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WEB FED NEWS YEARBOOKS Earthdate June 2000 |
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WEB FED NEWS YEARBOOKS Earthdate June 2000 |
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INSIDE SCOOP |
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What was in June 2000's Inside Scoop:
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IT GOES ON AND ON AND ON Okay, everybody ready? Here we go. We've all complained about how it seems as though our workthingies never do anything but always snork up the things we have so very carefully hauled in. The simple and most likely answer is that they're spending too much time playing the games we provide them with. But that led me to think what kind of games they're playing, which further led me to a horrifying thought. Maybe they're playing Fed. Think about this. The little people that live in our game have their own game, in which are more little people! And of course those little people have games, which means they might have Fed, which means it goes on and on! Can you imagine the siginificance of this? We, by playing Federation, may have created more than a thousand dimensions! Before you ask, I am not, never was, and never will be under the effects of any narcotics. They're a bad idea for people who are as naturally goofy as I am. They could make me normal, and that would be an absolute tragedy. But can you believe this? Oh shut up, I know you can't, but play along, alright? Wait... I just had another thought... if our little workthingies have Fed, then that means they have the Fed Chronicle, probably, which means... which means there might be one of me in there! Oh no! Please, everybody, don't do any builds. You could kill me. Well, not me, but the other me who lives in Federation who has the same general life as me but isn't me and... you get the picture. Hey, I'd love to finish this article, but I have to go. I have to find the me that isn't me but is.
NEWSDROID
INAUGURATION ADDRESS Foreword: So Olias spilled the beans last week. Of course, I had grand plans to unleash it to Fed for the first time (except for perhaps a mention or two on channel 24) here, but Olias has to ruin everything. That’s alright though. Like a certain unnamed minister, I’m not bitter. After all, Olias only made a passing mention of it in his article, and nobody really paid that much attention to something Olias wrote, did they? Nevertheless, it isn’t really official until I personally make public mention of it with one of my world-famous deadline-scratching, last-minute, Friday-night-I-want-to-sleep articles. On Monday came that fateful email from one Fi Craig, whom many know better as the wonderful demi-goddess Hazed. At first, I thought that "Inbox (2)" (the other 1 is the phantom email that doesn’t exist but still registers on "Inbox") was just spam mail and finally a weight loss center or porn site had found my email address. After all, it had been a week of no email, who would it be now? Instead, I received the joyous message that I was being called up to serve my fellow Fedders on the IB team as a NewsDroid. Of course I was ecstatic, and suddenly was bombarded with stuff. NewsDroid Manual, NewsDroid Application, and a spot on the NewsTeam mailing list. "Inbox (8)" seemed like some surreal dream to me. I was positive that it was all junkmail. Instead, I ended up with loving "welcomes" from my new teammates on the NewsTeam… as well as a few barks from Alsatian. So, to make everything official, I now need to publicly take the Official Oath of the NewsDroid (™ me seeing as I just came up with the idea):
Thank you everyone, and so, with much sorrow and elation at the same time, I turn in my skin for the shiny metallic droid-casing of a NewsDroid and head off onto my first assignment as a real member of the NewsTeam. By the way, does this droid outfit remind anyone of a certain kitchen appliance used in heating bread? If you wish to congratulate Fed’s Newest FedDroid, go send an email to Gavin_of_Mythose@yahoo.com. If you think Hazed is out of her mind for picking him, send an email to Gavin_of_Mythose@yahoo.com and he will make certain she receives every piece of spite-filled hatemail directed against him.
SCOUNDREL'S
CORNER: IT WASN'T MY FAULT I am sure there are those of you that believe that writer's block is some sort of phenomenon that happens in the mind, a strange occurrence that causes a writer to draw a complete blank and to be totally at a loss for words. For me, writer's block refers more to the four-inch-thick titanium door set in the wall of my office at the Fed Chronicle – the door my nose came in violent contact with as I tried in vain to flee the wrath of the demi-goddess at my imminently approaching failure to come up with anything to write about for this week. It also refers to the nice large marble block thoughtfully placed in here by the demi-goddess, that I may beat my head upon it in an attempt to stir some ideas up. It's a nice RED marble block now, a testament to that fact that it worked not at all. I am using it now as a dinner table for the plate of gruel they serve me through a slot in the aforementioned impregnable door. It's not like I didn't try! It was a bad week. Here's the details: I certainly couldn't do it on Monday. Monday was Memorial Day. On Monday I boarded the Learjet that I own and flew to Arlington National Cemetery to pay my respects to the honored dead. What? You don't believe that a scoundrel like me would do something like that? Neither did Hazed. She didn't buy the bit about my owning a Learjet, either, and I am very offended about that. The fact that I don't in fact own a Learjet is irrelevant. It wasn't my fault. So on Tuesday I sulked. "Rotten no-good all-knowing demi-goddess had no business – no business whatsoever – using her demi-omniscience to identify me as the lying sack-of-filth that I am. Hmmmph!" As we all know, one cannot speak while one is sulking. To speak in Fed, one must type, so I had little difficulty in taking this logic one step further: one must also type to write. I live alone, so there was no one around to hug on to break the sulk. The fat hairy man working the counter at 7-11 wouldn't let me give him a passionate hug. He was so vehemently against my giving him a hug, in fact, that he nearly refused to sell me the bag of Tostidos and the thing of Salsa I was attempting to purchase, things I felt no regret in buying because nowhere does it say that one cannot relax and take it easy in front of the television while sulking. He did, however, refuse to sell me a copy of The Complete Writer's Guide to Run-On Sentences which explains why the preceding sentence is also not my fault. On Wednesday I figured I had better generate some better proof as to why my lack of an article was not my fault so I logically decided it would be someone else's fault. I decided it would be Gavin of Mythose's fault. I tried to patiently explain that I had an idea for the Greatest Official Federation Chronicle Article Ever Written By Mortal Man but that Gavin had shamelessly stolen it for his column. Hazed looked at me with a skeptical eye and said, "Okay, so what's it about, then?" Drat. If only I had put my teleporter on the charger the night before I could have popped forward in time to find out. Now, the clever among you will ask why I didn't simply put my teleporter on the charger the next night, pop forward in time and find out what his article is about, then pop back to just before the conversation with Hazed. The really clever among you will even go so far as to ask why I didn't just pop forward in time, hork Gavin's article, then pop backward in time and bump Gavin off. This sort of time-travel frivolity is expressly forbidden under Imperial Edict 25847, Subsection D, Part IV. It reads thus: "No time-traveling device shall be used to intentionally alter the natural flow of time. This is not because the flow of time is all that great, really, but because it is a known fact that the average mortal does not have the mental faculties to handle the paradoxes inherent to time-travel. Psychological studies have proven beyond a reasonable doubt that such thinking can lead to criminal insanity. Such insanity has often manifested itself in anti-social behaviors including dumping, comm-whining, anti-institution rioting, and cult suicides..." So it's not my fault. On Thursday I finally decided to admit to myself that I had a flaring case of writer's block. I decided that in order to better get in touch with my creative side, I should have a few drinks. I went to the kitchen. I had a few drinks. I came back to my computer and sat down. The creative juices began to flow. "Scoundrel's Corner: The Complete Guide to the Digestive Tract of a Typical Adult Zlitherworm" I was that far, then the creative juices dried up like an Egyptian mummy wearing no Coppertone while sunbathing in the middle of July in Texas. I logically concluded that since two drinks had gotten me through the title, it would take approximately 47 more for a solid three-page article. I went to the kitchen and had 47 more drinks. "by oLIas, baeron off Emasipashun, emmmisarie to fooojalo2, TUBA REEL GOOD plaer, shoundril, holsder ofdf theeq sacred kfll s;dlksdsdfsdfsdfsdfsdfsdfgjhjgjhjgjhjgjhjgjhjgjhjg I awoke to find my aching head firmly pressed against the middle of the keyboard. It had somehow become Friday. Thursday was therefore not my fault. It was Friday, I was panicking. I briefly wondered how good Hazed's memory was – maybe I could take my first article and slide it past without her noticing. To my knowledge, only four people had read that one and were either dead (much to my satisfaction – the dead guy criticized it), my alt, or easily bribed. I dug it up and e-mailed it off. The response was fast and painfully to the point:
I spent the rest of Friday night laundering my badly soiled shorts. So it's not my fault. Saturday. Zero hour. Imminent death and dismemberment. I cast about frantically for an idea. I panicked. My neighbors called the police, certain that my wails of terror indicated a serial killer had broken into my house and was ruthlessly butchering me. Not yet, but soon. I decided to make a run for it. I logged into Fed. Linking to Federation DataSpace. As you step into the link you see a sign saying, 'Knock hard. Life is deaf.' There is a shiver of dark emptiness splintering around you as the stasis field holding you suddenly dissolves... You stroll over to the notice
board and take a look at the messages displayed on it: I logged off. There was nowhere to run to. Nowhere to hide. I reached a sort of calm, a sense of acceptance. She entered, a large scythe brandished in her hands. Scenes from my life flashed before me. Me, as a child, dropping nickels on the floor in a crowded Toys 'R' Us store so I could bend down and peek up the women's dresses as I picked them up. Me, as a teenager, dropping quarters on the floor at a JCPenny department store so I could bend down and peek up the women's dresses as I picked them up. Me, as an adult, standing amidst a pile of dropped groats and being beaten around the head, neck and chest with an umbrella in the Starship Cantina when the women finally caught on to the peek-a-boo game. A swing of the scythe. Then silence, darkness. Peace. Then, a noise. Faint, at first. Distant. Closer now. Sounds like a voice. Or a shout. "Olias! What are you doing loafing about? Where's the article? You think the afterlife is all about relaxing? You still owe me an article! You think I wouldn't find you here? I'm a demi-goddess, you idiot!" I am dead. And I still owe Hazed an article. And it's my own fault.
ALSATIAN IS GORMLESS IN BRITANIA After spending several days searching in vain for the lost Hound, I turned my attention to the "hep" that Hound so urgently begged for in his cryptic communication of last week. My surgically enhanced cerebral cortex heated up as I attempted to decipher why the canine sent his plea for "hep" to me, an unimportant lazy planet reviewer with a modest queue of worlds to devour, digest, and otherwise mark territory on. I shut down the logical processing when popcorn began to fly out of my ears. Neither Hound nor "hep" were to be found on Thorus. The next planet in the queue was Britania; I had visions of castles, islands, six months of quarantine for rabies, spanners and whingeing. Whingeing? Spanners? Hep? Maybe "hep" was one of those queer little words that keep popping up in Fed, the ones the Staff tries to tell us originate in the British Isles. I've never believed it, I think it's all code. When Hazed complains about my whingeing she's not really talking about whining, she's probably transmitting a coded message that stands for something like "Let's have an unscheduled shutdown for maintenance a few minutes before Galactic Midnight." And an alsatian isn't really just a shepherd; it means, "Alert! Puzzle items mentioned on channel nine, time to grab a few comm units!" And snog obviously stands for "Let's blow this place and go shopping." So maybe "hep" was another code word, and I'd find the answer on Britania! But first there was the matter of the six-month quarantine required for every canine entering the British Isles. Even though I felt this was nothing but a load of codswallop, I knew there wasn't any point in getting into an argy-bargy about it with the immigration officials. Instead I nicked a Baron's new time machine. I'm sure when he heads back to Horsell he'll be quite gob smacked when he time travels six months into the future, finding all those charges on his credit card for months he didn't remember playing.
There are certain things that we love just because they've been around so long. Like George Burns; the man has been around since just after the Earth solidified, he is still one of the funniest men alive, and we love him for it. The trouble is few of us have ever actually MET Mr. Burns, so he's someone we love, but is somewhat distant from our day-to-day lives. Thankfully, we have a replacement to fill the gap, even if it's not quite as chatty. I am, of course, referring to the Cleaner that roams around Sol. This amazing little gizmo has been puttering along ever since our universe was created, happily snorking up garbage that falls by the wayside - namely, cocktail peanuts, old receipts, and snerts. It does its job all day and all night, and has never complained... assuming you set aside the unfortunate incident five or six years ago wherein it latched on to a member of the Staff and refused to let go until he emptied his wallet into it. Call it a cost of living increase. Being that none of us are too sure of when it was actually built (then again, some of us are not too sure of what our names are, depending on what we've been drinking), I decided to give you all some biography on our little friend. The Cleaner was built on Mars a number of years ago. Although we can give a fair guess based on circumstantial evidence, we don't know exactly how many because the Cleaner vacuumed up its own purchase receipt. Chalk it up to one of the great mysteries in life, right next to "what's the deal with the opposite sex?" Ever since it was built, it has been merrily puttering around Sol system, doing its job. Some of you might be interested in how the Cleaner is built. Well, after exhaustive research (10 minutes), I've discovered what makes the Cleaner tick - it's a penny that got stuck to one of the wheels. Aside from that, the inner workings of the Cleaner are remarkably simple. It's powered by a 6-gerbil motor that runs the movement system. Now you veteran Fedders are asking "why isn't it run by the more traditional hamster-engine?" It turns out that the Cleaner was apparently built during the Great Hamster Shortage of '42, so they had to improvise. The actual disposing-of-any-object-whatsoever part of the Cleaner is really an Adventurer. This poor person managed to go broke and rented himself out to the Cleaner Company, where he was installed in the Cleaner we know. After having been locked in there for so long, the poor soul has taken to eating anything the Cleaner runs over, including pocket change. At least he's employed. The Cleaner has been in history, too! If you look closely at the photo that is still making the rounds in Sol (the one with the two famous Fed personalities conducting, shall we say, a comprehensive physical), you can see around the edges an odd white line. This is because it was the CLEANER that took the picture! Furthermore, it is theorized that the Martian "Sargeur" is in fact an old battery from the Cleaner that was found and worshipped by the ancient Martians as "the Great God Zap-That-Hurts." Historians are looking into the origin of that name. It's really an interesting life the Cleaner has lived, and I personally wish it nothing but the best in its years to come. I, like all of you, look forward to seeing the cheerful little fellow, and when you do, give it a pat on the sensor for a job well done. Of course, some of you may not have to wait too long. For myself, it appears I don't have to wait at all. It's trying to eat my shoe right now. Now, I realize that all of you have very busy lives, consisting mainly of hauling (high-ranking persons, please stop laughing at that). However, I would greatly appreciate if you could send me some sort of word that shows you're actually reading - or at least skimming - what I'm writing. The address is still Horatio_TheWriter@excite.com, so drop me a line and tell me what you think!
FED1178 Fed1178… what does that bring to mind? Perhaps it’s the newest version of Fed in the 22nd Century. Or maybe the 1,178 clones of Fed that will exist in the future when ideas become extinct and the only recourse is to copy those that already exist (is that really the future, or the present?). How about… the name of a chat room! Yes, the institution that embodies and symbolizes the Internet. The chat room, purveyor of such concepts as emoticons, acronyms, and age/sex checks. Oh how I despise it. As of late, however, there has been some comment by sources that will rename nameless (one gave away his Ducal account recently) of the resemblance between Fed and a $10 per month chat room. Heresy! Blasphemy! Pagan worship! Come my fellow Fedders, we shall burn them at the stake! Alright, maybe that’s taking it too far. I guess I just got caught up in the moment. Still, I find that just another ill-conceived, misconstrued, haphazardly thrown together argument. Fed is supposed to be a social game, after all. That is one of the core elements of all Online Roleplaying Games (ORPGs). Fed is no different. No matter how social a game gets, though, the gameplay concepts will always be there. Having gameplay is the basic difference between chat rooms and ORPGs. If people wish to play the game less and be social more, who is anyone to criticize them for it? Besides, all the naysayers out there that wish to shut themselves up inside their ships and haul until their fingers bleed can do so without the rest of us. The ever-changing economy does not come to a complete halt if some of us decide to attend a whippy cream party over filling our libs deficit. What the critics’ argument really may be directed at, though, is the often chat room-esque appearance of Channel 9. That only comes from looking at the surface. If they would actually listen to some of the conversations held there, they might sing a different tune. I challenge them to find a chat room that is frequented often and usually full with the same level of conversation carried on by Fedders today. I don’t think it can be done. Fedders are some of the most mature, sophisticated, intelligent computer users I have ever met. Well versed on worldly topics, chatting with them is an experience far better than any Lobby88482 one will find on AOL. But do I pay $10 a month just to converse with these people as the "$10 a month chat room" guise would lead you to believe? Of course not! No matter how much anyone socializes in Fed during a given month, chances are they play too. After all, that surplus won’t get hauled out itself. Well, unless you can summon hauling demons, but we don’t need to get into that right now. So would all the complainers quit wasting valuable bar board space that could be better used for… hmm… might want to keep that for another article, actually. They may challenge their brain while working on the most efficient hauling plan, but I challenge them to keep on their toes during a spirited 9 conversation, or to keep on their toes long enough to stay standing after a heavy dose of jello and Deisel’s Old Peculiar! Play this great game and its exquisite economics model if you want, but you can also go out and be the life of the party. Or why don’t we all just do both? After all, who says we can’t have the best of both worlds in Fed? If you believe Gavin has perhaps delved into that ether he mentioned a few articles back after he used the words "Channel 9" and "intelligent" within the same paragraph, tell all the social workers to contact him at Gavin_of_Mythose@yahoo.com.
FED
OP-ED: RANDOM DUCHIES This week, I decided to skip all over in Fed, asking each place I happened upon ONE spontaneous question. I then asked a random person to pick the next duchy to go to. And here are the results! Solar system interstellar link Chez Diesel (Social Center of the
Solar System)
Arrogant: "I'd say the Cantina is THE place to be, but I can't get in there" Barb: ::smiles:: "well you would say that" Nightdroid: "Nobody goes there any more. It's too crowded." Barb: "the Cantina is the place for people with certain tastes and this is the place for others" Arrogant: "but to answer your question, not in the south" Barb: "esp when the wind is in the east quarter". Arrogant "or you'll have to call a lift engineer and it's not cheap"
Checkmate Link/Orbit Indecision
Bix: ::winks:: "champagne :) Leisure commod" Mysterie: "Diamonds keep
coming to my mind, mining"
Discworld LINK/ORBIT of Alaska
Mysterie: ::winks:: "1st time, forever, 2nd time forever, 3rd time, forever" Sholuvr: ::smiles:: "I was
addicted from day one, figured I'd stay as long as Fed
was available" Bix::: smiles:: "first time... whew... 95... Just thought I would stop in for a minute" Pin: "well... I thought... what the hell, I am bored... couple weeks maybe" Pin rues the day he didn't stay just two weeks ;) Smok: "Hmmm... the very first time... a few hours... but came back when aol went flat rate." Avenger: "er, 10 years min"
Welcome to the Duchy of Art! Amorica Link and Orbit
Zrasputin: "in Zrasputin I was an explorer for 3 months. As Zradical on freeol I was a jp for 1 year 3 months, and way back when particleZ was a groundhog for 1 year " Bearclaw: "I breezed through all the lower ranks to squire in about a week… er squire" Ladyviveve: "merchant maybe..."
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