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WEB FED NEWS YEARBOOKS Earthdate May 2001 |
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WEB FED NEWS YEARBOOKS Earthdate May 2001 |
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INSIDE SCOOP |
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[A personal note first, if I may, then we'll get to the inane journalism. I'd like to apologize to all of my loyal readers who depends on me for a weekly infusion of insanity for my two-week hiatus; real-life (remember that?) was acting up like a Pinto, and I just couldn't pare away time. But I'm back now!] As I was saying... Something occurred to me as I sat here, staring at my monitor while my computer tried (in vain) to connect to my ISP. I had the simple intention of checking my mail. Those of you who have the same ISP as I do (the initials rhyme with "bell") are probably laughing your keyboards off. Anybody knows it is impossible to connect to an ISP in this day and age. But I digress. In our little Fed future, has mail ceased to exist? Never once have I seen a post office, or even an email provider. Well, the latter is easy to explain, if you put a little thought to it. I'm willing to bet, not too far into the future, the Consumer Product Safety Commission will realize that most of the hand and head injuries today are caused by the release of frustration as related to attempting to connect to an ISP. To that end, they will vaporize all ISPs with tactical nuclear weapons. We can dream, anyway. Actually, if we follow that thread of thought, it also explains what happened to post offices: they were driven into the ground by email providers. Even though they (the providers) didn't exactly DO their job, people still wanted to be part of whatever century they were in, and tried to take the high-tech route. So, no more mail for us. This is unfortunate, as the only remaining method of delayed communication in our universe is the message board. In many ways, I can see this as an improvement; the family is far less likely to inform you of intimate medical matters over the bar board as they are in a letter. But, somehow, it doesn't seem right. There's a certain... well... happy feeling you get when you sign on after 91 consecutive hours of attempts and see that cheerful little mailbox stuffed with little electronic letters. Right before the ISP drops the connection.
WHAT
HAPPENS WHEN FED IS UNWILLINGLY RIPPED FROM YOUR FINGERS
ANNOYANCES
AND LAZINESS Monday I heard that Microsoft is going to release Microsoft Office XP, but something isn't going to be released with it. A lot of you may already know what I'm talking about, but don't stop reading! Please! Microsoft is getting rid of the 'Office Assistants' (you know, that paperclip thing?). Yes, the paperclip (aka, Clippit – oh, dear god, my spell checker even picks up it's name as an incorrect spelling of 'clipped') can be annoying: Dear Grandma, <enter> All of a sudden you hear this chime and the little bastard attracts your attention with a lovely, large window of text, "I can see you're writing a letter. Would you like help?" Since I like Word, I know how to get a letter template, but usually don't because I can do my own work. Even though I know how, I click yes so he'll leave me alone about it forever (I have him configured to). Fortunately, Microsoft lets you select your office assistant from a roster of about ten. I have this little bug-eyed bipod robot – he gets the job done. But enough about Microsoft, let's talk about Fed – our reason for living. Fed does have a few little annoying things that help us out, but we can't get rid of because we're all to lazy to complain about it. I mean, it's not worth the trouble to go to your mail client, try to remember ibgames' feedback address (even though it's simple), then try to think of a subject besides "hello", "hi", etc. and then send it. No way in hell am I going through that. The only decent thing we can do is talk about it - or moan about it. But that's sufficient; it relieves the steam long enough for you to haul out your surplus. I'm far too lazy to think of any annoyances from Fed. That's what I have you, the readers, for! Well, wait. I can think of one that doesn't exist anymore. Whenever you would talk in a room when no one was around, you'd get something like, "There's no one around to listen. Talking to yourself again?" My mailbox is empty, fill it up! Questions? Comments? Death threats? Send them to: Chewbacon_and_famous@hotmail.com.
I was deep in meditation yesterday (goofing off) and planning my work for the weeks ahead (goofing off) when a horrible visage shimmered into existence right in front of me. It was Icedrake, long absent from Fed DataSpace and blessedly missing from the duties of planet munching for quite some time. "Your Dishonorable Highness, sir!" I managed to squeak out as I buried my muzzle under my paws. I was quivering in fear - imagining that his tastes had migrated from candy minis to hounds-that-were-formerly-mobiles, and I was about to become just one more belch under his buckle. Icedrake settled his grotesque leather wings (causing a few duchies to reverse their orbits) and glared down at me. "Alsatian," he bellowed (causing the public address system on Earth to blow a speaker), "I have given you many great gifts, and you have squandered them." "But I haven’t..." "Silence!" Even the patrons of CDs fell quiet. "I surgically added a frontal cortex to your brain, made you sentient, set you free in the universe, and you have used all that for your own self-gratification!" "Yes, I know, I know," I agreed with a whimper, my paws now sopping from the puddle that had mysteriously formed under me. "You are guilty of hedonism..." "Yes." "...sensualism..." "Yes." "...eudaemonism..." "Er..." "...and you used your charm, your wit and your exceptional presence to seduce mobiles and weasel bribes. For your articles you have plagiarized without remorse. Duplicity and betrayal have been your canon, to lie and abuse your doctrine. You debased the unworthy and downtrod the already downtrodden." "Well, I..." "You are a philanderer and a gigolo. A rake of the lowest order. And furthermore, your queue for planet reviews is empty!" "I know!" I sobbed. He stretched a clawed wing outward and, as I prepared to be eviscerated on the spot, Icedrake patted me on the head. "Good doggy," he smiled. The horrid beast belched, leaving me shrouded in a fog of foul-smelling fire-mini breath, and shimmered away.
I can't wait for the future to get here. Sure, most of us can't wait; it'll mean the end of all those annoying problems we deal with in the modern world (ISPs, correct). In particular, however, I'll be happy to be rid of these slap-work repair jobs I must occasionally inflict upon my possessions... in particular, my car. We've had these discussions before, I know. But this is a new annoyance. For some reason, my car was equipped with a power antenna. Theoretically, this means that when I turn Mr Radio off, Mr Antenna goes and hides in the trunk until I turn Mr Radio back on. However, earlier today, Mr Antenna decided he was sick of being stuck in trunk, so he elected to jam. The problem was that Mr Antenna Motor, which has roughly the IQ of a software executive, didn't realize he wasn't being too successful at moving Mr Antenna, and kept running. Constantly. Draining Mr Battery, who has never exactly been a top performer, if you get my drift. And as it turned out, the only way to make Mr Antenna Motor stop was to pull Mr Fuse. However, Mr Fuse, an entreprenurial component, was also in charge of Mr Air Conditioner, Mr Radio, Mr Dashboard Light, and Mr Chime. Now, Mr Chime I can deal without, and Mr Dashboard Light is only really helpful at night. But Mr Radio and Mr Air Conditioner are critical to my happy state of mind when driving. I should also point out I'm Irish and don't like being hot or bored. The end consequence is that I am thoroughly displeased with Mr Electrical Engineer who built this little circle of love. However, has anybody noticed that this kind of piecemeal breakdown never happens in Fed? Sure, we'll blow an engine (we do that in cars, too) or maybe the hull, but that's a big job. Sometimes the whole ship will blow up (we do that in cars, too), but that is also a big job. Never does Mr Hatch Motor lose his little mechanical mind and start whapping the hatch open and closed in midflight like some kind of deranged fence gate in a cyclone. Never does Mr Jump Engine go senile and jump us to Rochester, New York. And never does Mr Galley Stove get irked and blow our dinner clear through the upper hull, destroying Mr Rocket Launcher, which had just been installed an hour ago, along with a full rack of rockets which chain-detonate, destroying the cargo bay which had just been filled with very expensive commodities that had been painstakingly collected in preparation for a build. It was an accident I had nothing to do with, I swear. So, be thankful, my friends. Be thankful because it's likely that the stupid engineer who designed my car's electrical system will probably still be in the business, which means a ship will have exactly two fuses, so you're going to have to pick which you like more... Air or water?
I never thought I could be so happy simply seeing my landing pad. After a war with a nasty, nasty hacked-in virus, I was finally able to get the medium to log into Fed with. And how great it felt! (Thanks to Breyer for helping me remember what port number I needed to log into). Of course, the first thing I did was say hello to - 0. Yes, 0 and not 9. Many people were quick to point this out to me, and I thank them... I think. From now on, I'm going to be on super patrol for polling subjects. If you want to be part of any of the duchy polls, send an e-mail over to Jelly@columnist.com. In the meantime, steer clear of viruses, and tell Diesel I'll be around for a drink sometime soon.
It occurs to me that we of the Federation universe are missing a critical element of public safety. Actually, you could argue that we're missing all of them, as we allow people to fly merrily into the sun (sun bad!), as well as fly a ship after consuming the amount of ale traditionally consumed by Lichtenstein in an entire year. But the aspect I'm referring to is a speed limit. In many ways, it's a good thing we don't have speed limits. We don't have to worry about how fast we haul (or, for you unscrupulous, lazy types, how fast our macros haul), we don't have to worry about someone misreading the 50 mile-an-hour speed limit as 15, and poking along the freeway at a speed normally observed in car washes. These are the benefits we reap by not having an imposed speed limit. Of course, we're losing untold amounts of money by not being able to fine the people who break the speed limit (which doesn't yet exist, but I can't be bothered with these details; I'm on a roll), but we may have a solution for that. I recently got back from vacation. In this particular vacation, I headed up through New England. I had a spectacular time, and even met an old Fed friend. However, to get to the upper parts of New England (and my friend), I had to go through an area known as Massachusetts. [Note to readers: I realize what is following is a sweeping generalization, so if you live in Massachusetts, I'm sorry about lumping you into this category, unless, of course, you legitimately belong in it. I'm just stating observations here. Hopefully, you can take them with grace and have a little chuckle anyway, or you can agree with me... either way, I just wanted to let you know a blanket statement is coming up.] What I found in Massachusetts was rather interesting, as well as frustrating. Highway drivers in Massachusetts drive, well, like yahoos. These people have never HEARD the phrase "speed limit." The little white signs by the road that all read "50" evidently indicate how many millimeters clearance you're supposed to give the car ahead of you. Folks, never before have I seen an Audi bend space-time. These people drive as though they're in the time trials for the Indy 500. I have driven in New York City and Washington DC at rush hour. I have been in an airliner that had engine trouble. I have even willingly chucked myself out of a perfectly good aircraft so I can experience the thrill (terror?) of free-fall. But I have never been more afraid for my life than I was when I was in Massachusetts. I'd go back to the state, sure. It's beautiful and friendly. But I'll be driving a jet. This is how we recoup those losses, folks. All we need to do is station a few ships over Massachusetts and have them pull over speeders. (I'd suggest using cars, but I think only starships can move fast enough to stop them.) Even if we set each mile an hour over the speed limit as a $2 fine, we'll be making thousands with each ticket. This means that we'll finally be able to do away with that ludicrously high Sol system tax, which has been annoying people ever since they left Earth. I think this idea could work, people. After all, wouldn't you pull over if you saw a ship the size of the Astrodome, bristling with weapons, chasing you with red and blue lights?
DOES IT
MAKE A POINT? I was driving my grandmother's car a week ago. Out of all the members of my family, her car is one I like to borrow most (since I can't afford insurance or a license plate on my own yet). She owns a Jeep Grand Cherokee Limited Edition, which is pretty much the idiot's car - every time you have a flat tire, or something in your engine goes wrong, or even when you leave any of the doors open, a little message center with a diagram of the car will flash red, pointing out where the problem is, and telling you what's wrong. A week later I was borrowing my dad's Dodge Ram. As I turned a corner in the dark of night, a red light ruined my adaptation to the darkness. It read "Check Engine". What a loose term! Of course the engine is there, I can hear still hear the constant clicking from the lifter melting. But I have no idea what the problem is other than the message center is wanting me to check the engine. This reminded me of my first time running out of fuel in space back in the good old days of AOL. I was trying to type as fast as I could to make it to Captain in under an hour so I could sell my junked up heap and give away all my money so I could get someone to give me more to buy an Imperial ship.
This made me think something was wrong with my ship. Being in space and knowing what happened to everyone on the Challenger when their warning buzzer sounded, I panicked:
No help at all. I tried going to the engine room to see what was wrong, but I couldn't make head nor tail of all those dials and gauges and monitors. I ended up flying into the sun. I woke up in the hospital and realized I died. Well, since my ship had burned up, hopefully the insurance agency would give me a bright shiny ship with no obnoxious buzzers inside - I thought. However, this didn't happen. So I was stuck with a ship that buzzed like a… [Hazed, could that get me in trouble?] [Editor's note: Yes it could!] [Darn.] [Well, what if I just hinted?] [Editor's note: Not in my paper.] [Okay, what if I just…] [Editor's note: Forget it.] [If I can't put something that implies what I am thinking about, I'm not going to be happy, so how about I just go to bed? Hello? Hazed?] Questions? Comments? Death threats? Email them to: Chewbacon_and_famous@hotmail.com.
ALSATIAN'S EMPTY QUEUE OF PLANET REVIEWS In spring a young man’s fancy might turn to women, but a canine’s attention is usually captured by the influx of parasitic pests looking to hitch a free ride behind the ears and under the collar. The tick season looks like it’s going to be especially bad this year. I was trying to scribble something down for this week’s column, but I kept having to devote my paws to one especially determined tick with the illusion of growing up to be a vampire. In frustration I dove into the fountain at CDs, and wallowed in the pink frothy water long enough for the pest to detach and float away. He managed to float and tick-paddling to the edge, and crawled off looking for a new victim. My concentration and any attempts at a witty column were totally broken by the tick’s attempts to attach to Nightdroid’s titanium hide. However, Hazed doesn’t accept tick-watching as an excuse to skip my doggy duties. There wasn’t a planet to review this week, so with the deadline quickly approaching I searched frantically for an idea. Then it came to me – ticks. Ticks reminded me of Tickenist, and the amusing top ten lists he used to publish in the Chronicle. (Tick, if you’re out there, I know you’re not that kind of tick but I am a dog – so what can you expect?) So in his honor I’ve come up with:
So unless you want another sad attempt at a top ten list, dust off your planet, dot all your I’s and cross your T’s, and send it in for a formal review!
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YOUR FINGERS