of Governor Bex’s ship. I kept returning to one odd location, though. The newsroom near the landing pad had a notice posted requesting my assistance in helping Governor Koenig stay in power. I really didn’t understand this at first. Aside from a few land mines and some peeling paint here and there, everything seemed quite orderly and stable in Bex. I didn’t understand it until I headed through the jungle and came across the garbage dump. The dump was pretty foul. Generations of Bexians had discarded their refuse here and the flies were awful. In the center a board led down into a deep pit, and I started to back away - not caring to explore any area that smelled worse than me. My retreat was halted when I heard a familiar voice rise with the fumes from the pit. "Beeeex… Beeeex," it wailed from the depths. Gathering my courage and holding my nose I walked the plank and found the droid-pit. There were pet-droids of every variety there: Robo-chicks from Easter past, puppy-droids from Christmas, and even a mechanical marsrat still holding the tattered remains of a Happy Birthday balloon. Cat-bots and bunny-droids labored in a corner over maps bearing layouts for new minefields. A squadron of miniature mechanical grizzles lined up like soldiers training for battle. Worst of all, there was even a robotic demi-goddess practicing the incredibly swift and accurate movements normally employed to yank comm units from unwary planet owners. I stood blinking at the end of the plank, trying to comprehend the meaning of all this. These had to be droids first presented as holiday gifts and later discarded when the occasion had passed and their novelty worn thin. They had banded together in the last place someone would look for them – the pits of Bex, and were plotting seize first this system then all of Fed DataSpace! Governor Koenig knows there’s something happening on his planet, but he isn’t aware that it’s really the droids. You won’t find them there, either. They escorted me back to the landing pad, swore me to secrecy (I crossed my dewclaws), and moved their safe house as soon as I fled the system. As for Aibo, I can endure another week of sulking. I think we’ll skip reviewing Bex together – she doesn’t need to get any new ideas. If you’d like to help save Governor Koenig (forget DataSpace and start small), Bex has a nice puzzle that takes you all over the planet. It’s not extremely difficult but fun to work. Koenig has done quite a bit of scripting on this planet and even without worrying about the puzzle it’s fun to explore. There’s no pet-droids but the animals are plastic, the paint is wearing a little thin in some places, and elephants are employed by the fire department. There’s an occasional misdirection and spelling error, but the planet is upbeat and humorous enough that the explorers should leave with smiles on their faces.
For those of you that woke to find cute little bunny-droids and robo-chicks in your Easter baskets this morning, I have a few words of advice. Treat them well, even when they become tiresome and start leaking lub-oils on your favorite rug. Keep them forever, never flushing them down the loo or pushing them to the bottom of the trash bag for the cleaner to pick up. If they don’t wind up on Bex plotting to take over Fed and dump screws and bolts in your treasury, they’ll sulk in the corner until you froth at the mouth in frustration and get nabbed by drug patrol as a rabid dog. I still haven’t figured out how to make things right with Aibo. My Easter basket was blessedly free of any more mechanical companions. It was also free of marshmallow bunnies, chocolate eggs, or pink and green striped Bac’n Strips. What it was full of was tax forms. Since this was my first tax season as a free-roaming, frontal-cortex enhanced planet reviewer, I’d come to the attention of Ming’s ruthless tax assessors and subjected to agony of filling out more paperwork than I’d peed on in six years as a mobile. Every page bore a ruthless watermark: This Is Due Tomorrow, No Exceptions, Policy Strictly Enforced, Floggings Will Be Administered. I scratched at one of the (many) fleas crawling over my head and tried to decipher the instructions. Apparently since I am no longer a mobile I am subject to Sol taxes, Ming taxes, and duchy taxes, and even those treats that people sometimes toss my way on channel nine are considered bribes (perish the thought!) and are taxed by Mario, Hazed and Barb as well as Ming! I thought I’d found a loophole; by declaring myself as a mobile for part of the year then consuming bribes from Groundhogs (who checks rank, they might have all been Groundhogs) could be considered a job related expense. However, that threw me back in the mobile bracket, where I could no longer deduct payments made to the cleaner to scoop up around the doghouse. Fuel for the ship is considered deductible only if I can prove picking up Fifi was a requirement of my job and the expenses exceeded 75% of my income minus my current net worth plus the cost of insurance divided by clothing purchases and the mileage of five trips around Titan but only if I didn’t touch Mercury first. I’m afraid to ask if I can claim my fleas. I tried to squeeze in a review for Newavalon, but the planet had changed duchies and I couldn’t find a bracket for it. I’ll have it done next week, though; it’s going to take something as magical as a Holy Grail to pay my bottom line!
There are some events, both in the real world and in Fed, that congeal your thinking on that circumstance. Some of these are readily apparent, like the difference of effect in drinking forty beers in under an hour (can we say "toxicology?"). There are, of course, many others. I'm sure we've all thought, "If only I had the amount of money I have in Fed in the real world." Sure. We all like to pretend we're multibillionaires, because, frankly, only they can afford the really cool cars. (There are also those of us who would like to perform that much civil service and charity, too.) The reason I dwell on this now is because of July. This July, a Fedmeet is scheduled in Chicago. For my readers, you know I went to last year's April meet in Chicago and had the time of my life. I had planned to go to this year's July meet, as well. Looney that I am, I'm not crazy enough to want to pass up such a wonderful time. However, as it turns out, I probably won't be able to attend. The problems in the US stock market this past year have reduced my spendable cash reserves to the point where I frankly can't afford to go to Chicago. Admittedly, in the grand scheme of things, this is a truly minor tribulation, but I still like seeing my friends and laughing and carrying on until the concierge shows up at 4:30am to tell us we can either shut up or he'll get the firehose. Memories, after all, are worth more than gold. However, rather than automatically accept defeat, I did call USAir, the people who carried me to Chicago last year. I asked them if I could possibly pay in an alternate method. The helpful and very nice USAir representative immediately began talking about check, cash, credit, and even money order payment options. I had to cut her short, however, to explain that wasn't what I had in mind. She asked me what I meant, if those weren't the case. I explained that I have several billion in savings, but it wasn't exactly a... standard monetary unit. She immediately assured me that USAir was willing to accept payment in foreign currency. So I was delighted when I said I'd be paying in groats. It took about fifteen minutes to explain that I had not said "goats." However, the nice representative simply asked what country the money was from. Needless to say, she didn't like my explanation. She hung up. However, maybe I'll be lucky. Maybe the market will rebound and I'll be able to get the money together. Maybe not. Either way, I'm sure there is a moral in here somewhere. Where, I don't know. Maybe it's that we should be happy with the fact that we do have one place, albeit a fantastic one, where we can be the people we want to be, because we have the money we want to have. So be glad to be who you want to be in Fed. It's the thought that counts.
FED OP-ED: ZSIVERIA I dropped in on some visitors on Zsiveria’s LP to ask them a few questions. The answers I got were... well... interesting.
Breyer: "1/1/00 - The Date I became Squire of Elwen (the first version)." Megadude: "Favorite number is 1,350,000,000 - How much the MatTrans build costs." Rasal: "I'd say 69, simply because that happens to be my reward value at the moment." Macnbc: "42, and why not?"
Megadude: "CDs... Because you can annoy the administration while you dine." Breyer: "Elwen's bar... I mean... my new hang out... Duff Modems. Duff kind of reminds me of stupid people, like people who DD while teleporting." Chewbacon: "People still buy pizza on Fed?" Macnbc: "CDs... Because you can annoy the administration and Danny while you dine."
Chewbacon: "Backdraft - makes me think of my strange uncle." Breyer: "Elwen... because it has a meaning no-one knows. But I always did like Facet." Macnbc: "er... Smuckers! Because it makes me hungry." Chewbacon: "SUCKUP!" Megadude: "One that encompasses everything that Fed stands for... one that makes it clear from the get-go what the purpose is. Rather, one that's short and easy to type following a 'DI'... In short, Texas."
Megadude: "Back on AOLFed I was Omega16... People called me Mega. One time someone called me dude, because they were like 8. So it stuck... Megadude." Chewbacon: "Well... one time... I was makin' bacon and then Chewbacon was born!"
Questions? Comments? Requests to be polled? E-mail Jelly@columnist.com.
TRY TO KEEP COUNT How many times…
And finally…
FED
FAIRY TALES You've all read or heard those stories in the holobooks, the old so-called Fairy Tales and Mother Goose Rhymes that were popular among Groundhogs on Earth in the ancient times? A few clever Fedders adapted one of those, so I had to share this, in case y'all missed it. 211930:079 - Derian: Little Miss
Muffett sat on her bar stool, drinking her rum and coke.
Along came a spider and tapped on her wire and told Ol'
Miss Muffett a joke.
FED OP-ED: ZSIVERIA, A RETURN
VISIT I found a crew of people wrecking the set of Weakest Link on Zsiveria. I decided that they would be the perfect crew to poll. Let’s see what they had to say.
Braymore: "Myangel - Well, she is an angel, isn't she?" Thulium: "Juel, hands down... can't be any Hostess sweeter than Juel :)" Rasal: "I would say Jelly is, because she'd give me brownie points for picking her." Shaman: "Dez... I love the bells from Scramble... and she's such a nice person... and I was good at the game sometimes :)" Breyer: "I model myself after everything Rere doesn't do. Thus, she must be." Jazir: "Chiefsgirl! She presides over the events that I die in, and I want to go to Heaven :)" Wolfyn: "<--- very wisely says Hazed and looks away, whistling."
Breyer: "Education - Anything to help the pathetic minds of Federation learn a thing or two about the game they play." Rasal: "Um, an education build I suppose. Learn by doing I guess." Jazir: "Security. If I were a workthingie, I would be useless, and I would want to die in a useless build :)" Wolfyn: "Downside, it sounds like an easy job." Thulium: "Education, of course. Because a mind is a terrible thing to waste, and besides, I don't have the energy to keep at it for a whole hour." Kariscats: "'Well gee not education cuz then you'd probably know too much about your fate... health you might be too healthy... energy... well no." Braymore: "I would like to die in security builds because at least I would feel better knowing that when the Martians attack (:::coughyetrightcough:::) or my population riots my fellow WTs will have a chance."
Rasal: "Dr. Fogg's of course." Vorete: "depends on my mood, jelly..." Braymore: "I really like Dr. Fogg's, his marital aids have come in handy on many an occasion." Thulium: "Tux Deluxe... because I jes love putting on the Ritz before I climb up those stairs right outside the shop." Shaman: "If Sol had a Hard Rude Gift Shop, that would be it." Wolfyn: "I get my best fur from the marketplace on Earth. Other than that, I don't shop. The duchy planets are required to present me with weekly bribes - I mean gifts." Wolfyn: "Of course 50% of those gifts are turned over to Hazed. ::looks away and whistles::" Breyer: "I happen to enjoy the stat "shops" - I tend to visit them so often." Jazir: "The Cantina. Its spherical."
Shaman: "You. I saw you." Breyer: "That's obvious, Silence - He ruined an interview with you, Jelly, and then stole your cookie too." Jazir: "The butler." Braymore: ":::::shakes the magic eightball::::: "Ask again later."" Rasal: "It was the Cookie Monster, in the kitchen, with the candlestick." Thulium: "The little boy stole the cookie. He is so fast that no one could stop him, or catch him." Wolfyn: "Hazed did it. ::looks away and whistles::" Xorna just looks around and smiles innocently. Ricmer: "Methinks It was Alsatian, I saw him eating it and pretending it was a Doggie Biscuit he found at Easter!" Hmmm. Could it have been YOU?
THIS WILL TAKE TIME Planet ownership is the last big leap you’ll take in Fed. First it’s hauling in Sol, then trying to steal jobs from dumpers using the work board to haul, then you go to having a company entirely supported by Alloy and Artifacts factories, and finally to owning a big hunk of rock in space. At this point, you’re a Squire and you slowly build (I don’t know why we build) until you reach Thane. Each build costs 400 megs a piece and takes an average of 124 highly expendable workthingies. Being that you make about 2 megs a day, you’ll be waiting a while to promote. Thane. Finally, you’ve reached the rank past Squire. At this point you’re suffering from tons of deficits. Fortunately, you have a boost of groats to help you overcome this. After another 10 aggravating builds, you’ll impatiently await Galactic Midnight. Industrialist. The best rank of them all – you’re sitting right in the middle of the planet owner ranks. You’re producing both Agri and Leisure at a reasonable rate and to top it off, you’re making groats and lots of them. You start telling yourself, "It’s all easy from this point." Technocrat. Ha ha, you were wrong. Welcome to minimal deficits and minimal income. Fortunately, I built straight through Technocrat and didn’t have to wait for the slow income, but others aren’t so fortunate. Finally, you reach your last build… Baron. Finally, the last rank of exchange ownership. A lot of you may have been whining from the builds you’ve done earlier. Welcome to Baron, folks. It’s time to empty your treasury and pour money into a big, spacious cargo bay on that ship of yours. Baron builds take a lot of commods and a lot of groats. But afterwards, it all pays off when you get a bright and shiny teleporter. From this point you could either build to Duke or remain a Baron. But I’ve heard that the money at Baron is a lot better than Duke. Now, imagine that after all of this investing, deficit filling, surplus hauling and hauling in commods for builds, you DD. Oopsies! Would you really go through all of that again? I think I’d get to Explorer and stop until I accidentally typed online.
ALSATIAN MOVES OUT OF THE DOGHOUSE Taking a last glance at my sulking paramour Aibo - who by this time had shut down her powerpacks and started to rust a little around the joints - I hefted my water bowl and moved out of the doghouse. I’m just a hound and have enough to worry about with fleas, planet reviews, brown-nosing demi-goddesses, and where my next drink will come from without having to think about someone other than myself. It will be hard to find an assistant as gullible as a mechanical toy but eventually I know I’ll stumble on some mobile or groundhog who, if not too loaded with intel stats, I can get to do my work for me. Shep on Earth offered to share his bachelor pad for a while and, while it might be small, the price is right. All I had to do was promise to help him clean out his basement of a lot of dusty old electronic equipment. Shep is rather like me, though - a few rounds, a lot of guy-hound talk, and a couple of holos of past Westminster shows in the viewer and he’ll forget about the task. I’ll get free room and board and can sneak out to make my planet review rounds without Aibo nagging me about queue orders, deadlines, or what our puppies might look like. Friday night looked like a good time to start working my way back into the canine party circuit. My first stop was to check out a hound I’d heard about a long time ago on Springerspaniel, but finding the dog a little too pure-bred for my tastes I made a hasty exit. The last time I tried to fool with someone’s prized champion pet I’d ended up with a shovel aimed at my head and threatened to be neutered with a rusty Arix. The next name in my little black book of mobile possibilities belonged to a hound name Bandit, so I headed off to Essencia to check her out. Finding the object in question on the landing pad, I scooped up the dog with a hearty woof, turned it over, and tried to drop it back to the ground. Unfortunately Bandit was a he. I don’t know what they do in that system to get their dogs in this state; Bandit wasn’t having any of this dropping to the ground stuff and kept leaping back in my arms like a drool-covered rubber ball. Every time I tried to shake him off he’d cling tighter, grin, and his eyes would glaze over. As I started to lose circulation in my leg I resorted to sterner measures and bit Bandit hard on his ear – an ill-advised tactic resulting in a knock-down dogfight triggered by an eat event. Only the swift intervention of the Duchess prevented me from becoming Bandit’s permanent love interest. There’s always a last resort when things have been going bad, and my last resort was another fling with Fifi. I found her cute and willing as always, but since she was one of the objects sought in the Duchy Safari this week, our tryst was constantly interrupted by players wanting to know if she had ribbons or hairspray, or claiming on the comms that they had located not only the word sin but the act itself. Despite all the commotion we had a nice reunion. I solemnly promised a dozen things I never intended to remember and then – like the dog I am – I left.
FED LIFESTYLES OF THE RICH AND
FAMOUS: MING THE MERCILESS After I read the Fed news last week, about the Emperor Ming and Empress Catty, who has been conspicuously absent of late, I got to thinking. I kinda miss Ming! I always wanted to interview him too. I thought of doing a column on the Top Ten Things I Miss about the Emperor Ming, but well, I couldnt think of ten.. (:::giggles:::) So instead, I remembered an incident in Fedruckers and thought I would take you with me to see on the Holo-viewer. Fasten your seatbelts, Ming did....
No I'm NOT the goalpost!! Honest!
Galinfenner is here. Ming has appeared with a shimmer of teleportation effect. Hazed gasps and backs into a
corner. So, I guess one thing I was gonna put on the Top Ten list was the whippings... LOL!
How many times has someone come back to Fed, said, "My name is Soandso, remember me? I decided to come back" and every player fell to their knees tossing groats at that person? I’ve seen it happen many times and it will happen again soon, I'm sure. I don’t know who it will be and I’m not sure how many people will help him (no, I’m not saying it will necessarily be a him, I’m just following what I learned in grammar), but it will happen. What’s my point? Good question. Ah, here we go, I came up with one! Helping a player by giving them groats: what’s the big fuss some of you people make about it? If someone has their account maxed, why not? All of those groats will go to waste if they don’t go somewhere and you might as well give away a good lump sum so you can have a good interval. I accepted money on one condition: If the person giving the groats was maxed. Usually I got a gig out of it too. I ran back to my planet, transferred it in, took about 30 minutes to haul in my goods and built a few projects. Innocent enough, right? I’ll admit I didn’t meet my own conditions when a friend of mine came back in February. I gave her plenty of groats when she pissed and moaned about finding the GM. "Here’s about 400 megs, could you complain about something else?" Even if you got to Baron, Duke, or whatever on money just given to you, you’re still the same rank, are you not? I know I’m right about that, so don’t even question it. Look at it this way: receiving money is just like having someone fill your deficits because you don’t feel like it. So I’ll ask again: Why fuss about it? Questions? Comments? Death threats? Email them to: Chewbacon_and_famous@hotmail.com.
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