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WEB FED NEWS YEARBOOKS Earthdate April 2000 |
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WEB FED NEWS YEARBOOKS Earthdate April 2000 |
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INSIDE SCOOP |
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SORRY, I'VE MISTAKEN YOU FOR SOMEONE ELSE I awoke in DataSpace yesterday and was quite excited to see the Who's Who on my Comm List. One of my favorite Barons had awakened and I nearly dropped my comm unit in my haste to TB him. Excitedly, I TB'd him with a quick, "Heya! How've you been?" and was met with silence. Confused because he was normally very prompt about responding to TB's I decided to watch him for a moment. Swinging my beam over to his doings, I noticed that he was hauling like crazy. Figuring he just missed my TB, I decided to wait for a few minutes before trying to contact him again. I switched off my beam and continued to review my duchy rolls. Before much time had passed, I finally received a TB back from him. It was a curt, "I'm not who you think and that person rarely plays this character anymore." I was saddened and TB'd a quick apology for my mistake. This is a frequent occurrence in DataSpace these days. A lot of players are sleeping or have decided to move on to other things, but instead of sleeping their characters or removing them from the rolls of DataSpace, they give them to friends, neighbors, or send out mass email leaving them up for grabs for the first person to claim them. Now, don't get me wrong, I've owned many planets that I haven't grown myself. When I DDed before, a lot of people gave me their unused alt planets until I brought Stage back up. In addition, I have inherited other planets that I maintain because they have sentimental value to me or they were beautifully written places and others deserve to visit them and see the quality of work that went in to building and maintaining them. I guess secretly I hope that the owners will return and reclaim their worlds. So I keep the planets open and allow folks to take advantage of the exchanges and scenery, but I've never played the characters. It's even more amusing when both the original owner and another player play the same character. This becomes really confusing as you never know exactly which personality you're dealing with. There are several at the moment and it's always a great debate on Channel 9 to discover if it's the real person or the pseudo person. It deteriorates trust as one isn't quite sure what they are telling to whom. Because of this new phenomena, I've gone to having secret phrases or keywords that the real person will say to me to let me know they are currently in control. So what's the solution? If you find yourself in control of a well known character, please remember that the character had deep and lasting relationships with many people. If you aren't familiar with the past of the character, it might become a little mind boggling receiving all of the TB's asking why you didn't show up where you were supposed to be when you were supposed to be there. Handle these people gently if you're going to continue to RP that character, or perhaps it's best to tell them up front that you are a reincarnation of the character and you remember nothing of the past, but would be up to exploring a new found friendship. Above all, don't do what I almost did. Shortly after the mistaken identity another influential person in my FedLife showed up on my comm list. Almost afraid, I TB'd him with a hello and much to my delight it was the person I sought. After spending a delightful evening catching up with him since his absence of MONTHS I look forward to the chance of seeing him again, real soon.
YET
ANOTHER COMMODITIES EXPLANATION I just seem to remember this has been done a lot before. But I think my take on what some of the commodities REALLY are is... probably not worth your time. Read it anyway though... for my hypnotapes are commanding you too! Bwhahaha... using a commod like that already. I'm so clever. This is actually shorter on what the commods are and more on what the hell you're doing hauling 225 tons (in case you forgot, at trader and merchie, you can haul a maximum of 225 tons of commods bought in the exchange in your ship) of them around. So, here it is, my various comments on some of Federation's commodities: Lub-oils: Now WHY would you even be carrying 1 ton of a lubricant? Why would anyone need that much lubrication? Unless they're, hehe, well, umm... moving on! Hides: People can buy TONS of hides? Wouldn't the PETA have your head on a wall by now? Can't a planet run out of animals to get hides from anyway? Meats: <see above> Rads: After hauling rads, why don't you die when you enter your cargo hold? It always happens that way on Titan... Pharmaceuticals: Are people REALLY that sick and REALLY need that much medication? Or is it just a Dimetap addiction? I love Dimetap... RNA: Also known as Ribonucleic Acid (we had a spirited (boring actually) conversation on the subject of RNA in Chez Diesel recently... there I go with the parentheses again!), RNA is a liquid found in the cytoplasm of cells. Closely related to DNA, it assists in the production and development of ribosomes (the things that make proteins for a cell). That's about the gist of it, and seeing as I am not a biologist, that's all I really know about it. What I do know is that hauling 225 tons of the stuff is probably more than what exists in the known universe (today at least). Explosives: If you have explosives in your cargo hold and you get blown up... why don't the explosives fuel your destruction and kill all the other ships in the sector? Weapons: I wonder what kind of illegal weapons trafficking goes on... black market sales and what not. I'm sure the politician on Venus is involved in all that, trying to free Venus and all. Come on though, he IS a politician. Of course he's involved in the black market SOMEHOW! Artifacts: Now how can a planet have an everlasting supply of artifacts? Don't we excavate all of them at some point? What about planets that are the space station mini-planet... what artifacts could there be in the first place? Libraries: I haven't the faintest idea how much a library weighs in the first place... and I'm not going down to my public library to ask either! What if you bought one ton of a library? Would that be only a fraction of it? And how do these things get transported? What about falling books and such? Do the librarians stay in there the whole time? Then you get some interesting combinations... libs and lubs. Anyone know the song "No Sex in the Champagne Room?" How about "No Sex in the Library." Then we've got libs and weapons. Will rival librarians have all-out wars in the library while Shakespeare, Salinger, and Steinback look on (nice use of 'S' author alliteration, ain't it?) Musiks: Is this some kind of freakish, Prince-style (excuse me, The Artist Formerly Known as Prince-style) spelling of music for the future? And so concludes my commodities guide. I am, at the moment I write this, a GM. (Note: I started this way earlier in the week, and I promoted rather quickly, so some things in regard to current rank may seem odd). Seeing as I have done a Merchant, JP, and GM article already (again, I have the link to the GM one somewhere earlier in these articles, but check the 1997 AOL Fed Archives for the other two if you get inspired to see some of my earlier work. Bwhahaha, I sound like I'm famous now. Maybe I am...), this is the last article until Explorer. Don't cry! I'm only 400 or so Megs from Explorer. Donations accepted! So in maybe a week or so, look forward to: WTDQ (Workthingie Torture Devices Quarterly), a magazine that many Explorers subscribe to in preparation of planet owning.
SCOUNDREL'S
CORNER: GET A LIFE Something had been bothering me for a week. I finally resolved to do something about it. I hopped down from my barstool and headed to the Earth landing pad where my friend and sidekick Khajjika was faithfully performing repairs on the Wild Rover. The old girl was slouched in the corner of the LP, having been towed there after my last crash-landing. The ground was brilliantly illuminated by pulses of blue light, a sure sign that Khajj was at his work with the plasma welder. "Khajj," I called out. "Hey, Khajj!" The blinding light ceased, as did the rumble of the welding machine's generator. A moment later, Khajj emerged from the undercarriage of the Rover on a hovercreeper. Removing his welding goggles, he directed a glare at me. He always hates it when I disturb him when he is working. "Hey, Khajj, you remember that article I did a few weeks ago cataloging and categorizing various species of snerts?" "The… what?" He replied, scratching his fuzzy head with one of his long claws. "You know, the article for the Fed Chronicle that I do every week. You know." He scrunched up his muzzle, perplexed. "You write a column for the Fed Chronicle?" Oh, the shame. My best friend and comrade didn't read the thing. "Umm, yes." "Anyway, Khajj, I did an article on snerts and their behaviorisms. And I forgot one. Snertis Getavitae." Khajj peered at me quizzically. "That's all well and good, Olias, but why are you bothering me with all this? Can't you see I am busy?" "Well, it's just that I can't understand it, buddy, and I'd like your opinion. Snertis Getavitae is the guy that shows up in the Cantina from time to time, yells out, 'You all need to get a life!', and leaves. I just don't have any idea what this one could possibly mean." Khajjika was wiping off his clawed hands on a rag as he approached me. "Among my people," he said, "there are legends and rumors of another place. The shaman of my tribe speaks often of a place called To'rojja Kar. While there is no exact translation to Galactic Standard, roughly speaking it means, 'Real Life'." "Real life?" I asked, puzzled. "I don't understand what you mean. What is this we're living in, then?" "I cannot say that I fully understand it myself. If you so desire, I could arrange a gathering of my village's elders, who could perhaps better explain it to you. I myself, however, believe it is just old folk tales, stories told to Kitterian cubs." Despite his opinion, I needed to know what this Real Life thing was. Khajj flatly refused to fly anywhere in the Wild Rover, so we booked passage on a passenger liner. After a ceremonial feast on the 600 tons of livestock I had arranged to be shipped as tribute to the village elders, I was granted an audience with them. "Honored elders, I have come before you to seek your wisdom. I have heard tell of a place known only to me as To'rojja Kar, or in my tongue, Real Life." I bowed. The elders all glanced at one another uneasily. Thrajjan Redclaw, the village shaman, spoke up. "This is not something we can tell you of, traveler. It defies any sort of description. If you are serious in your quest for To'rojja Kar, we can only tell you how to go there, to experience it yourself. Will you undertake this journey?" I nodded, a bit apprehensively. "Then you must meet me at the Spirit Rock when the moon is at its highest point." At the prescribed time that evening, I approached Spirit Rock. The village shaman was there. He was leaning on a wooden staff adorned with feathers from a Cha'chooka bird and wore his medicine bag on a leather thong around his furry neck. "So, you come. Build a fire, then we will send you on your way." "There is some ceremony to be observed to send you to To'rojja Kar," he said to me across the flames. "We first will smoke the spirit pipe, then you must speak the sacred mantra to cross over. The sacred mantra is never spoken aloud, except by those that travel. You will find it here." He handed me a bone, which appeared to be a broken tooth from some mammoth beast. On the surface of the tooth was etched the mantra I was to speak. He took a long pull from the spirit pipe he had just lit, then handed it to me. After a brief coughing fit, my surroundings wavered and rippled as if viewed through a wall of rising heat. Through the haze, the elder's words came to me. "You must now speak the sacred mantra." I consulted the bone totem again to make sure I had it right. "Quit" I chanted. The voices of the ancestral spirits of the Kitterians seemed to emanate from the Spirit Rock and reverberated through my head. "NO LONGER CONNECTED TO FEDERATION DATASPACE," they said. I experienced a whirling, dizzy sensation and I felt as if I were falling from a great height. At long last my vision cleared, and I took my first look at To'rojja Kar. Unlike Fedaration DataSpace, this Real Life place seemed to have been rendered in high-resolution 3D. The sounds were rich and environmental, making full use of surround sound. My senses reeled as I struggled to take it all in. I seemed to be sitting at some sort of computer terminal in a room inhabited by many people. On the screen before me was some sort of pyramid on a blue background above a caption which read 'Version 5.0'. Looking about the room, I spotted a sign. "New Millenium Online Café." Just as I was getting a feel for the new interface and the incredible way I was able to move my fully articulated arms and legs, I was gripped with an overwhelming sensation, as if there were some sort of gaping hole within me. I attempted to consult my personal unit to see what the trouble was, but it was nowhere to be found. I began to panic as the sensation became more intense. Frantically looking about, I spotted one of the other players of Real Life lifting an object resembling the descriptions I've heard of a Ham and Cheese sandwich. I made the connection in that instant that the hollow sensation I was feeling was extreme hunger. "buy food" I said. Nothing happened. "buy food" I repeated. Still nothing. Near where I was sitting, a long line of Real Life players were standing in some sort of single-file procession, evidently waiting to consult with a mobile behind the counter wearing a white foofy hat and an apron. The last player in the line turned to me with an unfriendly expression. "Buy food, eh? That's what we're all trying to do, pal, and I suggest you wait in line like everyone else." I suddenly understood. I had been wondering how this Real Life game managed to pull off such a detailed and high-resolution environment without the characteristic lag found in similar games. Evidently to reduce such lag, one had to go to certain prescribed areas to issue various commands. I stood up on my 3D-rendered legs and shakily took a step to the back of the line, getting a feel for the interface. After a few minutes, I found myself at the front of the line, face to face with the waitdroid mobile, which incidentally looked nothing like a droid. "May I help you?" It said. "buy food" I replied. "Um, could you be more specific, sir? Did you have something specific in mind?" I remembered the player with the sandwich. "buy hamandcheese" I said, not knowing if that was the correct name of the object. I had forgotten to EX the sandwich. "That will be four-fifty, sir." Four hundred and fifty! I grimaced at the ludicrous price and reached into my pocket. I looked down at the handful of objects I retrieved, but to my dismay my GalactiBank Account Manager was not among them. The mobile behind the counter took note of my confusion, reached over, and took a greenish piece of paper out of a wad of such greenish papers I was holding, punched some commands into its terminal, then handed me two pieces of greenish paper, two silver disks, and a hamandcheese sandwich object. "Thank you, have a nice day," it said. I stood there, confused. I had given this mobile no groats, yet it had given me what I asked for. Furthermore, though it seemed I had bought food, I was still hungry. "eat food" I tried. Nothing happened. The mobile looked at me quizzically. "I appreciate that, sir, but my break is not for another forty-five minutes and I bagged a lunch. Please move along, sir. We are very busy today." I wandered off. I was confused, frustrated and still hungry. I had a hamandcheese object and no idea why it wasn't working. Looking around, I saw a clearly marked exit. It mentioned no compass direction, so I went OUT. I surveyed my surroundings. I was standing outside the entrance of the café. Before me was some sort of street where machines resembling hovercars were zipping to and fro. Instead of hovering above the ground, however, they seemed to be riding on four black disk things. Across this street was a squat building where I observed pulses of blue light which were immediately familiar to me. I ran across the road, dodging aside as the diskcar – for lack of a better term - nearly ran me down. A voice called out, "hey, I'm driving here!" as the irate driver swerved and roared off into the distance. Inside the bay of the squat building, I found another of the diskcars parked, with a pair of legs sticking out from underneath. "Khajj! Is that you, buddy? Thank God! Get me out of this Real Life place!" The flashes of light ceased, the welder wound down, and a creeper emerged from the underside of the car. The mechanic stood up, wiped his hands on a rag, and said, "Ahh, you must be the delivery boy from the New Millenium Café. Thanks." My spirits sank. It was not, in fact, Khajjika. He handed me some more of the greenish paper, bid me, "keep the change," took the hamandcheese object from me, and inserted it into his face. Wiping his hands on his rag again, he spoke. "I don't know who this 'Koj' person is, but then, I am new here. If you have an order for someone else, feel free to have a seat and wait in the customer area." With that, I was ushered through the door. The room I had enter contained several chairs, a counter with various objects, and a tall machine. Upon further inspection, the machine appeared to be some sort of vending machine reminiscent of the shredded wheat machine in DataSpace. After observing the ritual necessary to ingest food in this Real Life game, I strode over to the counter, grabbed the wrench that lay there with the other objects, and proceeded to bash the hell out of the vending machine. A food bar named after our galaxy fell out of the wrecked vending machine, which I promptly inserted into my face. I felt much better, and was able to enjoy feeling much better for about five minutes, when a blue-uniformed mobile entered the waiting area. "Well, well. What have we here?" It said. "Malicious destruction of property. And in broad daylight too. Tsk tsk. Well, come along, lad." I was seized, put in manacles, and dragged off. In the days that followed, I was locked in a barred room with a fat, hairy, bearded, ugly man with romantic notions. I banged the bars, banged them incessantly, but found no way to escape. I was later brought before a judge, who took the rest of my green paper stuff, and was set free. The days all seemed to blend together after that. I roamed about the countryside, aimless, wandering, taking food objects where I could from large green metal canisters. I sunk into a deep depression, forlorn and lost. One day, as I was stumbling down the street, I found a particularly nice doorway that looked like the ideal spot to stop for a while, huddle up, and enjoy the bottle of rotgut I was carrying in a brown paper bag. Before I had even lifted the bottle of foul spirits to my mouth, however, a woman flew out of the doorway and accosted me with a waggling finger. "Olias! What are you doing? AND WHERE IS THIS WEEK'S ARTICLE??" I peered up blearily at her. I fought to see through the haze, when I realized that I was, in fact looking at the Hazed. She was standing with her hands on her hips glaring at me under the sign above the doorway which read, "ibgames - We Build Words". She grabbed me by the two-foot-long beard I had grown and dragged me inside. I was shoved into a chair before a keyboard where I quickly whipped up some rot about what I got my girlfriend for her birthday. She then mercifully, blessedly, spoke the following: "There's a terminal over there if you want to log in Fed when you are done." The spirits chanted, "Knock hard, life is deaf," and suddenly, I was home. I smooched the village shaman, who had waited for me, on the snout, and teleported to the Earth landing pad. Khajj looked at me. "So, tell me. Tell me what you learned of To'rojja Kar." I smiled. "I learned, buddy, that the reason Snertis Getavitae tells you to get a life is because misery loves company. Come on, let's hit the Cantina. I'm buying."
THE
SPIRIT OF FED "My Exchange is screwed up!" wailed across my comm unit late last night. "Can someone PLEASE come help me? I've lost 150 meg in the last half hour!" Recognizing the signal of distress was buried deep in the heart of my Duchy Stage, I sprang into action. Checking out the planet in question, I realized the PO had closed down the exchange. Tbing the PO, I asked that the planet be brought back on-line so we could go over the digests and production and figure out just what was happening. Thinking it was an interduchy affair, I was delighted and amazed at how many people were willing to help this new squire figure out just what had gone wrong. Suddenly the radiation of all of the beams pointed in our direction warmed our skin and gave new hope to the distressed Squire. Retusafsp, Baron of Zoomie, teleported in from Lorien to offer assistance while Roberts, Technocrat of Revenge focused his beam to view the reports of the digests. Many others were focused in, HellBug, OnyxGod, Pintomike, all offering their experience and view on what was going wrong. Were the workthingies on hunger strike or where they just being lazy? Dag, Technocrat of Capri and Ven, Baron of Freeedom begin a massive hauling effort to fill deficits so the planet would start churning out a profit. Doktari, Baron of Aphrika and Geiiga, Baron of Lunacy began the process of putting some groats into the treasury in order to offset the loss the planet would take from the sudden overflow of goods. Within no time, the workthingies were back at work and the planet was beginning to profit. Everyone involved congratulated each other and themselves from saving a Squire from bankruptcy. I went back to my office and curled up on my sofa to think for a bit. I had just witnessed the Spirit of Fed in action. Now some of you might think I'm being corny, but I'm really not. The events of the evening took me back in time to my fondest memories of Fed. I remembered how everyone used to work together to bring up newbies, teaching them along the way the merits of reading the guides and learning how things operate before rushing up the ranks. Of course, back then it wasn't as easy to rush up the ranks since cycles were longer and your average planet builds took 4 hours instead of 1 hour. I can't think of any in my immediate circle who didn't cut their teeth on an office they'd earned on a more experienced POs planet. I myself was VP of Solace, responsible at one point for hauling in deficits and pouring over digests every day to figure out what worked and what didn't. I held that office for quite a time before actually deciding that I was ready to handle a planet on my own. Even when I opened Stage as a Squire, I knew I could count on my duchy to help me if I ran into any snags. Duchies worked with a great sense of teamwork to fill each other's deficits and help haul commods needed for builds. When someone promoted, it was a PARTY! At the same time, most PO's were active in recruiting newbies, raising them up in the duchies, giving them hauling jobs and teaching them the basic mechanics of Federation Data Space. Sitting up straight on my sofa I got excited. Could it be coming back, The Spirit of Fed? I certainly hope so. But in order for it to work, we all have to want it and work for it. Instead of believing that every newbie that cries for help on comms is another alt of someone, let's hope that it's a new player, and let's take them under our wings, bring them into our duchies and make Fed great again.
SCOUNDREL'S
CORNER: THE RISE AND FALL OF MAN Easter Sunday. What better time to turn our thoughts to the heavenly, the divine. To wonder about the great gift of our own existence. In celebration of the day, my friends, I offer up the following passage from the Bible.
The Book Of Genesis – No, Not
The Planet Editor, The Other Genesis 1 On the first day, Hazed said, "Let there be light." And there was light. 2 And it was good. Much better, in fact, than the sickly glow of the florescent bulbs found in the Ibgames building. 3 On the second day, Hazed said, "Let there be shopping malls." And there were shopping malls. 4 And it was good, because some space guy had walked past Hazed commenting on her untrendy gear. 5 On the third day, Hazed went shopping. And it was good. 6 Clearance sale. 7 On the fourth day, Hazed said, "Let there be beauty parlors." And there were beauty parlors. 8 And it was good, because Hazed looked a bit rumpled after a hectic day of shopping. 9 On the fifth day, Hazed decided she had better do something divine, lest her title of "Demi-Goddess" turn into, "Not-A-Goddess." 10 She went to Slarti's planet shop and said, "Order Water", named it "Earth", and onlined it. 11 And it was so-so. It could have been worse - she could have ordered the candy mini. 12 On the sixth day, Hazed buried some phony dinosaur bones and fossils. 13 And in a few thousand years, it would be good, at least for Charles Darwin. 14 On the seventh day, Adam logged in. 15 And it was good for business. 16 On the little-known eighth day, Hazed informed her bible writer that it was poor literary form to begin a sentence with 'And'. 17 It, in my opinion, was not so good. Now, before we go any further, let me assure you that I am aware that a misguided few of you still cling to the ridiculous notion that the Earth, the stars, and the entire galaxy were created by some guy named Alan Lenton. I am also aware that some of you have even gone so far as to form a church of your heathen beliefs, The Church Of Flatter Rate Lentonians. The Roman Hazic Church stands to this day as a testament to love, founded on the precepts of peace and tolerance. It is in this spirit of tolerance and peace that I, Pope John Olias XVII, have recently dispatched an armada of Charlemagne-Class Strike Cruisers to… persuade you Lentonians of your folly. Our mission is peaceful and diplomatic, and for your own good, filthy godless heathens. Please overlook the ordnance loadout of Crusader Mark 11 anti-personnel missles. We mean no harm. I am the Pope. I would not lie to you barbarians. Really. Moving right along, my children, let us now take a look at Man's humble beginnings on this planet, his arrival in the Garden of Eden. Let us look now also at the first sin, the original sin, the eventual banishment of which has led us to the celebration of this day.
Welcome to ibgames, the home of Federation. Don't forget - you are subject to the ten commandments when you play our games. ibgames login: ADAM Last successful login: Never, You
Are The First Mortal. Linking to Federation DataSpace. As you step into the link you see a sign saying, 'Don't knock. Doors have not been invented yet.' There is a shiver of dark emptiness splintering around you as the Demi-Goddess holding you suddenly lets go… Meeting Point >inventory Your personal kit includes nothing, as you have not advanced to the tool-utilization age. Dummy. >east Terminus >southwest Eden Cantina A bush nearby burns softly and a voice says, "Cleaning Angel to main garden. Code VII." >read You stroll over and admire the workmanship of the Ark of the Covenant. The message slabs inside are blank. Nothing has been chiseled into them yet. >post First! I mean, REALLY FIRST! WOO-HOO! Eve has appeared with a shimmer of creation effect. >examine Eve You see a creature resembling yourself in form, with a few exceptions. Very nice, shapely exceptions. You feel a strange craving for barbecue ribs. >say Hiya. Eve crosses her legs and dances around. "Hiya. Excuse me for a moment, it was a long creation and I had too much coffee." Ribs never tasted this good! Eve has just left, heading northeast. >wait You grab a handful of sod and wrap it in a piece of bark. Rubbing two sticks together, you light the end and relax in the resulting aromatic haze... Ribs never tasted this good! Eve has just arrived. Eve glares at you. Eve shouts, "Okay, who left the stupid toilet log up again? And don't try to pretend it wasn't you, there is no one else here!" >say Er…well… Eve shouts, "Don't give me that! And what are you doing loafing about? Don't you think it is time you got a job?" >say I…uh… Eve shouts, "And another thing, I come all this way and no flowers? You forgot my first birthday?" >say Look, wait a second! You just got here. Calm down. I will need to call you something. I am "man". I will call you "woman". Eve shouts, "Oh, sure. I don't even get my own name! Just some derivative of yours, as if I am some sort of sub-being! You sexist PIG!" >get stick You pick it up. >bash eve with stick Hazed has appeared with a shimmer of demi-divine effect. "Hold it!", shouts Hazed. Hazed says, "Knock it off, you two. It's time to get down to business. Gimme that stick. Now, I want you both to try out the grope command. I've got a huge waiting list of souls here praying that neither of you are sterile. Get with it." Hazed points at the pizza tree. "Oh, and by the way, you can have any pizza off this tree except THAT one. The double-cheese and anchovy. Got it? Good." Hazed has just vanished. >act shrugs. >grope Eve You give Eve a passionate grope! Eve has given you a warm grope! Eve lets nature take its course. Its course lasts for seven minutes. "Hmmph.", says Eve. >act grunts, rolls over, and falls asleep. AFK Have some pizza, the Serpent has just arrived. "Have some pizza." Serpent says. "Why? That certainly was no exertion on my part. Hardly lost a point of stamina.", says Eve. Serpent says, "You want pizza. You know you do." "Well, maybe I am a bit peckish.", says Eve. Eve walks over and grabs the Forbidden Pizza. The Serpent spins it onto the log in front of her, and she wolfs it down... >act is back. >say Geeze, I feel so naked. >buy clothes Adam wears a fig leaf over those parts that are markedly different from Eve's parts. >act scrolls up. "Wha…Eve, what are you eating? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE??" Hazed has just appeared with a shimmer of demi-divine effect. Serpent has gone off into the trees and stuff to sulk! "What are you idiots doing? Who told you that you were naked? AND WHAT HAPPENED TO MY DINNER?!" Thus, my flock, was original sin commited. The gates to heaven were closed against us. Those that died found the entrance barred. They returned to the land of the living as alts rather than face an eternity of aimless wandering in limbo. The great lag flood hit, a sure sign of the goddess' rage. Only Noah and his wife survived, having built an ark to weather the deluge. They packed the ark with two of every mobile and waited out the storm, some forty days and forty nights. After washing on to the world wide web's shore, they made prudent use of the grope command and man thrived once more. Still, we were saddled with the sins of our forebears. We paid for dearly for those evils, sixty cents an hour to be exact. We were given a chance at redemption, in the form of ten holy commandments. These commandments warned us against such evils as luring our neighbor to a horrible DD with artifacts priced at 2,358ig/ton, passionately tickling our neighbor's wife, snerting our neighbors groats, and so forth. Being the community that we are, we of course botched them up completely, particularly the neighbor's wife bit. Perhaps one day someone will come to guide us. Perhaps this emissary will live the message he preaches, a life of peace and love, an example we can all strive to achieve with our own lives. Perhaps this savior will make the ultimate sacrifice for us, and open the gates of heaven once more. And who knows. Perhaps somewhere, somehow, at some time, he already has. In another place, another time, another reality, perhaps this Easter holiday carries more significance than pastel eggs and a fuzzy rabbit.
If you didn't like this article, and are fixing to give me some gruff about what the Burning Bush and Ark of the Covenant are doing in the Garden of Eden, I have two words for you: Papal Infallibility.
Every once in while I get saved, I mean distracted, from my planetary explorations by questions from the citizens of Fed. Usually the conversation goes something like this: Your comm unit signals a tight beam
message from Grewl, "How do you get to be a
Senator?" Okay, so that may not live up to the most exciting exchange you've ever heard in DataSpace, but being a hound, even a Dishonorable Senator hound, isn't the most exciting life you can imagine. Most of my days are spent scratching at errant fleas and practicing my savage growl on unimpressed cleaning droids. Chewing up the soap and burping bubbles at navigators is good for only limited laughs. You see, underneath the titles and despite my surgically enhanced brain I'm still the same mutt you've tripped over for years. Someone would come in my backyard and I'd get to my feet. They leave, I'd lie back down. Another visitor, I get to my feet again. Gone, lie down. Enter, get to feet… well, you get the picture. Becoming a senator didn't change me much; I still put on my pants one paw at a time. Having more legs than the general populace just means it takes me longer. So when asked how I became a senator, I can only give you my best guess. I didn't do it. I did the slippers and the mud, but the rest? Not my fault!
WORKTHINGIE
TORTURE DEVICES QUARTERLY Explorer, the most underappreciated rank, is also quite possibly the perfect rank. One has not the painful, suicide-inducing stresses of POdom (to be detailed next week), and one is not completely at the newbod end of the social and rank ladder. However, all will inevitably promote to Squire someday, and to prepare for the great task that is beating your workthingies into submission so they will work without question for you. To prepare you for such a gargantuan task, we here at WTDQ will sell to you, at a reasonable cost, an amusing way to torture, mangle, maim, and otherwise injure your workthingies. Sure, standard beatings are all well and good, but a nice game of Workthingie Trap passes the idle time while you're too lazy to haul, and just for fun, using the Workthingie Solar Beacon sets an example equally well as the aforementioned beating does. But I don't want to give away all the surprises, just read for yourself, and be sure to check the bottom for the methods of payment! - Editor-in-Chief, Gavin
1 - Just for showing off, it may
hurt or kill a workthingie or two, but that's normal for
them, and they will think nothing of it.
How often do those pesky left-wing
anarchist extremists start riots? Isn't it a pain? Or
maybe they don't, and you just feel like it. Well, the
laws for all treasonous acts as ordained by Empress
Catty, along with a gallows, guillotine, or red brick
wall are included in this package. Are you in the mood
for a hanging? In that case, chances are that the
workthingie in the second row to the left just plotted to
overthrow the government. Or perhaps the workthingie
hiding in the eighth row, the one who just gave away
state secrets to an enemy duchy. The possibilities are
endless, and the message you want to send to your workers
lasts a good, long time.
Please make all check or groat orders out to Gavin. Shipments will arrive in 6-8 weeks depending on what duchy you reside in. No CODs or cash shipments. Shipping and handling will cost 2% of the price of the product, to be sent along with the regular price. Imperial Taxes will constitute 99.9% of the cost and be paid directly to His Imperial Majesty, Empress Catty. No refunds will be given, and we are not responsible or liable for malfunctioning products, even in instances of harm or death (of you, not workthingies).
THE
MYSTERIES OF THE BAR BOARD It happens to the best of us… and the worst: Writers Block. I encountered the worst case of writer's block this week while trying to come up with an article idea. So I sent out a call for help, and luckily Sparhawk, Baron of Bah answered the SOS.
Taking a look at the board, I had to agree. There does seem to be quite a uniform way of how people post and who posts. Nine times out of ten, those who post, do so often and regularly. Perhaps it's a way to get noticed or to get their fifteen minutes of fame in The Chronicle. Most who post are higher ranked players, Duke/esses and Baron/esses. So let's think about this for a second, why do folks post on the bar boards? Dukes and Duchesses post frequently with their duchy name in brackets and sending their love out to their PO's. In the past, fire sales were announced via bar boards so promoting PO's could get help clearing their exchanges before galactic midnight. Then there is the general ramblings of the masses: poetry, declarations of love, varied rabble rousing of whose duchy is at war, black ops announcements (aren't those supposed to be secret?!) and self realizations. Basically, anything goes. So why is the bar board there? Methinks it's there for this very reason: to give gamers a creative outlet to be heard by everyone. To let each other know that they have found the love of this second and they are proud of something they've accomplished. To announce happy occasions they are experiencing and invite the rest of Fed to revel with them in celebration or to mourn the passing of friends and begin the healing processes. A better question in my opinion, is why can't I post to the barboard in Horsell? Cressida was here! And beat the Martians!
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