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WEB FED NEWS YEARBOOKS Earthdate June 2001 |
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WEB FED NEWS YEARBOOKS Earthdate June 2001 |
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INSIDE SCOOP |
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As it occurs to me, we in the Federation universe are being forced to live without something that most of us practically require in our day-to-day lives: entertainment. Now, I have stated thousands of times in these articles I merrily write for you that much of what goes on is truly entertaining, despite the fact that it usually isn't technically MEANT to be, but the heart of life is improvisation. However, what we're missing is what you'd called "finished" entertainment. For instance, one of the things I personally find very enjoyable is reading a book. Look though I have, I haven't managed to find a single book in Fed. Not one I can read, at any rate. It's arguable that our planets are what we do for literature, but if you ask me, that sounds a little thin; I quickly filled my allotted locations for my planet and could have done well with another 200. So, authoring is out. There's the other great pillar of entertainment: movies. Going to a movie is (occasionally) an entertaining, not to mention social, activity. Yet, we don't have movies, either. I think I have a justifiable reason for that: movie theaters have all been converted into factories. Yes, we of the future have finally found a use for "floor glue," that unbelievable adhesive found on movie theater floors composed of congealed soda and Milk Duds. I think they're using it to hold spaceships together. But we still miss out on having our feet welded to the floor of a theater, forcing us to sit through a two hour movie about nothing. Plays are gone too, and I find that to be a real tragedy. Having worked in live theatre, I've grown to love it, and am greatly saddened to see there are no more shows to take in. So what, besides watching drunken friends is left? Not much, I'm afraid. This could easily explain why we drink so much. But the world is about perspective, and I think I've found the right one for this situation. At least we've finally found a use for floor glue.
RICHARD DECLARES HIS IMPERIAL CANDIDACY MARS, SOL - After months of speculation and exploratory committees, it has been made official. Richard, the goldfish, is a candidate for Emperor. The announcement was made in a magnificent rally, with the Imperial Palace (the Emperor's two gallon tank) placed atop Mars' Olympus Mons, the largest mountain in the solar system. In front of a crowd of millions, His Imperial Majesty did what he does best and will do as Emperor: he swam about in a tank of water doing that fish mouth thing. After 44 minutes of this riveting activity, the crowd could take no more, and the rally ended. To correspond with his announcement, the Emperor Richard has unveiled his campaign web site, http://www.yellowhat.org/richard. The site not only contains the latest news of His Majesty's campaign, but the Emperor's Official Store (http://www.yellowhat.org/richard/store.html), stocked with the finest in Imperial merchandise. If you support Emperor Richard's campaign, make your voice heard by telling your Galactic Administration representative, or by emailing His Imperial Majesty himself at Richard@yellowhat.org. All support will be relayed to the proper people. Emperor Richard: Leading DataSpace to a bright tomorrow without actually saying or doing anything.
BEHIND
THE EMPEROR: RICHARD You look at His Imperial Majesty today and think it has always been this great for Emperor Richard. But few people know the Emperor's early years, and his sudden fall from a modest upbringing to rock bottom, then up to Imperial Candidate. This is Behind the Emperor: Richard. Richard was not always Emperor Richard. He began as Rich, a poor goldfish born in a communal tank in the back room of Petco. His parents, like the parents of many young goldfish, attempted to eat poor young Rich. But Rich was too smart for that. He escaped, and before long he was put in another communal tank in the main area. It became quickly obvious to young Rich that he was put up for sale. At first this frightened him, but he discovered that he was not a feeder fish, but a pet. By this time, however, it was too late. His avoidance of sale had made him an outcast, his friends had all been sold. Then, suddenly, without warning, tragedy struck. That's right, gill rot had taken a victim, and Rich was at risk. Rich had hit rock bottom. Soon after, though, things started to pick up. Rich was bought by Danny, a wealthy college student. He was shown his fish bowl, which he quickly outgrew. Now Richard, his tastes expanded much past a mere bowl. So soon, he had moved into his new tank, a two and a half gallon octagon with a filter. This is when things really began to take off for Richard. The next step for Richard was obviously Imperial. He formed an exploratory committee and declared himself Emperor of his tank, now the Imperial Palace. His former bowl was demoted to the Summer Palace, occupied during cleanings. His college student, Danny, was promoted to Press Secretary, Advisor, and Campaign Manager, Webmaster, and put in charge of the mass media campaign. Then, on Stardate 211975, it was made official. Emperor Richard declared his candidacy for Emperor of DataSpace. His web site, www.yellowhat.org/richard, was unveiled, and the race was off. Where will Emperor Richard's career go next? Will he become Emperor of DataSpace? Only time will tell. In the meantime, feel free to email letters of support to Richard@yellowhat.org - he won't be able to respond, he is a goldfish after all, but your message will be given to him. Emperor Richard: Leading DataSpace to a bright tomorrow without actually saying or doing anything.
FED
OP-ED: RICHARD AND DANNY I heard about the current issue of a new candidate for Emperor. Immediately, I hopped on the media bandwago... I mean, I picked up on a story I thought would be interesting to the public since they are my absolute first concern. I decided to interview Danny, the candidate's spokesperson.
Danny: I'd have to say the way he so impressively swims about in his tank doing that fish mouth thing. How could one who says so little be a great leader? Danny: Because saying very little is a great thing. He'll never get himself into trouble, never offend diplomats, and never write bad poetry. We've heard much praise of Richard from you, but what is one thing he needs to improve on? Danny: Well he definitely needs to learn to keep his mouth shut. He talks entirely too much. The best leader will say half as much as him... if that's mathematically possible. Upon what platform does Richard stand? Danny: Wood grain laminated Ikea particle board... his Imperial Palace sits on my computer desk. What has Richard done in the past to show his worthiness of leading? Danny: He's consistently dedicated much of his life to swimming about doing that fish mouth thing. This is much more than many past leaders had done by the end of their terms. One last question, Do you have any parting words to leave us with, regarding Richard? Danny: Only his campaign motto... Emperor Richard: Leading DataSpace to a bright tomorrow without actually saying or doing anything.
OH,
CRAP! The most ironic thing happened to me Sunday night. Hondo sent me a TB and told me that he DDed in my hospital - I did feel bad about because I'd hate to do that. I apologized and told him, "Well, now that it happened to you, it'll probably happen to me." No, my hospital isn't a death trap if you pay attention to what you're doing. In my description it tells you to go southwest to get out, but if you go in any other direction an event is triggered that says, "I wouldn't do that if I were you…" and you're moved to an identical location with an insurance broker. If you move in the wrong direction again, you die. Why do you die? Well, in my hospital I thought it would be interesting to put a walkway right through the middle of the room that goes into an endless hall in either direction. The walkway is packed with people, thus making constant foot traffic. If you go in the wrong direction twice, you fall into the foot traffic and get trampled to death. Since my duchy is getting full, Calyx, Hatch and myself had an idea I would duke and we'd expand the duchy in my own duchy. Hatch instructed me to get a couple of trips worth of fuel for my journey to Horsell. I do run a script for hauling, but I don't let it run all night or anything. It's your standard storage hauler in Pantara's Pmsuite (since I can't stand that surplus hauler and such). I configured the script, and it started to run. I turned to get a drink and heard, "DING!" I looked back and caught a brief glimpse of my hospital and immediately clicked "QUIT" knowing that I still probably DDed, but knew it was the only measure I could take against DDing. I opened Zmud again and connected. Sure enough, I had DDed. After looking around my logs, I figured out what went wrong; my ship had no fuel. How should I have known, the warning buzzer didn't go off! If the determining factor of whether you go to Heaven or Hell depends on having a profanity ratio of 10:1, I'd never catch up to get into Heaven. Yes, even if I lived to be a hundred years old. Darn, that sucked. Questions? Comments? Death threats? Email them to: Chewbacon_and_famous@hotmail.com.
H2O
MARKET CORNERED? Needing a scoop for my first assignment as a reporter and fearing the wrath of the demi-goddess herself if I failed, I decided to head for Chez Diesel in the hope that a story would fall in my lap. As I sat in the lavish comfort of CDs listening to a patron belt out some ragtime on the piano, I couldn't wait for my favorite drink to arrive: a smooth bourbon from Earth, on the rocks, served in a high-ball. I flipped the serving droid a 50 groat piece and grabbed my drink (I'm a big tipper, what can I say). I took a rather large draw on my drink and savored its taste, only to promptly spit it all back out, drenching the droid. This was no smooth bourbon, it was without a doubt the worst drink I had ever tasted in my life… and I've drunk some pretty vile stuff in my day. Needless to say, I took great pleasure in watching the nefarious waiter short-circuit and burn up on the floor. When this minor entertainment came to a conclusion, I returned to my drink in an attempt to discover the reason for its foul assault on my taste buds. It looked and smelled like a perfectly good bourbon of the Earthen variety, but it certainly did not taste like one. Suddenly, I realized what the problem was… they had actually served it on rocks! Tiny, sulfuric chunks of Mars had been substituted where ice should have been. Indignant over this tampering with an otherwise refreshing drink, I approached the madam herself for an explanation. She shrugged me off with a "Not tonight, hon. I'm tired." The bartending droid was no help either. When I asked him about the ice, I merely received a mechanical, "Ice does not compute." Intent on finding an answer, I decided to ask around at the Duff Modem Pub. It was here that I learned there was no ice to be had anywhere on Mars. In fact, the planet had almost run out of water entirely and was desperate for another shipment of 'old wetty.' My olfactory nerves kicked into high gear in an attempt to sniff out the source of this H2O shortage. And so it was that I found myself traveling from planet to planet in Sol in search of a bourbon on ice and a story. My travels eventually took me to Sol's hotspot, literally, on Mercury. This hellish world, within spitting distance of good old Sol 69, was the last place I expected to find water. Yet, when I exited my ship and entered the underground hangar, I was greeted by a blast of moisture. I began wandering here and there through tunnel after tunnel in search of answers. Shop-owners swore they knew nothing. An urban spaceman insulted my apparel rather than answer any questions. I even inquired with local law enforcement officials but they remained tight-lipped. Finally, I decided to ask around at Slarti's. When I began asking questions about the wet stuff, the Slarti managers began fidgeting and giving evasive answers. I had about given up when I noticed liquid seeping into the room from under a door in the west wall. I suspected I had found my answer and those suspicions were confirmed when I opened the door. A deluge not seen since biblical times poured out from the room subsequently flooding half of Mercury's spaceport. No human casualties were reported; however, grizzle hunters are now an endangered species. After the waters subsided, Slarti himself came forward and began confessing everything. It turns out that an inflated demand for water and ice planets by newly installed POs had placed water at a premium. With rumors flying around the system that water was being considered for addition to the Commodities Trading Exchange, Slarti's had begun a secret H2O stockpile in anticipation of a further influx of promoting Explorers and stood to make a vast fortune on water royalties. As a result millions of workthings throughout Sol, deprived of water and ice, were dying of thirst and, more importantly, I was unable to get a decent drink. Fortunately, the quick action of Imperial authorities in restoring regular water shipments and some astute investigative journalism by yours truly have averted what could have been a tragedy with severe repercussions throughout DataSpace. Imagine a galaxy where you couldn't get a cold drink. Oh, the humanity.
MONTY
FILES CLASS ACTION LAWSUIT Earth - The pirate ship 'Monty' has recently issued a large lawsuit against all owners of ships in the Sol space area. Due to massive prejudice and expense, Monty decided that it is best to blame those who constantly assault him. Speaking in a comm-vised conference, Monty spoke about how he was free of any wrong doing to instigate such action from his assailants. "Me am good citizen, me haul, me fly. Sometimes, me fill stranded ship with…. Fuel. Never me attack ship, no! Me is model flight guy." After a recent attack, which marks the 3,900th explosion of his ship, Monty decided to pursue the only possible course of action available to him, a legal battle. Amassing a team of psychiatrists, social workers, personal injury attorneys, and several others to the mix, he has spoken with strong confidence in his appeal to the court system. The list of accused is between three and four thousand, those who have fatally destroyed his ship, and those who have attempted, thus giving him much mental anguish. "Me never hurt nobody, me am friend. Thank you"
Last week I threatened to publish yet another sorry top ten list if I didn’t have any planets to review. Without further ado – here it is!
Well, folks, it looks as though whomever is in charge of fortune has decided they might smile at me; the chances of my attending the Chicago FedMeet have risen since the rather dismal article I wrote a little while ago. To that end, I've been searching airlines trying to find budget airfare that doesn't include the word "freight." Personally, I love to fly. It's the only time people treat me with respect. Sure, that's what they're paid to do, but it still makes you feel good. I was sharing these thoughts with a friend of mine just recently and remarking how much I like to fly when she mentioned she didn't. I asked why, and she mentioned the delays. That's true, and also something for us to be thankful for; never have I been delayed in Fed when I want to take off and fly... barring the times I forgot I needed fuel, and that one embarassing incident where my ship was tied down. But that's a story for another day. We need to make a few distinctions here. Flying itself is fun. Sure, the waits of a week or more in a place that only a cockroach would think of as a vacation spot are about as much fun as nailing your lips to your desk, but the flying itself isn't bad. I know there are some of you who fear flying. I usually see you cowering on the LP, stuck in a perpetual loop of "I can fly, no I can't, yes I can, no I can't..." These are the same people that jam jetways like human cholesterol. Not that I have anything against them, but I wish they'd hit their insecurities before we're stuck in a confined location with them. I'm not too fond of being trampled, and it's happened a couple times.But the vast majority of us, thankfully, never have this problem in Fed, even those who think of jets as the scariest objects built since the guillotine. We merrily fly around until we run out of fuel because we forgot to fill the tanks. That's when we learn about "the fear of flying." The flying's okay, it's just those abrupt, unscheduled landings.
WATERIN'
HOLES: WHAT DO YOU MEAN... NO PUB?! Note: The following article has changed the name of the offending planet to avoid undue embarrassment to the PO; however, he has been reported to the proper authorities. I had just completed my latest dumping… err… trading run and was mighty thirsty from having watched all that hard work the stevedores were performing. Although it is embarrassing for me to admit, I discovered that I'd neglected to pack any kind of liquor for my trip. (It was almost as bad as standing in the middle of the Starship Cantina wearing nothing but boxers and having them stolen by a certain unnamed someone!) Needless to say, I acted swiftly to resolve this situation. I fired my ship's retro-rockets and pulled a U-turn to head back to the last planet I had passed. Things had come to such desperate straits that, by the time I arrived, I abandoned the ship controls before I even landed… resulting in a sudden ten meter drop to the landing pad, not to mention over a meg's worth of damage. As soon as I had pried my ship's door open (the drop shorted out every single circuit in the ship, though curiously my hula girl doll on the dash still worked), I raced into the spaceport in search of the nearest drinking establishment. Yet try as I may, I could not track down the elusive location. I knew it had to be there somewhere though, nobody would ever build a planet and be foolish enough to not include at least one bar. After repeatedly having my way blocked by a burly marine during my search, I'd had enough. I got up in his face and asked him where in the world was the pub and was Carmen Santiago there? The impassive marine simply gave me a blank look and said there was none and no, she wasn't. He then dropped and gave me twenty. Obviously, this marine had been brainwashed by years in the Imperial Corps and just didn't understand my question. So I decided to take my question to the people. With a wild look in my eyes, I grabbed a workthingie, put him in a headlock from which there was no escape, and began interrogating him.
Apparently there was a language barrier because all I got in response from him was nonsensical babbling about there not being any pubs on the planet. I gave up on him and did a "di Volstead" and found no reference to a state of prohibition on the planet. Therefore, I concluded that it must be hidden. It would be an utter lack of lunacy for Slarti's or any PO to build a planet with nowhere to drink or even read all of their love letters off a bar bulletin board. Unfortunately, the elusive bar was never to be found and I had no way off the planet now that my ship's circuits were zorched. After being stranded on the planet for several days without a drink, I came to a realization that, for reasons beyond all logic and comprehension, there was no bar here! If only someone had told me that right away. The moral of this story is: BUILD A BAR! You never know when someone will land on your planet in search of a little hooch, why would you ever want to disappoint them?
Once again no requests for planet reviews came in the mail, and I had another week of slacking off. Hazed is starting to suspect I've eaten the postman, and if it wasn't for the timely delivery of Playboar this month I'd be wondering if the galactic postal service was on summer hiatus. So to fill up the page (I need full pages to line the kitchen floor), here's yet another list!
Greetings from the east coast! For those of you who don't live here, the "heat index" is somewhere near the mean temperature of Venus. But that doesn't really do it justice... here, let me illustrate the weather around here. First, sit in front of a humidifier for six or seven years. After you've done that, set off a small nuclear weapon while you're sitting on it. Now you know what it's been like around here. Heat has always bothered me. I've never liked it, and frankly, it gives me headaches. Whenever the temperature climbs over 70 degrees, I begin considering moving to the antarctic. So the recent hot-and-humid kick we've been on hasn't exactly been my most favorite thing to come to the area. This is a fact of life wherever you go on this planet; you're going to find heat. If not now, wait a few months. But heat will come to you. It's kinda like tax season. You can hide and run, but sooner or later, it's going to catch you, and it's going to make you miserable when it does. Heat is particularly noticeable at the beach, where the sand warms up to the point that you could melt lead on it, and there's no cover from the sun. Yet, somehow, the plethora of water planets we have in Fed don't suffer from this problem. Consider that seriously for a minute. We're never uncomfortable because of the weather. This is fortunate, and the people with me on the east coast know exactly what I mean already. When it's hot and humid, the only thing you want to do (other than die) is to lay still and not move until November. There are advantages, sure: this would be an interesting and effective way of gaining tourist time, and the margarita industry would prosper beyond its wildest dreams. However, while we're all melting into the topsoil, very little would get done in terms of commerce... not that it would matter, since nobody would be doing anything anyway. Not until November, anyway.
WATERIN'
HOLES: A PUB DESIGN TUTORIAL It was an arduous and exhausting task, but someone had to do it. Being the self-sacrificing type, it behooved me to take up the challenge. The mission: to assault my senses (and my bodily organs) as I flew through Fed DataSpace on a one-man pub crawl sampling the wares and critiquing bars, pubs, cafes, and taverns throughout the galaxy. A wise man once said, "A planet's true worth and value can be determined by looking at the quality of its bar scene," and that wise man was me. And so it was that I began my odyssey to find the perfect pub. It was to my utter dismay that the first three planets I visited all had those boring pre-fabricated bars on their worlds. Upon making this discovery, I began to suspect that most POs just don't know how to create a good pub… a suspicion that was confirmed when the next two planets I visited were particularly uninspired, albeit original, designs. Thus, I decided that before I began hurtling through the cosmos from planet to planet on a drinking binge of exploration, I ought to first clue people in as to what makes a good pub. So it was that I compiled this list: (Drumroll, Please)
Remember, it's up to each and every man, woman, and child… err scratch that last one… to determine how good Fed's bars, and in turn Fed's planets, will be. I look forward to visiting them in the future.
Late this week a request for a planet review finally showed up in my mailbox. I quickly hid the letter under a pile of oily rags so I wouldn't have to do any work, and asked her demi-goddessness for next week off. Laziness is a hard habit to break. The cleaner uncovered the request and promptly delivered it to Hazed. Fortunately for me she got so wrapped up in designing and implementing the new Certificates of Award for Walrus and Carpenter winners that I managed to duck the task anyway. It'll be here when I get back, though, and Kessel will be the first planet in the queue.
FED
OP-ED: CHEZ DIESEL Occasionally while chatting in Chez D's, one will see someone speak to Diesel on the side and eventually get taken into a back room of some sorts. Giggles sometimes arise from the patrons of the popular hangout, as well as looks of disgust and lewd comments. However, I do not believe that just because someone walks away with Diesel means that they should automatically be the target of these comments. How does anyone of you readers know for sure what is going on when each person leaves? Perhaps Diesel is merely catching up on times past with an old friend in some instances. They sit back, have some coffee, and gossip of the days when they were younger. Perhaps Diesel is conscious of the reality that people DO lose items on occasion and is running a lost and found office in that back room. A patron needs only to inform Diesel of the lost item, and then is escorted to retrieve it. Perhaps Diesel has decided to take up new hobbies and has started a bridge club. Since Chez D's is such a popular place, she cannot accommodate everyone who would love to be in her bridge club, so a simple password allows one in to play. Perhaps Diesel has turned that old back room into an art gallery. Those art connoisseurs who wish to enter only need to whisper their desire to Diesel, and it is granted. So remember, next time you notice that Diesel, as well as a fellow patron, has disappeared, anything is possible. Question, comments? Send an e-mail to Jelly@columnist.com.
LANDING
PAD ACCIDENT ON HAUGE "It just gave way," says the pilot of a cargo ship. "I landed and then all of a sudden, CRASH!" Construction officials are bustling about Hauge filling in a sinkhole under the landing pad which a ship fell into. Other crews are taking acoustic readings from the surface to check for more possible hole. Hauge officials say that they weren't prepared for such a disaster and they didn't even think that this would happen. A shadowy official carrying a briefcase overstuffed with groats evaded our paparazzi before we could interview him. Another man dressed in Batman Underoos with a bat-signal stitched to his bottom said, "It wasn't my fault! Oh, and don't quote me on that." We searched for the Duke, Rasal, for a comment, but he was nowhere to be found. A few people said we may have found him running around in a clever disguise, but we found noone. The ship that sank suffered damage to the fuel tanks, which caused engine fuel to soak into the ground and down into the aquifer. Residents on the planet are asked to drink ale from the local pub until the water is purified. Several men from a local brewery showed up to the pubs promptly to that announcement. The shipment onboard wasn't released to the press, but we are sending three letters a day to Hauge's administrator until we get an answer. Questions? Comments? Death threats? Email them to: Chewbacon_and_famous@hotmail.com.
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