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WEB FED NEWS YEARBOOKS Earthdate December 2000 |
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WEB FED NEWS YEARBOOKS Earthdate December 2000 |
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INSIDE SCOOP |
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WHERE DID THAT COME FROM? Occasionally, any writer has no idea what on Earth (or any other planet) to write about. Usually, when that happens, we crawl into a bar and hope whatever we end up drinking will stimulate our remaining brain cells. Of course, sometimes, you get inspiration from a truly strange source. Email. I checked my mail during the last couple of days and found an overwhelming request (one letter) for the answer to a personal question. Namely, where (or how) do I get the ideas for what I write about? Since I love my readers so very much, and since I don't have a better idea, I'll write about that this week! Mainly, my ideas come from my friends in Fed. Rarely do they actually pose a topic, per se, but rather they are the topic. And I mean that in the nicest possible way; the fun that my friends include me in often gives me good ideas for something to write about. Being hit 70 or 80 times by pies, dealing with exchanges... all of these things (not the least of which being how we deal with them) provide great ideas. After all, when you see six people trying to figure out exactly why an exchange is producing six billion tons of Univators and demanding everything else, the antics are worth the cost of trying to iron the exchange back out. That's most of my source. Of course, there are also the occasional personal anecdotes and experiences, but all authors do that. I'd say the rest comes from acute brain damage. Well, folks, it's time for the mail link again. Feel free to make use of it; I don't bite! The address is, as always, Horatio_TheWriter@excite.com!
FED
OP-ED: LUNACY Today I decided to hold the duchy poll in Lunacy. Lunacy 42 Let’s see what those there had to say.
Geiiga: "The wild orgy parties I used to have in this very location. I think no further explanation is needed."
Derian: "I'd say scramble, which is pretty much an event of luck in looking. Either that, or a bunch of the fighting games. It's all about triggers now." Geiiga: "Who Wants to Be a Billionaire... and so I can win lots of money from your dad."
Geiiga: "Six feet under." Derian: "I see my character having complete world domination with HAS. Maybe just have a million business cards printed up on that nice translucent paper with a rounded font."
Derian: "A simple martini. Anything else is too much for my system. Well, either that or a white russian." Geiiga: "Black velvet. One pint glass. Half pint Guinness, half pint champagne. The champagne floats on top of the Guinness."
Derian, "Uranus. Nuff said." Geiiga: "I pretty much hate them all. Not enough rain for my tastes."
COOKING
WITH BACON The title above maybe misleading, but we will not be using any bacon in this article. I spoke with Jackal on Lorien’s LP and he became the first Fedder to comment personally on my articles. I only offered a big smile in return. He mentioned I should write one on cooking. So out of the kindness of my heart and in gratitude to Jackal’s comments, I’m going to dedicate this article to him. Here are a selection of my favorite Fed recipes.
This is a very simple recipe for even the dumbest cook. You’ll need a grill of course, or you can just zip it through Solar orbit if you wish. Use your preference of marinades as well. Beer works fine, or even Grizzle blood. Once you’ve cooked the steak, go to your ship or hail a taxi to land on the landing pad of any planet. Step in front of the engine intake and loft the steak into it. It will pop out the back rather charred and it will have a nice blue glow!
Simple. Send email to SavageAlsatian@aol.com and ask him to come review your planet. When he lands, direct him in a direction where he’ll end up running into a pot or frying pan. Be sure to really boost the heat once he’s in there since he is armed with a porter.
This is a remedy for those times when you can’t afford escargot, even though it’s usually cheap. When this delicacy lands on your landing pad, lure them to the east with an exchange and kill them as they enter using as little text as possible to indicate they have died. Be sure to place an insurance broker there, but don’t mention anything about it. Once the little tasty treat tries to exit the exchange by going west, without reinsuring, they’ll die again. Oops! This will cause a cleaning droid to remove their remains, but you can nibble on the tiny leftovers it misses.
Rather easy to make as well and it’s one of Jackal’s favorites. Just take a steak and let it sit in the sun for seven days. To be quite honest, it’s hard to get one to mold, however, you can make it turn colors. I’d also make sure you put it where Jackal won’t find it, because I doubt he’d let one sit for seven days without trying to snatch it!
Bribe a waiter to pour ExpansiveX on the olive you drop in the martini. ExpansiveX responds to saliva (or the equivalent) and causes a molecular multiplication process, making whatever it coats expand. So, in short, it will expand as it is being swallowed and will usually choke someone or give them a nasty stomach ache. This makes for excellent pranks in a bar. The martini? Oh, just make it any way you like it. It’s the olive that counts! To find ExpansiveX, you can call Mrs Helen Wait on Providence. Hence the saying, "Whenever you want the twisted stuff Chewbacon manufactures, go to Helen Wait."
Work is by far and away the most toxic substance known to man. It has the ability to make people sick, cause problems with thinking, and has been linked to a number of other bad things, some of which I can't list in a family newspaper. The trouble with work is that it likes friends. Like my work for instance. It started small, then it invited some friends along. That probably happened when my boss gave me an assignment that would be easy to complete in two weeks. I had, of course, two days. Take on the other hand, Fed. Work is actually a form of recreation to us, isn't it? We haul when we're bored, and people have even gone through the ranks again just because they missed the work. Someone let me in on the secret if there is one, but have we all gone bonkers? After spending more than 29 hours straight in front of a UNIX C++ terminal, the only thing I can think of is sleep. That part of the equation makes sense. That's why a lot of us are in Fed to begin with: work stresses us out, we Fed to relax. And yet, we actively pursue work. It's a little antithetical, isn't it? I'm in favor of a more relaxed type of relaxation-work. Every time I meet people in Fed, I try to come up with a new drink, or I do something that helps other people relax. It's certainly more relaxing than work. Still, there is something to be said for Fed work. Namely the fact that it's a six-minute work week.
FED
OP-ED: FLASHBACK This week, my column is dedicated to the columns of newsletters past. (No, this isn’t some rip off of the Christmas Carol, don’t worry). These quotes will either leave you laughing in remembrance or shouting "I said WHAT?!?" Cue the flashback sequence:
Salmando: "My cleaning droid was severely beaten the other day - it was very upsetting, and I'd like to see this sort of thing stop. The reason for the beating? My droid evidently has a bass-pitched whirr. One of my factory owners decided to take on a distinctly bassist attitude (get it?) and clobber the poor thing. The person in question has since been clubbed by the Irish Mafia, which I control single-handedly by threatening the Bourbon supply to Silesa."
Rootofevil: "Yes, he is my father."
Pilgrim: "The redhead on Babe's beach... she always make me blush so."
Witchdoctor: "The old Sol drug squad, because they used to get all the good items!"
Wickedascin: "well... I was so happy to be able to find one - because I am directionally challenged - that I think they all held a special place in my heart, because I was able to land... OK, I could not find my ship afterwards... but still... they were all special."
Macnbc: "I stayed because whenever I tried to leave I started going into withdrawl. Think I can sue IBGames like those people suing the tobacco companies? Another reason I stayed was because one of the IBGames staff told me that they would hunt me down and kill me if I stopped letting them suck $10.00 out of my bank account each month."
Liza: ::looks around:: "I thought I was living my real life... you mean I'm not?"
Bearclaw: "absolutely
not!!!!!!"
Thulium: "The cleaner puts all the objects it finds in the same place the dryer in your house sends the one sock :)" Munchkin: "Sells them to the black market in CDs :) It's how they fund Diesel's vices."
Macnbc: "Must... kill... TOURIST!!"
Danny: "I wouldn't say anything, I'd just beat him with that stupid mallet." Macnbc: "PREPARE TO DIE YOU JERK!!!" Methinks Macnbc isn’t to fond of the tourist.
ONE
QUICK QUESTION I remember a short article in the Official News about groats and what they look like. Whoever wrote it (I think it was Hazed) said that they are an electronic currency – so they don’t physically exist. (http://www.ibgames.net/archives/ However, I remember bumbling about Titan just the other day, with my very own bottle of Whoosh!, looking for the TDX when suddenly the bright reflection of a green coin caught my eye. I stopped to take a gander at this small object and realized it’s a 283 groat piece in its physical form. The thirteen sides were smooth and on one side it had someone’s familiar face on it. Another thing that confuses me is: I was sitting in CDs with Danny, Readerboy, Cen, Barb, and Nightdroid sipping a few martinis without the ExpansiveX on the olive. A trader walked in to the room carrying the voucher and approached Diesel. Diesel took the voucher and the person’s wallet (a wallet for what?) and led the unsuspecting trader to get their money’s worth. A while later after I was floating around via six martinis, I noticed Diesel came back counting a pile of groats with a big smile on her face. After a thorough examination of her and trying to see past the bulging supporters, I noticed no PDA or other palm top-like device on her. How could she have counted them if they aren’t a physical currency and she has no Spynet Wire Service uplink device? This brings me to my underlining question (in case you haven’t guessed it): If groats do not physically exist, then why do I see them on Titan and in Diesel’s possession? Even though I’ve been blasted to bits, toasted by the sun, slapped, thrown out of CDs via a catapult many times and I’ve been through a load of martinis as well as green chili vodkas, I know groats when I see them and I especially know when Fed itself tells me that they’re there!
ALSATIAN'S PLANET REVIEW: THE END OF A CAREER Well, the job is over. My career as a stud dog in the puppy farm is washed up, wet through, signed and sealed, done and dusted. The gig is up. The fat lady has sung, the last dog has been hung, and the pooch is, uh… I did all the pooches I could in the short time I was there. There was an old coot of a caretaker at the farm. When he laid eyes on me he got all excited; I figured he was glad to see such a fine physical specimen of a hound. Taunting him with names like ‘Katov’ and ‘Marsrat’, I yapped and nipped at his ankles in open invitation to play. I surmised he wanted some digging lessons when he started brandishing his garden tools in my direction, but no! He tried to brain me with a shovel! Even if he hadn’t been yelling words like ‘cur’ and ‘trespasser’, from that point on I could read his true intentions with one eye tied behind my back. I tore out of the place, dove into my ship and hit orbit before the poodles painting my hull had time to scramble off their perches. Navigation wasn’t important. A hasty exit was. I’m afraid I lost those cute little babes with the poofball hairdos at the first asteroid I bounced off of. The second collision was a little bumpier, but I had accumulated enough velocity to turn the former system of Marin into the planetary equivalent of toothpicks. The computer barked out another warning as I wrestled with the controls. By that time my flying doghouse wasn’t responding to any commands, and the impact with Discworld sent me sprawling down the access corridor. When I scrabbled back up to the viewscreen all I could see of the former duchy capital were broken bottles of champagne, a boar’s head, a dented Walrus award and a very unhappy unicorn bleating and screaming as he floated in space. I bounced and careened off planet after planet in my escape. Systems dropped off the lists of routes so quick that shocked macro haulers, left stranded where planets used to be, were reduced to voiding their contracts and socializing in bars! A whine escaped my throat and a puddle mysteriously appeared on the floor under me when I realized I was on an interception course with Sol. Hazed might forgive me for thinning the planet population, but I’d be dipping snuff out of a can of marsrat poison if I demolished one of Ming’s prize planets. Saturn’s rings clipped my hull and fortunately altered my course marginally. Mars flew past my viewscreen in the blink of an eye. Commanders orbiting Earth with their measly 75-ton loads looked to the sky and wondered what ship mobile featured the face and paws of a terrified dog plastered to the viewscreen. The roulette table on the moon came up red twenty times in a row after I skidded off the dark side of the planet. I never even saw Mercury. The Sun made quite an impression, though. My poor out-of-control flying fleatrap was instantly fried to a crisp. There is indeed a more effective treatment for fleas than a bath and dip. As soon as my hair grows back and the burns heal, I might apply for a patent on it, too. I’m sure it would work especially well on cats!
DANNY'S
CHRISTMAS LETTER Many people write a letter about what's going on in their lives and include it with their Christmas cards to friends who they rarely see. And since everyone in Fed is my friend, I'm sending mine to everyone. Ha! Ha ha! Right. As we all know the real reason is that I have no friends, everyone hates me, but I still feel the urge to tell everyone in the universe what I'm doing if they like it or not. The result is the same though: welcome to my Christmas letter. In case you happen to be a recluse hermit I'll tell you that I'm still a Squire and I'm still in CDs. I don't move. I'm like Jabba the Hutt before CGI, except as played by Mel Gibson. That reminds me, I also still have a healthy self-image (read: large ego). And everyone still hates me. Back in the olden days when "PC" meant "two seemingly random letters," I would greet people with a hearty "Merry Christmas!" Now whenever I do that someone has the nerve to become offended by my gesture of good will by saying something to the effect of "I don't celebrate Christmas! I celebrate [insert holiday here]!" The obvious alternative is to change my greeting to the now-standard "Happy Holidays" which I hate. Unfortunately there's a group of people who are offended by that, since they don't celebrate holidays. So I've decided that I'm a believer in equal rights: I can't make everyone happy, so I'll make everyone mad. My new standard Christmas greeting is "Screw you! Go away!" My Christmas list is being ignored by Santa once again, since it has things on it like "the rank of Senator" and "Portugal and if you have room in your bag Uruguay." Of course once again I had to kidnap Santa and keep him in the barren depths of my residence until Portugal sat under my tree. This means the elves and reindeer are fending for themselves. So if Dad gets a dolly and Little Suzie gets a Craftsman 16-piece Metric Wrench Set, I'm deeply sorry. (No, I'm not. Screw you! Go away!) Several members of my organization, HAS (Habitual Antagonist Society), are standing on street corners dressed as Santa ringing bells, trying to collect money for our cause. Just as a reminder, our cause is to see that housepets go back to silently cleaning themselves with their tongues in the corner like nature intended, instead of talking and using brackets and doing other things the organization doesn't approve of. I'd include other things, but you probably stopped reading this several paragraphs back, so I leave you with tidings of good cheer. Screw you! Go away! And have an awful New Year!
FED
OP-ED: FLASHBACK, PART TWO Last week, I showed excerpts from old duchy polls. The timewarp effects were kinda cool, so I think we’re going to try it again – only this time, with old interviews. I am the ghost of newsletters past. If you take my hand I will guide you to... oh yeah, I said I wasn’t going to do a rip off of that. Well, um, then, this is it:
Calodia asks, "What? Why would a WT do something so horrible?" Calodia refuses to believe something as sweet as a WT could ever do something so cruel. "Well, maybe if the newsdroid sorta kinda snuck into their place of residence... with kind intentions only!" Jelly exclaims. Calodia says, "Well, everyone has a right to defend their home from intruders, no mater what the intruder's intent." Jelly says, "I see..." Jelly grumbles under her breath Calodia asks, "Why would you ask such a specific question?" Calodia is beginning to worry about her poor WTs. Jelly looks flustered. "Ooh, No reason." Calodia smiles, "Good"
Q: What was the hardest part about leaving Checkmate for you? A: Typing. Q: Excuse me? A: Typing. Q: Could you explain that better? A: It took me dern near SIX hours to type seceed, er, sucede, er, nevermind.
"...umm...", says Macnbc. "No comment." says Macnbc. Macnbc grins sheepishly. Jelly asks, "AND... how much do you pay this assistant?" "Does her salary comply with the child labor laws?" Jelly asks. "AND does she get many benefits, INCLUDING dental?" Jelly demands. "umm... Zsiveria doesn't have child labor laws..", says Macnbc. "...darn", Jelly says.
A FED
CHRISTMAS - SANTA CLAUS Well, it’s that time of year again. Many kids of all ages (mostly between 3-10) will wait up on December 24 to see a senior citizen who’s been around since before the Mayflower, shove his fat, frost-bitten bottom down a chimney. Most of them will fall asleep in the process and will make the Santa Claus (or the equivalent) set out the gifts with precise stealth movements and exit through the chimney again. I remember when I was little, I was afraid to wait up for him, in fear that he would mistake me for an elf or not leave me any presents! So I’d make the best to go to bed, even though I could hardly sleep. The night would pass slowly (I’d wake up every ten minutes), but morning would eventually come. That’s the real life bit before I woke up in the Meeting Place dressed in ordinary clothing. Now that I’m in Federation, I’ve haven’t seen a Santa Claus flying around in a big, red Imperial classed ship. Nor do I see eight tiny reindeer kicking about space in custom vacsuits. Probable reason: because I’ve never been in Fed around Christmas. Being off subject: Wouldn’t that be a funny sight, Reindeer kicking frantically, yet in vain, to move in space. One thing that I would ask a FedSanta is to fill everyone’s deficits. Mainly mine so I could, just one time, see my stock deficit at a whopping zero. Although, you wouldn’t catch me, a six-foot tall w00kie sitting in his lap. No, sir, Mr Rogers! My horrible, yet slowly building, reputation would be at stake. Santa making his way to planets could be a problem, though. If he dropped in a DD planet or one of those planets with an annoying maze to the orbit, imagine the consequences: Christmas halted by not the Grinch, but some Fedder. What a nightmare! However, I think someone would show up and target that Imperial tub piloted by a cookie loving, should-have-been-dead-a-million-times-by-now Santa. But wait, what if he could teleport his goods? Santa can do anything, right? In fact, I bet you that he wouldn’t even need a shimmerer to do the job. Around all these problems of Santa traveling the spaceways, taking orders, and filling defs, I think he could put his elves up to it. Why wouldn’t he? Elves are small, take orders well, and are definitely over powered (or weighted) by Santa. Merry Christmas, everyone. You’ll read from me again (yes, again to all the ones who hate me) on January 7th, 2001—The official new millennium.
ALSATIAN'S PLANET REVIEW: CHRISTMAS GIFTS Once again a small group of locals gathered at CDs for Diesel’s traditional gift exchange. Diesel employs me to sleep under the tables before the party and find out what everyone wants, trot over to the local shops to pick up the desired objects, chew on the tinsel and discarded wrappings, then throw it all up in the middle of the room whenever she gives me the ‘party’s over’ signal. Diesel hands out the gifts and accepts thanks. The first present at the party got tossed to Hazed. I had parked at her feet for far too many hours trying to find out what she wanted. I nearly went out and got her a new pair of socks myself. Believe me, I know. She needs a new pair of socks. She ohhed and ahhed at the huge box with brightly colored wrapping for a few seconds before ripping at the paper with tooth and nail. I would have helped but she scares me a little when she gets all intense and frothy opening her gifts. She reached inside the remains of the box and pulled out… Another box. A slightly smaller box, also gaily wrapped and bowed. That one didn’t even get a single ahh before the wrapping was torn to shreds. The festive ornamentation on the box inside that one didn’t last long either. Or the next box. Or the next twelve boxes snuggled one within the other. She was down to what I knew was the last and final box. I wagged my tail, anticipating her delight at finding just exactly what she wanted inside. Hazed frowned a little when she lifted the lid of that last box. I wagged. Diesel got a worried scowl. Ashkellion chuckled. "There’s nothing in it," she frowned. I nudged Diesel and grinned. "See," I said. "I heard her say there’s nothing she doesn’t have. So that’s what I got for you to give her. Nothing!" I was real proud of myself until Diesel lost her grip on her bat and it thunked me right on top of my head. Barb’s gift was next. I knew she wanted heels, Barb always wants heels, but I was getting sick and tired of heeling all the time like a good dog. This year I fetched something I knew she really wanted. Barb unwrapped her present with a little less enthusiasm and more suspicion than Hazed, and from inside the package she pulled out a luncheon voucher. It was still a little sticky and slightly damp; I’d had to carry it all the way through the grizzle caves after eating the jam roly-poly. I put on my best sad puppy dog eyes and apologized. "I couldn’t find one that you could use on Earth, but I hope a little piece here on Mars will do," I mumbled. Diesel’s bat slipped and landed on my muzzle this time. Barb pocketed the voucher and winked. The gifts continued; a gilded fly swatter for Bella, a book entitled "1001 Ways To Say Water" for Ashkellion, and several bays of lubs for Nightdroid. The party was starting to wind down and I was chewing on a little bit of tinsel in preparation for the grand finale when Hazed and Diesel brought out another wrapped present. They set it down in front of my nose and stepped back. "For me?" I asked, truly surprised. Hazed nodded. Employing the lessons learned from her demi-goddessness, I fell on the helpless package and within seconds had reduced the outer wrapping to shreds. I turned the box over and over trying to figure out what the contents could be. It cryptically said "Aibo Model ERS21001". Hazed snapped at me, "Quit that! You’ll break it. Just open the box, I’ve already installed the power packs and the Aibo should come right out." I gnawed on the tape and lifted the box lid. Inside there was a toy, but not like the rubber chew toys that Dr. Fogg usually gives me. This one was shiny, metallic looking, and it moved! Not only did it move, but it came out of the box, looked at me and said, "Woof!" A dog-droid! Oh no, a mechanical planet reviewer was replacing me! I ran behind the bar in terror, the dog-droid following and woofing at me all the way. Bella started to hiccup, Hazed was giggling uncontrollably. I cowered and tried to crawl into the cupboards. "Alsatian, it won’t hurt you!" Hazed tried to assure me. I think that’s what she was saying; it was hard to tell when every other word was masked with poorly suppressed laughter. "It’s not going to take your place, it will help you!" I eyed the droid with suspicion and woofed at it experimentally. It wagged its little mechanical tail and woofed back. I woofed twice, a little louder. It sat and panted. I sniffed at it and the Aibo assumed the ‘let’s play!’ position. I crawled out from behind the bar and it started chewing on my ear. "Take Aibo with you, Alsatian. See what you can do with it. And have a nice holiday." Hazed winked at Diesel, and giggled one more time. Aibo stopped in the middle of the room, coughed twice, and heaved up metal shavings that looked a little like tinsel. For a look at the predecessor of my new accomplice, check out the website at http://www.aibo.com. And have a wonderful and safe holiday season!
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