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WEB FED NEWS YEARBOOKS Earthdate August 2002 |
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WEB FED NEWS YEARBOOKS Earthdate August 2002 |
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INSIDE SCOOP |
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A MATTER OF DISTANCE As I leafed back through my list of articles I've written, I realized that I'm about due for another one of my "insightful reflections on the state of life, love, and Fed." That's convenient, because there really hasn't been much in my life to laugh at lately, even though my policy is to laugh at almost everything. It's just the way life works, I suppose, but if life were a computer, we'd be sending it into the shop faster than you can say "customer dissatisfaction." (Those of you who have been drinking a lot may want to sober up a little before giving that a crack.) So what am I going to reflect insightfully on? Distance. Back in the '60s, people had to make use of some materials that they weren't supposed to have to ponder cosmic distances. Today, thanks to advances in technology, we have recreational jogging, which will mess your mind up just as effectively if you do it long enough. People say that keeping up a relationship over distance is a tricky matter. Considering how often "they" are dead wrong, it's interesting to note that on this particular occasion "they" actually got it right. Yes, I speak from personal experience. It's a rough thing to try to keep everything sailing merrily along when most of the time you can't even hear the other person's voice, let alone actually see them. It's troubling, depressing, and bad on the phone budget. Of course, our long-distance calls aren't usually measured in light-years. In Fed, a "long distance" relationship usually means the parties involved are on entirely different planets. (Of course, the argument can be made of couples who are physically standing in the same room, but that's another article entirely.) Still, that kind of distance really isn't a barrier to us: we have that remarkable Travel system, and few things are much more than an inconvenience when you're a multibillionaire. So distances tend to evaporate. Not a bad deal when you look at it, really. Especially so when you consider that the people behind those characters are often several hundred, if not thousand, miles apart. Fed has this remarkable way of bringing us all together, even if we're not all on the same page. We have our disagreements and people we don't like (or even hate) in Fed, but at least Fed brings us closer together so we can hate them more conveniently. On the outside, though, we have the problems of living in different towns or states, or people we care about being halfway around the world. But even so, there is one thing you have to credit the outside with. You don't get punted near as often.
FARMER FILES LAWSUIT AGAINST
ALIENS A local farmer on Mars has filed a lawsuit against an alien race known as the Greys for the destruction of his crops, graffiti, and he is also pushing for harassment. All of these charges were brought on by the Greys making crop circles in his fields. The farmer, Gel Mibson, said that it had been going on for a while and originally thought it was just kids playing a prank on him. The media, being more accustomed to it from ancient days on earth, never paid any attention until now. "It was usually just some drunk guys with a board, some rope, and a little imagination, but this is a whole other story." This isn't the first time the Greys have been in trouble. In November of 2000, they were sued immediately after admitting to the abductions of humans (http://www.ibgames.net/archives/fed/webyearbooks/2000/wyb0011a.html#4). Mibson commented, "Maybe they're taking revenge on us after those human-like guys abducted them." (http://www.ibgames.net/archives/fed/webyearbooks/2001/wyb0105a.html#5). The Greys are refusing to comment until one of their comrades captured in the operation is released. Mibson said, "It was kind of a harmless thing until I caught them surveying the field for their next 'work of art'. Then they started coming into my home, scaring the children and myself. When I finally got my dimwitted farmhand over, we chased them off with shotguns, but captured one in the kitchen pantry." The Navy is holding the Grey on a undisclosed ship until the trial is over. He may face four years in prison; pay six hundred million groats in damages, and an additional twenty million groats for property damage. "When we brought out the shotguns, seeing the Greys were unarmed and not wearing clothes to hide weapons in, we thought it would be like chasing cats off with a water hose. No, it wasn't that easy; these weird guns appeared out of nowhere in their hands and they started a shootin' at us," said the dimwitted farmhand. We later learned they were some form of energy weapon after Mibson described his dog being vaporized. When the lawsuit became a public affair, more people began to complain; mostly Squires and Workthingies from Agricultural planets. Hyperboy, Squire of Hyperspace said, "These aliens, destroying our food, making the Workthingies go hungry. It's a sort of siege, slowly lowering our population so that it's easier for them to take over. I tell you, we're not too far now from the day when all planets are." Srgasman, Duke of Spinnerz expressed his concern, "I hear the Barons/Baronesses are worried about crop losses and are threatening action." Of course, the Barons need the Agricultural planets to supply their food. I followed up on Srgasman's comment with a few economists: "Of course, the stockpile of edible commodities from the Agricultural planets will be driven down, raising the prices or not leaving enough to go around." Another commented, "It shouldn't do too much damage. Galactic Administration will probably figure out a way to evenly distribute food. The citizens and Workthingies on planets will just drop a couple waist-sizes." And finally, "Buy Internet stocks!" I guess it is true: even if you line all the economists in DataSpace end to end, you'll never reach a conclusion. Mibson is still looking for decent lawyers who will take his case. Those who wish to apply, send your resumes with references to Chewbacon_and_famous@hotmail.com. Any with concerns, questions, or other testimonials of crop circles, email them to the same address.
IS FREYA REALLY XYLI? So, I got to thinking... I make mean, yet tasteful and funny comments, and Freya gets blamed for them. Now, I happen to like taking credit for my own comments and this got me thinking. Do people think Freya and I are the same person? Is that why she is getting all my credit? Here's what I found out as I interviewed people across the galaxy...
Freya herself doesn't believe I'm her or She's me, which I suppose is indeed a good thing. Our clothes also aren't the same (I think I have more style) so that once again proves we are different. Then I asked Bella what she thought.
I also spoke to Danny and Cen who know both of us and they as well think we are two different people. Ok, so it wasn't from around the Galaxy but from Chez Diesel. But from these very reliable sources, It has been decided that I am not Freya nor is she me so that when you talk about us in private or in public, please don't confuse us. We are different. And we don't really like each other so you may have made us mad. Shame. Shame on you.
There is a new claimant for the robe and chain of Mayor of Mars: Poco, Duchess of Weasel. Following her assumption of this position she made the following decree:
Poco later commented to a private audience of chosen sycophants:
Switching back to public-address-mode:
A grateful populace wept with joy at their new leader's comments.
The worst things often result from the best of intentions. My intention was to save Fed staff a few groats on fuel as I went on my planet reviewing duties. I'll often find a duchy capitol planet with a higher than usual orbital gravity and use it to execute what is commonly known as "The Roadrunner Thrust Move". Applying just a little extra nudge to my engines as I hit the link results in warp speed as I leave the orbit - propelling me across DataSpace with lightening slingshot speed. I tried this maneuver in Syphon last week on my way to the far reaches of DataSpace to review Darkoenia. Instead of being pushed back into my seat by the increased speed of my Thrust Move, I found myself propelled into the viewscreen as a Customs Inspection Tractor Beam snagged my ship. There's still hound snot all over the viewer, giving the illusion of always traveling through the Milky Way. Customs Inspectors found a cargo hold of fleas and Liv'r Snaps. Chemical analysis of the treats showed some explosive properties, but I'm not saying a word about how they are unleashed only after passage through a canine's digestive system. After all, gas is already one of the most commonly produced commodities for most exchanges. Meanwhile I'm being held in custody until I spill the beans. If that doesn't make sense, then try this - I've been out of town. My apologies to all of you that have read this far, and I'll be back on the job shortly.
WANT SOMETHING TO DO? Here's a call from the youth. Remember when you were living with your parents, they asked if you were going to sit on the couch all day/do nothing all day, and you'd tell them you didn't have anything to do. I'd usually get the response, and you probably did too, "I'll find you something to do!" and you were stuck with dishes, cleaning the house, or worse: your room! I bring this up because lately I've heard of people running out of things to do in Federation, finding it boring, no challenge, etc. As my dad used to tell me, "There's has to be something you can work on around here." Here are some challenges I've yet to tackle only because I'm too lazy: 1. Haul in enough tonnage of my deficits to keep my Accumulated Stock Deficit level at zero (buy from me). 2. Start a trend of investing in Traders to get them to Merchant and then collecting your new plump and juicy investment when they turn Squire. 3. Try to clear Sol of all space mobiles. 4. Explore and document every planet in Federation in detail. 5. Get to Squire and DD. See how many times you can do this in a week. 6. See how many Harrier-owning Captains you can lure into arena space and blast them to bits. 7. Talk Diesel into giving you repeat business (bring plenty of aspirin for her). 8. Get banned from Sol. 9. Try to convince me the Foo Fighters suck. 10. Go to Providence Arena Space, attempt to run out of bounds and evade all of the turrets (don't forget to reinsure yourself). There. That should keep you busy for a while. Especially numbers seven and nine.
The Diesel Crowd. It strikes fear into the hearts of many Fedders. Usually consisting of Freya, Danny, Cen, Bella, Nightdroid, and the newest member, Xyli, these Fedders seem to be some of the most hated in fed. Except for Bella, we ALL love Bella. It's well known that many comments that respond to other stupid comments made on 9 are often from one of the four in Diesel's. And I'm sure those who spy see other things as well that are talked about. Take Saturday Night for example, a certain Fedder was talking in fake French on channel 9. After much discussion, I happened to ask if she was real French or faking and that if she were faking, the guys in Fed may not like it because they want a real French girl. Now I found that amusing, the Fedder found it mean. Clearly, meanness is in the eye (or equivalent) of the beholder. Freya happens to like to use the phrase "there are no prizes for stupidity in Fed." So if you're stupid, well yeah, you can read the quote. Cen has a tendency to take all his meanness out on Danny. If you've ever seen the two together, you know that Danny is a big tall geek and that Cen is supposedly bald. Although he says he got rave reviews for telling someone "Why am I even talking to you?" and then leaving Fed. Danny, well Danny is Danny, he's mean, he's mean, and really he's mean. So I put out another question: who is the meanest? But unfortunately, people were afraid to answer, probably for fear that one of the four of us would be mean to them. Or they all think it's Freya and don't want to be locked. But each of the mean Diesel crowd have their own opinions. I, Xyli, think that it's Freya, cause hey, she's been mean to me too, but you get over it. Cen thinks "Freya, no contest". Danny believes that we all have our targets and our times, so depending on who it is and what time it is, it could be any one of us. Freya goes with Nightdroid. And ND has dared to sleep during the writing of this article so he can't be reached for comment. But the real question is, if people stop being stupid, will we stop being mean?
PROVIDENCE'S QUICK CHANGE IN
LEADERSHIP I'll be honest with you, for a while, I really wasn't the Overlord of Providence. Bill was. Bill simply hired me to sign the paperwork on the planet, being given the title of Overlord, but not really the job. Why? Bill didn't want to be humiliated, insulted, lied about, have his pictures taken at the worst moments, and live through it with a big smile on his face. That was my job until about two days ago. Bill met me in Slarti's as I was thinking of a name for my planet, leaving the dreaded FO-hood. He explained to me that I would be paid very well just to simply smile, read speeches he would write, and sign laws he wanted me to sign. It all sounded good, so I took the job. The secret was well kept until a yearly Goldfish-cracker binge was well underway on Providence, with the participation of all the planet's inhabitants. When the supply ran dry, we all searched the entire planet for any Goldfish that could have been dropped on the ground. One citizen found his way into the records office and feasted on several top-secret documents. When he found them a few days later (they were protected by molecular lamination) and spread the news about the one containing the agreement between Bill and I. Bill immediately took my job, told me I was fired. I knew where I was going: to live and work with workthingies! I was in shock. Before I left the palace offices that day, Bill stopped me and said I needed to sign some paperwork before I left. "Why?" I asked. "Some legal things that need to be taken care of." "Wait, what legal things?" I was curious to make sure he wasn't trying to screw me over. "It's pretty complicated," he muttered on. "There's a dry-marker board, draw it out." "Well, as long as you hold the title of Overlord, you have the right to do as you wish with the planet. This merely is a similar agreement we had before..." "...with me not working in the palace, living in the slums of the workthingies," I finished for him. "Yeah." I reached forward for my desk phone and called security. They showed up in the office and I ordered, "Arrest Bill." One problem, most of the security guards in the palace were loyal to him. I managed to escape on the departing tourist shuttle and rallied up the military. Bill put the palace under lockdown, the standoff lasted a few hours when my brilliant army threatened to imprison the guards' families if they continued to support Bill, however if they surrendered, all would be forgotten. The guards surrendered and Bill was sent to the workthingy slums, but no longer known as Bill, but only WT-2568, effective 212419:000. It's just so much easier to keep up with workthingies when they're serial-numbered rather than named.
By some miracle, we in Fed are blessed with climates such that things are always conducive to maintaining our carefully-detailed (occasionally pre-made) landscaping. Never do we have to worry about watering, weeding, or feeding our lush foliage, whatever color it may be (highly dependent on how much you've been drinking). However, out here in the real world, the climate doesn't always agree with what our plants like, so we are often granted the summer vision of the Brown Lawn of Death. Nothing but fried grass as far as you can see. It doesn't matter how high you cut it, it's dead as a doornail in no time, burned to well-done. The only way to save it is to water it, something that, if done during a drought, is legally tantamount to strangling a dolphin. Both the local constabulary and everybody who sees you doing it will try to brain you with something heavy. So it surprises a number of people passing by dozens of brown lawns to see mine still lush and green. The police have accused me of watering it, in fact, which I haven't. What's my secret, you eagerly ask? Simple. It's all weeds. Yes, I love my crabgrass, wild strawberries, and other assorted broad-leaf "weeds." Why? Because they have a greater will to live than ordinary grass, and as such, don't instantly turn to hay when the weather gets a little dry. Nope, they go right on being green and happy. The only downside is that it is still the drought-inducing heat wave you're mowing the stuff in, but that's the price of a live lawn. This, then, begs the question: is this what are Lawns of the Future are in Fed? Could our carefully-tended greenery just be weeds, of all things? Personally, I think so. That's really the only possible explanation, when you sit down and think about it. The weather is about as controllable as the stock market (and we've seen how controllable THAT is). Maybe we should reorganize our thinking, then. After all, we've been poisoning them, yanking them, grinding them, and spraying them (the weeds) for years. Maybe it's time for a change of thought. Yes, that's a good idea. Love your weeds.
Godot and I were sharing another pint of Thaxxian Ale in the snack bar when I popped that question that lurks deep within every non-neutered male in and outside of DataSpace. "Why do women feel the need to discuss deep feelings?" I queried my patient friend. His reply, mumbled into his foaming stein, sounded something like "Scam." "Eh?" I asked. Godot is generally renowned as the wisest of oracles in Sol, but getting a real answer out of him is often like pulling tentacles off a tinguey. Godot raised his head out of his ale and tried to focus his drunken gaze on me. "Scam. Con. A way of confusing men by throwing up a smokescreen of hypothetical questions and vague scenarios while at the same time demanding specific answers to be given in real time." His head fell with a thunk on the table while I tried to pretend I understood. Okay, so having settled that question for the benefit of all man-and-male-alien-kind, I'll have to wait for Godot to sober up a little before posing the second part of the mystery: "Is it contagious?"
A DEAD THANE Feeling safe in DataSpace,
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