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WEB FED NEWS YEARBOOKS Earthdate January 2002 |
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WEB FED NEWS YEARBOOKS Earthdate January 2002 |
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It was recently reported that a minor subsea earthquake triggered a small (although I believe "small" is relative here) tsunami that struck the nation of Japan. Thanks to a recent holiday shopping trip, I believe I have a decent idea as to how it felt to be caught in a "tidal" wave. Ordinarily, my local mall is a pretty benign structure - the worst you can typically expect is a run-in with one of the porcupine-haired adolescents roaming the vicinity, evidently looking for a barber that has pruning equipment. It's a pleasant place to spend an afternoon shopping, going to the movies, or just walking around. Then this thing called "Christmas" arrived and turned the place into a bloody madhouse. As I stepped out of one of the "anchor" stores in the mall, I suddenly felt like a housefly caught in a nuclear test as a human wave swept me into the ersatz "traffic pattern" of the mall. Essentially, the traffic pattern went thusly: everybody went everywhere at the same time. Thankfully, I discovered early on that staying to the walls helped. I also discovered that browsing in stores you can't afford offers a break from the battle outside, as nobody can afford those stores, and the salepeople must get lonely, because I walked out of one store with a $10 gold watch. In short, the phrase "critical mobility impairment" is a good way to sum up the holiday mall around here. And as I was being propelled along the mall, like a pigeon in a tornado, it struck me as amusing that no matter how many people congregate in one place in Fed, we never really have much trouble moving about. Sure, scroll can get unmanageable, but mobility is never really a struggle. Perhaps we're all very skinny in the future, but I don't see how that's possible, since our restaurant food choices are primarily pizza, beer, and "mystery meal." It probably also helps that there are few places where people really congregate in large numbers. Personally, I credit the spraying program the Sol Department of Agriculture has implemented. At least we're able to move in the directions we want, when we want. Perhaps this spoils us just a little though, since we don't have to battle for a parking space, either. The elimination of these two holiday traditions does ruin something for us all, though. We lose out on the entertainment value of watching.
IT'S A NEW YEAR, SCREAM WHEN
FINISHED A new year is finally upon us. Scary, isn’t it? Wait, it doesn’t sound scary to you? You think that now Christmas is out of the way, it’s smooth sailing? Allow me to explain: you can look at a new year like standing at the end of an obstacle course and looking over everything you’ll have to wobble, roll, flip, and bust your arse through; the tires, wall climb, tunnel crawl, long jump, rope swing, and that hand bicycle thing you used to see on Gladiators. February 2 is a dreaded day (not for those with shotguns), when we remove our faith from the unfaithful weathermen and put it in the hands/paws/whatever of an animal who is afraid of his own shadow. You have one man who spends a fraction of his life studying meteorology and acting (TV weatherman, now remember that) and stick it in the hands of this mammal that’s pretty close to the bottom of the food chain. Something bothers me about that. So you sit outside this furball’s hole, wait for him to come out and if he sees his shadow and runs, we have so-so many more months of winter. Nevertheless, if it’s cold, don’t go outside, stay in Fed where it’s always warm and cozy! We skip a few more weeks ahead to March 17, Saint Patrick’s Day. Wear green that day, in RL and in DataSpace because you never know when half of Sol and everybody’s mother will shimmer in on you and pinch you all over and even in places you never knew existed! St. Pat’s Day is also a day of drinking, however you’ll be hindered there since United States law prohibits the sale of alcohol before 1:00 PM on Sundays. Not only does the law so conveniently start your drinking way into the afternoon, according to McDonald’s meal schedule, but you have to watch how hard you hammer yourself into the toilet because you have to go to work the next morning! Or… you can call in sick the next morning and stick around in Fed. And if the groundhog spotted his shadow, then it will be cold, will it not? Let’s skip a little further ahead in the year. I’m not sure which comes first, so I’ll discuss them in tandem with one another: Easter and the infamous income tax day. Easter Sunday is like Christmas except all the gifts are replaced with candy, plastic eggs, and lots of bathroom usage from excess chocolate ingestion. However, to me, Easter Sunday is another Sunday and as Kurt Cobain would say, "Sunday morning is everyday for all I care." However, income tax day is a rush for many people. Cars block every road that leads to the mailboxes in front of the city’s main post office. The traffic gets so bad, kids who live nearby can make a load of money by running from car to car and offering to take people’s envelopes up to mailboxes! Thanks to the Internet, you can now do this over a dial up connection while sitting in Fed and enjoying yourself! Skipping ahead yet a little further, you’ll come to the month of May. Nothing really special happens here that I can think of, except Mothers’ Day, however things will really heat up in America, so stay inside where it is air-conditioned and play Fed. Want to work on your tan? Go to a tanning salon and stick a laptop next to the tanning bed so you can play Fed. Okay, let’s move a bit further to what I like to call the Weight-Gaining Months. Halloween comes along where you buy about sixty pounds of candy, give away twenty and if you have any children, you’ll get at least half of what you gave away back. Now you have about fifty pounds of candy that you can’t bear to throw away. Don’t forget, by this time it should be cold or is going to be soon, so you might want to get reacquainted with Fed. November, another Weight-Gaining Month, however you can reduce some of the weight you’ll gain if you try hard enough by cleaning, worrying, and doing some early Christmas shopping. December, the mother of all months, the end, the mud crawl obstacle, the month you never want to be in. If you didn’t get your Christmas shopping done in November, you have to worry about it all now. If you did get it all done in November, you have to remember where you hid it all and then recover it all in time to put it all under the tree. The only thing you can help think about is: when this is all over, I have a whole year until I have to do it again. Ha! Then you have to go through the rest of the year’s horrors again when January comes. So, again I will say we’re at the beginning of a new year. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I can’t help but wonder what the heck is going to happen throughout it and I wonder if I even want to know. But now since you’ve read this article, you’ll probably learn that it would be better if you dedicated your whole life to Fed, cut yourself off from civilization and forget how to use the QUIT command. Happy New Year, folks!
PROOF THAT FED MARRIAGES ARE
HYSTERICAL Fed Marriages are rather silly to me. But, now that I'm married I understand the incredible appeal to them. It all started in the early morning of Saturday. I decided I wanted a husband. After Danny denied ever knowing about our engagement and wedding plans. I had to call it off. Needless to say, I had a problem. I needed a man and I needed one soon - or else I'd have to change all my towels back from "His and Hers" to "Hers and Still Hers. " I did what any respectful single Fed Woman would do. I decided to propose to the next returning Fedder who came on. Glady - it wasn't a Groundhog but a Merchant named MysteryMan! I proposed and he resisted. But my wit, charm and natural beauty won him over. (Read: Large Check) Danny, the Founder/Savior of the First Dannitarian Church preceded over the wedding. Redspice and Snowlily quickly ran over to join in as Bridesmaids. I was honored to have two great Fed Woman in my ceremony. However, Netmndr - a handsome intelligent gender-confused man?woman? Wanted to be a bridesmaid as well. When I first saw him in his Tux/Dress - I fell in love and made sure I was marrying him as well. He hardly uttered a word - but the record shows that he said yes. (Or was that me? Doesn't matter!) Danny continued on with the marriage and just as I was about to add my compact to the mix - the three of us were declared Husband and Wife... and Husband. (With my compact lover on the side. ) Instantly my husbands tried to get out of it. But, Danny, being the great Savior ended up to be the only Galactic Lawyer around! The marriage was final. (Until Monday when according to First Dannitarian Laws we could get divorced - something about marriages having to be longer than the Saviors Shortest one. ) Danny left - and shortly, I was called upon to perform the wedding ceremony of my Gender-Confused husband to my Bridesmaid, Snowlily! So, now I see why Fedders get married. It's for bond, family, (so your towels mean something,) and for entertainment and confusion. (Trust me - My wedding was confusing!) Now, we've all gone our separate drunken tired ways and I've suddenly realized I have a huge problem on my hand. I no longer need "His and Her" towels... but "His and Her and His and... His' other Her" Towels. I think I need a bigger towel rack. Perhaps the Savior is a Carpenter...
ALSATIAN'S POST-CHRISTMAS DISAPPOINTMENT All too soon the package wrappings were history. Bella’s new Clay computer hardened in the sun and crumbled, Nightdroid discovered world domination only worked within the walls of CDs, Freya played with her two miniature heels too much and sent them to the hospital without insurance, and the perfume infused into Hazed’s socks quickly dissipated. Once again I have to endure those natural odors under the tables when her demigoddessness calls a meeting. Worst of all I found the batteries powering my new Aibo (complete with SIN6.9 software upgrade) tend to drain at the very worst moment. My howls have been heard all over Sol this season. The wee little elves of Federation did bring us a surprise this year that’s lasted for a few days after Christmas. Xmasplanet, designed by Chriscringle and lingering in Sol, has both delighted and frustrated explorers for hours. It’s been an excellent example of how to design a planet around a puzzle, and the creator’s use of events is inspired. Do take a look at this system if you’re interested in a challenging puzzle, or just enjoy the delightful script on the planet! Requests for planet reviews have been slow to trickle in lately. New squires will have their planet mentioned by Ashkellion in the Chronicle, but in order to be considered for a Walrus or Carpenter award (and for a more detailed review and exploration) you’ve got to deal with this dog. I need some more planets to chew on; the frustration from Aibo has been killing me.
Hi, folks, and a belated happy new year to all of you. Thanks for continuing to read my bizarre writing for yet another year. I was going to write along that thread in this article, talking about the new year and the associated resolutions, but I'm actually going to put that off for next week, because something rather unique happened to me recently, and I'd like to share it with all of you. What could be that earth-shatteringly important? I think my computer had a stroke. Allow me to explain. Perhaps one of you might have an idea what happened, because tech support hadn't the faintest idea. About a week ago, when I went to bed, my computer was working fine. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. When I woke up, though, I noticed that there was no screen saver running - in fact, the monitor was plain blank. Since my screen saver had crashed before, I figured it'd just had a glitch. When Windows didn't come back after a mouse wiggle, I reset the computer. Guess what I got.
Just what I like seeing in the early morning. To me, this was the equivalent to starting my car and having all four wheels fall off simultaneously (which has happened, please don't ask how). The computer was alive enough to give me an MS-DOS prompt, though, so I decided to see how much of my hard drive was missing. I was shocked to discover the drive reported as C: actually contained the data from my aux hard drive (normally D:). I disbelievingly checked the contents of the reported D: drive, and found it to contain everything from my usual C:. The computer had somehow, in the middle of the night and with no prompting whatsoever, switched the drive letters. So, I called tech support. Stop laughing; I was panicked and didn't know what I was doing. As you may have guessed, tech support wasn't too helpful. In fact, the most lucid answer I got from them was: "What?" After listening to Barry Manilow sing every song he's ever written while I was on hold, I finally got through to a system engineer, who required ten minutes of convincing to believe I wasn't playing a prank. At that point, he told me he didn't have the slightest clue, either. I was thrilled. So much so I wanted to take a chainsaw to my phone. At this point, I did something I should've done in the first place: I called my best friend. He and I are kind of a cross between Batman and Robin and Dr. Frankenstein when it comes to computers. Excellent as a team mainly because we're both slightly deranged and think sparks are really cool, particularly if they're coming from a computer case. To make a much longer and far less interesting story short, the problem was corrected by disconnecting the aux hard drive, booting from the real C, reconnecting the aux, and rebooting again. To our collective surprise, it worked. But as I sat on hold with Barry [Manilow], I suddenly began thanking much higher powers than Barry that such bizarre computer complications are unknown things in Fed. While a computer glitch at home may prevent our attending the Fifth Annual Bar Whippy Brawl (you know who you people are), our often-inert ship computers don't lose their little digital minds and swap settings. Such things could be quite uncomfortable, especially when hydraulic fluid starts coming out of the sink and your control surfaces suffer a severe ice problem. That's perplexing when you sit down and think about it, because our ship computers have roughly the IQ of Spam. As with many of my missing-frustration observations, maybe we're just better off not thinking about it. After all, if we did have such bizarre accidents in Fed, nobody would ever haul, and commerce would grind to an undignified halt as we try to rinse the taste of hydraulic fluid out of our mouths. Further, we're saving that much money on technicians and medical bills. (Advice: no matter how mad you are at your computer, never kick it with a bare foot. The case is stronger than your toes.) And even though the drives are back in the proper order, my computer is continuing to worry me, because the technical problems might start getting worse. I hear it's been talking to my printer.
IN VAIN Before I get on with my article, I'd like highlight the following disaster to emphasize my last article on what a nightmare the beginning of the year can be: A tire on my truck skins itself to the bare wires and now I'm driving another truck that consumes about seven gallons of gas per mile until I can afford new tires. On with the article! Being in a rather large school, I meet many people and so far out of the two hundred I have said hello to, somehow gotten into a conversation with, or have been forced to speak to in order to complete a survey that teachers give you, I have found three that enjoy playing MUDs. I've been asked, "Know of any good MUDs?" "I don't play that many of them, I have one that I play, though." "Oh! Well, why not?" "Why not what?" I ask. "Why do you not... um... play that many of them?" With a sigh, "Because most of them are dungeons, dragons, magic or Star Trek - I don't care for any of them." "Darn, I need to find a new MUD." "Have you tried Federation, like I suggested?" I ask for the third time. "Oh, no I haven't." The first time I suggest playing Federation I am sure to tell them they can play for two hours without paying. And I must keep advertising Federation to my generation to be a good Newsdroid, addict yet another generation to the game and Hazed will give me a promotion to Demi-Deity. [Editor's note: Don't count on it.]
WHY WE DIDN'T HAVE ARTICLES IN
LAST WEEK'S CHRONICLE The Chron hadn't been published in two weeks, and therefore I (Jelly) of course forgot to send in my article last week. However, I am not alone in this. Danny was in the same boat that I sailed in, so we decided to combine our brains (making a half of a brain total) to figure out WHY we did not send an article last week. Oh, and we couldn't decide who should write the intro, so we decided to split it. Take it Danny. Thank you, Jelly. That's right, we both forgot. I mean, I'm not known for my memory anyway, she's supposed to remind me of these things. And she did. Just before midnight (Pacific, or Real, time) on Saturday. Do you have any idea how hard it is to write an article on such short notice? Pretty hard, let me tell you. It's much easier to write half an article on such short notice. So we tried, but sent it late, and missed the deadline. Even with two, however, it's still not easy to start. So I'll leave that bit of fun to Jelly. And I promise these excuses will be better than the one I just gave. Enjoy.
BREYER'S MAKE CASH QUICK SCHEME Last week I wrote to you all about my marriages and what lead up to them. (A whole 5 minutes of chaos.) Now, I write to you with a heavy heart with an uplifting ending. Almost immediately after our wedding ceremony (The First - First Dannitarian Wedding) I whisked away to my honeymoon where my compact and I spent quality time in front of a mirror. Almost immediately my husbands were begging for a divorce. I was perplexed. I paid hard cash for one of them. So, I would be out not only two husbands but a lot of cash. Now, when you're a Duchess in this day and age of Fed - you have a lot of free time. When I wasn't trying to find more lovers/fiancées/husbands - I was scheming on how to get rich. The answer came to me in a vision as I was sobbing in CDs while sitting in Kao's lap. The answer was simple. I'd go through with the divorce and sue my husbands for every penny they have. I promptly hired Redspice and Danny as my lawyers for the divorce with Netmndr. (They didn't know about each other - I was trying to figure out who could get me the better deal.) Netmndr was rather eager to divorce me. (Apparently he has a girlfriend who wasn't excited about our marriage.) He faded into my past as 115 megs were transferred from his bank account to mine. (Making me 15 megs richer - as I spent 100 to marry Mysteryman - in fact, I was 115 megs richer as Netmndr gave me 100 megs our wedding night to marry Snowlily who he divorced earlier.) So, I'm walking around with 100 megs which I can spend on anything. For example - a promotion. Except I'm a Duchess. I could give it to a newbie - but that would just be unfair to them later when they realized they don't know how to play the game and missed out on a ton of fun. So, I'll keep it and someday wander into CDs and bet Danny that I have more Hawaiian Shirts than he does and promptly lose. (I heard a rumor that he has long-sleeve wool "Hawaiian Shirts" to wear in the winter...) Now, my marriage with Mysteryman hasn't ended yet. He tried to take all my money - and I said he was crazy as I paid him to marry me - and that I want my "dowry" back. We both became extremely emotionally traumatized and tried to sue each other for emotional stress. Last I heard, Mysteryman was checking himself into the Battle Creek Sanitarium. I'm very concerned for him - but I made sure to get a large insurance policy on him so if he dies I'll be even richer. So, for you poor traders out there looking for money for your stats the key is "Marriage/Divorce/Court." Meanwhile I'm writing a book called, "Breyer's Guide to a Happy Marriage." You can pre-order the book in Fed now for just 10 Mega-groats (pay directly to Author) and you'll receive one of the first copies off the press! (Please No Out of State Checks or IOUs.)
ALSATIAN WORRIES ABOUT WRINKLES We’ve created a significant health threat in DataSpace, and each and every planet owner should examine their own contribution to the recently disclosed hazard. We Fedizens are wrinkling. That’s right - those awful lines, sags, and creases that used to be the sole property of those that played on GEnie Fed. Our canines have turned into Shar-Pei’s, aliens into Yoda, humans into gnarly walking blobs of hanging flesh, and demi-goddesses into… well, it’s a terrible sight too ghastly to mention. Even Galinfenner’s kilt looks as though it has been ironed into that ‘distressed’ look. The problem, you see, has been caused by water. We have simply become water-logged over the years. It’s everywhere – the saunas by the hot tubs that are just off the swimming pools next to the fountains near to the beaches off the oceans fed by the rivers created from hot springs that feed the waterfalls. It seems you can’t walk ten steps anymore without getting rained on, splashed at, or nearly drowned. Even those that aren’t wrinkling at an alarming rate are showing other side effects. Fungus grows on their appendages or they roam DataSpace with that permanent frizzy high-humidity bad-hair-day look. It’s rusting our spaceships causing frequent overhauls. Solar flares now resemble steam kettles. I’ve petitioned Slarti’s to begin a workbench test for moisture content on new planets. If that doesn’t work I’ll at least try for chlorine as a tradable commodity on the exchange. I like a full water bowl as much as the next dog… but you try living with the smell of your own wet fur for a while!
[Hey, folks: Please read the mail link information at the bottom of the column this week; it contains important information for contacting me!] You may not believe this, but at this moment, I'm writing this column without benefit of vision. Why am I doing this? Because it's a Saturday morning, I have a deadline, I just woke up, and I don't have the energy to switch my eyes on yet. Which means I've already broken one of my big New Years' resolutions: get more sleep. On average, I think resolutions have a shelf-life of about three, maybe four months. After that, most of us have either abandoned them or forgotten them, which leads me to speculate on their true nature: it's just stuff we say at the big party so everybody doesn't think we just do nothing all year. Of course, they do anyway. I myself have made several New Years' resolutions, and I'll share a few of them with you now. 1. Lose weight. 2. Stop setting fire to other
peoples' landing pads. 3. Be nicer to that annoying twerp
at work. 4. Live a slightly safer life. 5. Exercise more patience. 6. Exercise more. My friends, though, seem to be less fortunate in the resolution department. Many of them are already strongly denying there even WAS a new year, simply to get out of the unrealistic, liquor-induced resolutions they pinned on themselves. Personally, I'd agree that some resolutions (such as "I won't eat in 2002") were a little over the top, but if one of my coworkers complains about his resolution to quit smoking again, that filing cabinet cited in Resolution 5 is going to be a little more crowded. (I know quitting smoking is a very difficult thing to do, especially if you're smoking a pack a day like he is. However, both his wife and little girl - such a sweet kid! - have practically begged him to stop, and we coworkers are more than happy to help. I'm thinking along the lines of stuffing his cigarettes with firecrackers. At the very least, it should give him pause.) [LEGAL NOTICE: Do NOT stuff cigarettes with firecrackers! It is dangerous, not nice, and many other adjectives that amount to bad stuff. I am putting this notice in here because my lawyer tells me that I have nothing worth taking in a lawsuit other than vital organs, and I evidently need those.] Where was I? Well, anyway, best of luck with holding on to your new years' resolutions. Personally, I doubt any of mine will survive through July, but, hey, anything's possible. For example, it is entirely possible we WILL find intelligent life somewhere... ...on Earth.
DEALING WITH IT Usually I can be patient, but sometimes, being human, I can’t. One thing I’m becoming really impatient about is finding this Osama bin Laden character. The United States has been after him for over four months and I keep wondering how a guy with such a high profile can just "sneak" out of a country. As much as I’d dislike many aspects of it – too bad the world isn’t more like Federation. With the Spynet Wire Service, we could track him down in an instant. Every Duke or Duchess would be shimmering into his location faster than… well, at least faster than a Baron could be shimmering into each location to find him. I’m not wanting to find him so we can kill the bastard (I’m talking about justice, not hate), I just want him locked up without any human contact. I feel I must further emphasize any by saying we stick him in a cell with one of those cattle gates systems. You know, the ones where you open the sliding gates open and shut while your standing outside the fence (usually used for administering medicine, loading on a truck, etc), except in this case the fences would be solid, opaque walls. Anyhoo, on with my article after a long venture down memory lane. We’re a little over half way through the month. So far, my new year has been about like last year: the occasional good moment and the terrible ones, which seem to come one right after the other. Fortunately, I’ve arranged a schedule to make an escape from reality: play more video games, play the guitar more, watch The Simpsons six days a week, and stop in to Fed about every other day for drinks in the ‘Tina (escaping reality to drink, a new sign of a drinking problem?). Takes my mind off of the real world and keeps me from worrying over my dad while he’s in Kosovo. Fed usually is the best stop – I get to talk with real people. It’s better than playing Deus Ex, Half-Life or Final Fantasy where the "people" who talk to you are too redundantly redundant. Caffeine is helping too, keeps me on my toes, however if I don’t get a daily input of it, I get terrible withdrawal head and stomach aches. At this point I will open my mailbox for the usual death threats – and for the rare question or comment – for you to send me any New Year’s disasters that have found their way to you in Fed. Email them to Chewbacon_and_famous@hotmail.com.
I have discovered some form of fraud occurring on Smuckers. I'll show you what I mean. A month ago: Treasury Balance: 2,147,483,646 IG Today: Treasury Balance: 2,147,483,646 IG Now, it looks as if I am simply breaking even. However, business to Smuckers has increased by 10x since December. Does this make any sense? I do not think so. I am currently investigating this matter. I would hate to blame any of my workers, but this obviously is an inside job. I'll keep you posted.
ALSATIAN'S METEOROLOGICAL ANOMALY Just hours after publication of last week’s Chronicle (and my article complaining of the high humidity in Fed), I found myself the subject of a meteorological anomaly. I seem to have a cumulous cloud hovering over my noggin. It won’t go away, follows me everywhere, and at the most embarrassing moments starts raining like bull frogs and heifer yearlings falling out of the sky. Each time I start to nosh on a bowl of kibble ‘n bits, I end up with soup d’jour. Just as I bury my bones the cloud pours out its issue and my prize is swept away in a mudslide. When Fifi and I get to that critical moment, our passions are chilled as though we’d been caught in the backyard by Master and his water hose. By mid-week I’d taken to staying mainly in my ship so the cloud could do little more than act as a portable car-wash. I navigated through DataSpace, one steady paw on the tiller and the other wrapped around a refreshing beverage of my choice. It was a little lonely, but a comfortable existence in view of my new-found role as cloud magnet. But as the saying goes, when it rains it is better for civilization to be going down the drain than to be coming up it, and clouds will find ways to make a dog’s life miserable even when they can’t make him wet. I was tooling around a couple sectors south of Castillo when the jarring sound of sirens made me spill my cold beverage in my lap, puncture my blow-up Fifi doll as I clenched my teeth, and put a crick in my neck when I tried to dodge the resulting hazard formed from the Fifi missile careening off the control center walls. "Pull your ship out of traveled space lanes now!" A voice boomed from the Balrog class Imperial navy cutter that had drawn up alongside my flying doghouse. Dodging the mostly collapsed Fifi projectile one last time, I steered my ship to the corner of the sector and set the controls to idle, awaiting further instructions. "Keep your paws in sight on the tiller and step out of the vehicle!" This I had to ponder for a few moments. Stepping out of my ship would require use of a vac suit. Using a vac suit would require putting it on. Putting it on might require letting go of the tiller for a moment. I brought the dilemma out in the open. "Officer, excuse me sir? I can’t quite put on the vac suit and keep my paws on the tiller at the same…" "Don’t talk to me unless I ask you a question, mutt! Have I asked you a question? No? Then shut up and get out of the vehicle! And keep those paws where I can see them on the tiller!" Now, I have great respect for the officers that work in our local Naval Intelligence Service, keeping contraband items from leaving the planets, the space lanes clear of drug traffic, and arresting Cantina patrons who kick the cleaner. But there are some idiots in the universe - and the law of averages dictates that a certain number of those idiots will be found on Earth, and statistically some of those idiots will be found in the employ of the Galactic Administration, and if you’re a hound with a cloud over your head the chances are 100% that you will be pulled over by an officer with the intelligence of celery. Only limberness honed by years of licking my private areas allowed me to don my vac suit while always keeping one paw on the tiller. I eased open the hatch with a back leg toe, and attempted to exit my vehicle while still keeping one paw on the tiller. I floated half in and half out of my ship like I didn’t know my gee from my haw. The spectacle was beginning to cause a slow down in space traffic as haulers paused to gawk. I tried to keep facing the away from traffic while gripping the tiller with a single paw. The officer was becoming a little agitated, and demanded my license and registration. I started to explain that fetching the same would require I re-enter the control center and dig around in the glove box. "Don’t talk to me unless I ask you a question, mutt! Have I asked you a question? No? Then shut up and get your license and registration! And keep those paws where I can see them on the tiller!" I heaved myself back into the control center, and with a back foot nudged open the glove box. Years of parking violations floated away along with compromising photographic logs of some of Fed’s more colorful personalities. The haulers stopped moving completely. I rescued my ship owner’s permit and an old dog tag and pushed them towards the officer. "This isn’t your registration. It’s a receipt for a bribe! And records indicate your ship was registered in someplace called Panama. There are no legal ship services on Panama!" I wasn’t sure if explaining to celery-head that bribing was the only way to obtain a registration in Fed, and Panama the only locale available on the out-of-date forms, was going to get me yelled at again. I was saved from response though when Fifi, expelling her last burst of helium, flew past me through the open hatch and out into space. The projectile ran straight into my cloud-halo, pushing it right over the officer just as the squall recognized an opportunity for a soaking and dumped its load. Howls of laughter echoed throughout DataSpace as haulers witnessed the officer’s humiliation. I’ve almost gotten used to the food in the Rehabilitation Center again. The cloud still sits over me, soaking me in some unknown pattern of intervals that seem to coordinate oddly with the sound of Bella’s laughter. I’m quite sure I’ll be out of here soon. The smell of wet dog fur has begun to permeate the building and drift into the courthouse down the hall. Meanwhile, if you have any dry dusty planets that could use a good soaking, please send in your planet review requests!
There are some phrases that people immediately associate with bad events. "I need help." "I broke (fill in the blank)." "Is that bone supposed to be sticking out like that?" These are easily identifiable as prefacing a problem that could be anywhere from moderate to major. But there's a phrase that, because of its duality, you have to pay attention to; in one context, it's a simple question, in another, it means you're going to be out quite a bit of cash. I heard this phrase recently as I sat on my planet, trying to figure out why my exchange was making like a proverbial wingless airplane. A friend walked in and, before even saying hi, hit me with that phrase. "Do you remember your ship?" Yes, in fact, I did. She had to have known that. I'd put quite a lot of time into it and it was a nice ship. Was. Folks, I'd like to ask a favor of each of you, in the hopes that we can stave off future problems like mine: When you're landing your ship, LOOK DOWN BEFORE YOU SET DOWN. Why? Because she didn't, her ship was fully loaded with cargo, and it flattened mine. Like a pancake. People, this is a symptom of a larger problem. That problem being that some people are as DENSE AS LEAD! Er, no. Sorry. I've been kind of on edge lately. Frankly, I think this whole ship-flattening thing is just another in a long line of catastrophes. But it does just go to illustrate how seemingly innocuous phrases can end up costing you a lot of money. Another good example is "floor may be slippery." If I'd had that particular warning last week, I wouldn't be on crutches right now. I'm considering suing the owners of the Earth office block. Of course, these things happen. Life is full of little surprises, some of which are setbacks. But I can offer you a bit of warning along the lines we've discussed here, a bit of advice you may have already ran headlong into. There is a word - not a phrase - but a single word that can do more damage than all the bad phrases together. It usually comes from your mechanic. "Estimate."
AWAY FROM THE KEYBOARD A while back, I was talking with my good buddy, comrade, hot Duchess Calyx (though she wasn't one back then) and she went AFK without saying so after a good bit of laughter from spying an unsuspecting Groundhog. While she was away, I examined the room's description and tried to imagine it. The bean bags, the book cases, the mess of papers on the desk, and Calyx; sitting there with a beaming smile on her face and staring at the wall. This smile was awkward because there really wasn't anything to be smiling about at the moment. Letting my imagination get away from myself, I tried speaking to her through Fed:
She didn't say anything, just sat there with an ear-to-ear grin on her face.
I grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her back and forth, "C'mon, snap out of it!" I said. I released my grip and she slowly stopped swaying and returned to her stillness and never did the smile come off of her face. She came back and we had another bit of laughter. Though her laughter lasted longer than mine, you can bet her face didn't turn red as mine did! Another time I shimmered into Snowlily's bedroom while she was AFK. I met her while she sat in a chair next to her comm unit with a blank expression on her face.
While I'm AFK, she comes to life and has her own conversation with me while I sit with a rather dull expression on my face like hers. Essencex made a little fun, but thanks to her using my Zmud script for hauling, I got a little life out of her while she was AFK. I shimmered onto her landing pad, gave her a hug and said hello. After no response, I couldn't help but have some fun:
A straight, featureless expression lay on her face still, but the words made a world of difference. A message from the Justice Department of Providence: Physical contact with one who is AFK is unlawful as listed in the Molesting the Unoccupied Act. Chewbacon has been placed under house arrest after being found guilty of charges: 1. Shaking Calyx, Duchess of Antigo; 2. Groping Essencex, Industrialist of Utopia. However, Chewbacon did not commit these crimes on Providence, he is still under the authority of the laws he wrote for his planet. What a nut, huh?
EMPEROR DECLARED, GALAXY
REJOICES MARS, SOL - The galaxy rejoiced recently as the Prophet Cen of the First Dannitarian Church declared himself Emperor, married Xyli, and promptly vowed to free the galaxy of the menace known as Danny. Danny then founded an evil organization of evil, the Sons of Apathy, to counter this move. The Empire-SoA conflict has been raging since this drastic turn of events. The Emperor Cen, from his imperial palace in Chez Diesel on Mars, has sent armies to track down the Galactic Menace and his hoards of evil, while also attempting to appease the people by declaring holidays and celebrations. Danny on the other hand is doing his best to put a stop to these celebrations as well as the Empire. Danny has put out ads such as, "Suicide bombers wanted. Experience needed. Apply within." to attract supporters to his cause. It has been reported that his base of operations is located in the dark spires of Chez Diesel on Mars, though those reports are unconfirmed. The two sides are talking peace, however. Recently the Emperor and Danny met at an impartial location, Chez Diesel on Mars, for peace talks. The mediator, Readerboy, declared the talks more successful than he had hoped. Five people were injured and are listed in critical but stable condition. The people have been advised by experts not to be worried by this conflict, but to keep your doors locked. Experts also suggest Culver vests and varying levels of iron plating. More details will be reported as they arise.
I was on my way to review the planet Sassenach when my work was delayed by yet another grievous miscarriage of justice in Fed. I, Alsatian the Planet Reviewer, Rover Romeo of Fed, Dishonorable Among Senators, and Byproduct of Some Hasty and Unplanned Dog Sex, fell victim to that heinous cruelty known as… The Ban Rule. That’s right. It could happen to you. It could happen to your duchy mates, it could happen to your duke. But worst of all, it happened to me. I had planned to stop by Chez Diesel for a little refreshment between planetary duties. On my last exploration I’d made advances to a certain unnamed mutt mobile without first checking my stamina and found myself in the hospital for my efforts. This wasn’t a problem, I reinsure automatically, but it always leaves me ravenous. There’s always good snacking to be found at CDs – regardless of a reputation as the social center of the solar system, the place is filthy. If it weren’t for me stopping by a couple times a weeks to snarf up the dropped pizza crusts, the place would be swarming in marsrats. Something strange happened as I walked up the stairs this time, though. I was picked up by the scruff of my neck and tossed down the steps again, rolling into some clothiers called Tux Deluxe. There are no pizza crusts in Tux Deluxe. >tb Diesel Hey! What goes here? Your comm unit signals a tight beam message and a bat on the head from Diesel, "Stay out, hound. This is an exclusive club." >tb Diesel What? I can’t come in anymore? Hey! You need me! There was no response. In the silence I could hear the tinkling of the tinguey a couple worlds away. >tb Diesel This is an outrage! You can’t ban me, it’s… it’s… unfair. It’s chicken! Come out and fight like a dog! Er… leave the bat behind. >tb Diesel How can you ban me, I’ve never even been in there! >tb Diesel Okay, so I was there. But I only dumped on your floor once. And it was 3000 tons worth. >tb Diesel I am an unleashed dog and I should be able to go ANYWHERE I want and say ANYTHING I want and pee in ANY CORNER that I want to! >tb Diesel <grumbles> aw please pleeeease. I’ll give you a Walrus. I’m hungry, and this is the only place in all of DataSpace with pizza crusts. The shelf full of rusted Walrus awards in the establishment had slipped my mind, even though I’d borrowed one or two when I’d forgotten where I last left my backpack of prizes. I was so hungry at this point I’d started chewing holes in the socks at Tux Deluxe, and it was time for desperate measures. >tb Hazed Your demi-goddessness, Diesel won’t let in me! She’s banned me from CDs! It’s hateful, it’s unfair, it’s cramping my style of play and I’m... I’m… hungry, and… Your comm unit signals a whap on the muzzle from Hazed, "Those are the rules, dear." >tb Hazed But... but... they’re not for me, are they? Your comm unit signals a whap on the muzzle from Hazed, "Those are the rules, dear." Realizing I’d reached her demi-goddessnesses answering machine. I vowed to complain to Feedback, the navs, channel 9, and every groundhog about this outrage! And if I want the pizza crusts, guess I’ll just have to spring for the clothes, too.
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