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WEB FED NEWS YEARBOOKS Earthdate November 2001 |
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WEB FED NEWS YEARBOOKS Earthdate November 2001 |
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INSIDE SCOOP |
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What was in November 2001's Inside Scoop:
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While I still have feeling in my fingers, let me pass to you the information I've acquired in the last 48 hours.
That being said, I'll type until I ice over again. For those of you who haven't already guessed, it's winter again in the northeast. Just a few days ago, it was so warm we were wearing shorts. Today, it's so cold there was snow falling. I know as well as you do that the seasons are caused by the relative position of our bit of the globe being further away from or closer to the sun as we spin in orbit. When it's winter here, it's summer down in South America. Well let me tell you, it must be hot enough to melt lead down there. I'm already losing feeling in my fingers. It's already terribly cold, which makes me wonder what the rest of winter has in store for us; we usually get some pretty amazing snowstorms, being in the mountains, so with things this uncomfortable right at the outset, it concerns me slightly that we may be looking forward to the outbreak of another ice age. Last winter was amusing. Between waiting for the department of transportation people to chisel our highway out of the ice and waiting for the power company to put our ice-broken power lines back up, we kept busy foraging for food and building igloos. At the very least, it keeps the malls from becoming crowded by culling the herd. As things currently stand, the department of transportation assures us they have plenty of salt on hand, and the power company promises that the new power lines won't break like the last ones. Of course, both said the exact same things last year, and both ended up being liars of political caliber. Neither director enters our town in anything less than an armored personnel carrier now. Well, my fingers and face are numb again, which means its time to move, glacierlike, back under my electric blanket. Hopefully my faithful (har!) computer will send this before its little modem turns into an ice cube. So, assuming I survive this week, I'll be talking to you again. In the meantime, I need to brush up on igloo construction.
at Horatio_TheWriter@excite.com!
POWER FREAK In Federation’s manual it says the object of the game is to become the most powerful player in the game. Okay, so I want to be the most powerful person in Fed. What should I do? Several things do lead to power: money, violence (probably not the best way), sex, and the power of words. Which of these would be the best for me? Allow me to evaluate! Money: I have plenty of this and I’ve always been able to make plenty of this. But I’m still not the most powerful player. Violence: I suck at fighting. I’m more of an Unreal Tournament/Quake III person who can see the limbs flying when he makes a good shot. However I’ve seen some people fight and win and I don’t think you could consider them the most powerful people in Fed. Sex: Never wanted to get to sex in Fed. Seriously, just doesn’t appeal to me there. I know a few people who are into this sort of thing, but I wouldn’t (and they probably wouldn’t either) call themselves the most powerful people in Fed. Power of Words: Me fail English? That’s unpossible! My grammar isn’t that bad. It can’t be if you never make under an A in English. Or, wait… when one says power of words is he speaking of grammar or persuasion? This could fall into the sex category unless you plot something really evil and devastating against the galaxy. I am evidently not the most powerful person in Fed. Who is (besides Hazed or others in Galactic Administration)?
A SPACE HOLIDAY Ever decide you need a sudden vacation? This morning, I decided I did as I looked around Chez D’s. I was tired of seeing the same things every day (even though I only recently noticed that fountain). So, I packed my stuff, and loaded up my spaceship. I engaged myself in intense research in order to determine the best place to visit. I threw darts at a map. After a few dozen pinholes in the ceiling of my spaceship, I finally hit the map. (Don’t ask about the cost of the damage to the hull.) Titan, it hit, and to Titan, I went. I packed up my swimming gear, umbrella, lawn chair, and, of course, a towel and headed on over to Titan. What I found there was snow, ice, snow, and, well, snow. That would not have been so bad if it were warm out. But it was cold—oh so very cold. Perhaps I should have researched my vacation destination a little better. (Since when has a dart been wrong? Sheesh!) Oh well, so much for my vacation.
The following paragraphs are excerpts from Senator Alsatian’s diary. Day One: Day Two: Day Three: Day Four: Day Five: Day Six: Day Eight: Day Nine: Day Ten: Day Eleven: Day Twelve: Day Thirteen: Day Fourteen: Day Fifteen: Day Sixteen: Day Seventeen:
Although, this article could just as easily been called "Tribute or Roast? You Decide!" Unfortunately, that didn't fit. We're gathered here to remember our dear departed... She's not dead? You people need to tell me these things! Take two. Actually, folks, I just want to take the opportunity this week to bid a fond farewell to my former editor, Uniquette. It was because of Uni that I actually have my job here; I showed some interest and a sample column, and all of a sudden I was basking in the lap of poverty, working sans paycheck. It was like magic the IRS only knows. I'll miss Uniquette. She was a wonderful editor, helpful and supportive, and willing to listen to every complaint I had before cracking her whip and telling me to get back to work. And although she did seem to have something of a hostility disorder (this is akin to saying that Chuck Yaeger had a thing for speed) at times, overall she was a joy to work with, and I learned greatly under her guiding club. Of course, this doesn't mean I'm not happy to be working under Hazed's watchful eye. Since our working relationship is only a week old, it would be unfair to say anything truly negative of her, and I'm actually warming to the idea of working with her. (Uniquette, if you're reading: HELP US! She's been killing us off at random! I'm afraid I'm next! I tried to send you a message by carrier pigeon, but I don't think it got through, seeing as how lunch the next day was "tiny turkeys." I think she's watching me, so I'm going to wait until the next new moon before completing my tunnel and breaking out of my cubicle.) I love Hazed. In all seriousness, I wish my wonderful former editor the best of luck (GOOD LUCK, UNI!), and I hope she continues reading the chronicle, since she always seemed to enjoy watching me floundering around for a topic. I also hope that I get to keep my job after poking a few jibes at my new editor (I meant it all in fun, really!). So, here's to a new era. When's the next new moon?
THANKS Veterans Day is today (or at least it will be by the time you read this). So many people will spend the day remembering friends, family or veterans in general – the people who once defended our country and possibly died one day so it may live on to another. Usually in this holiday, I’m focusing on the heroes who couldn’t come back and get the medals put on their uniforms. Sure, dying in the war may make them ‘true heroes’ but the ones who survived, though not making as big of a sacrifice, will live on to perform more heroic acts in the wars to come. Unfortunately, for some of these folks, the clone bank form of life insurance isn’t available quite yet (in some forms it is, but who is crazy enough to pay the large amount of money to get their head frozen?). I once DDed while fueling my time machine to save the galaxy from a fate worse than death… would that make me a veteran in Fed? It didn’t give me a new feeling for those who have saved the galaxy, but did give a new edge to my sense of remorselessness when it comes to Fedding; it sucks to DD! (Especially on your own planet! Hold the jokes, Kao.) My build back to Baron-hood was quick and easy. Friends donated generously and I made it back in about 5 months. Again, it is unfortunate that these people who died for our lives can’t reconnect, start a new character and have their friends bring them back up to speed. I wouldn’t call myself a religious person – I have no idea who to see as a god, whether an entity or physics and chance – but for the sake of common interest: if there is a heaven, regardless of who they were or where they came from, there should’ve been a seat for those who died beyond the gates of heaven. My regards and thanks go out to those who fought, bled and died to protect my, and certainly your own, for years before today and years to come.
Once upon a GMT bleary, while I
pondered, bloodshot and weary, Ah, distinctly I remember it was in
the mid-November; Deep into my blue screen peering,
long I stood there wondering, fearing, ‘Curse you!’ said I,
‘OS of evil! Demon still, if XP or ME!’ And the blue screen, never fading,
still is showing, still is showing
>bash >bang >bark I’ve been busted. Hauled to the hoosegow, put in the pokey, clamped in the clink, jammed in the joint, carried off to the calaboose. I’m languishing as a guest of the Department of Rehabilitation with only a single ragged blanket for comfort until my case is heard. With a dry crust of kibble I marked the wall to count the days I’ve been here. Unfortunately I got hungry, licked off the marks, and lost all track of time. I’m here because someone chose to break the story about the Aibo case in last week’s Chronicle. Well, I think it was last week; without my marks it might have been last year. When someone decided to inform the Fed public, they also informed that very L-A-R-G-E police officer on Mercury who constantly reads the paper just looking for something to yank my collar over. (In my humble opinion, that someone should be sentenced to always dressing like a woman in Fed and using a name like Bella.) Anyway, the story involved the designer of the Aibo robots getting a little hot under the spacesuit collar over software modifications made by the consumer and installed by means of some deft manipulation of proprietary software. The Digital Millennium Copyright Act was unsheathing its claws and hunting out poor innocent hacker hounds like me. Since I don’t read the Chronicle myself (what else would I use to line the floor of my doghouse!), the first hint that something was amiss came when I stumbled home late one evening and found my abode thoroughly ransacked and the secret love-nest where I kept Aibo exposed and empty. As I surveyed the carnage in shock, a voice ordered me to drop to the ground and put my paws over my head – I was under arrest! The L-A-R-G-E policeman with the rather L-A-R-G-E weapon aimed in my direction didn’t seem amused by my attempts to contort my body so all four paws ended up over my head. I did my best; but before I could yank my back legs out of joint and comply he had slapped a choke collar and muzzle on me. I was keel-hauled to the courtroom for an immediate preliminary hearing. The judge bore a hostile expression. The black cat on her shoulder whispering in her ear didn’t inspire any feelings of optimism, either. "You!", she yelled, loud enough so the tinguey even stopped tinkling in its tracks. "What do you have to say for yourself?" A puddle mysteriously formed under me as I struggled to answer through the muzzle. "Mmmmphhh", I managed to say. "Impertinent hound!", she scolded. I whined as she read off the list of charges. Not only had I modified my Aibo so the robotic pooch would write my planet reviews, there appeared to be some concern over the little sex macros I’d installed. "No bail!", she decreed as I tried to explain using only m’s, p’s and h’s. I waggled my tattooed ears so the message "It’s Not My Fault" would be clearly legible above my head, but the muzzle had captured one ear so the only thing she saw was, unfortunately, "My Fault." Aibo has been removed for evidence. The fleas on the back of my neck stand straight up every time the guards start talking about putting me in the cell with that really big guy named Sally. The food is less than gourmet, and Hazed has sent word she’ll not intercede in my behalf until some planet review requests start rolling in. Please shine up your planet and send in your request. And if you should include a file with your letter, maybe you’ll end up with a Walrus or Carpenter award for your trouble!
[A note: Thanks to all of you who wrote in, telling me when the next new moon was to help facilitate my escape. I must unfortunately inform you, though, that escape seems impossible now, since Hazed has installed the land mines and trained killer attack Zlitherworms.] Last night, as I readied myself for a semi-formal event, I found myself reflecting on the state of fashion, and how it seems to be directed at killing as many of us as possible. When you consider it, it does appear as though the concept of "fashion" is, in fact, a covert attempt to commit mass murder, usually by asphyxiation. Take, for example, the necktie. This is a portable noose. Tying the necktie alone is a form of torture; to get that knot right, you have to do things with your fingers the hand design department never thought of. This alone should tell us something. Then we go and compound the pain by putting on a stiff-collared shirt that guarantees if you tilt your head beyond five degrees in any direction, you'll either cut off your circulation or your spinal cord. Now I will not for a moment pretend that men are the only people who suffer for the sake of fashion. In comparison, men sometimes definitely get the better end of the deal. There are things going on behind the female side of the fence I don't even want to know about, that's how hideously uncomfortable they seem. Not the least of which are high heels. Ladies, I will be the first to admit that they can do a lot for appearance. But if you need to walk around on your toes for hours, well, I'll be happy to live with the unenhanced version. My girlfriend tells me, and I completely believe, that having your toes smashed down into a point by your shoe is far from an entertaining experience. I empathize with this, as I am currently breaking in a new pair of dress shoes. I find them comparable to wearing cheese graters. The last time I wore them, they in turn wore all the skin off my little toes, requiring me to wear stupid-looking bandages for a day and hobble around in flip-flops in fifty-degree weather. This time, I have managed to avoid the blisters, but I can now cross my toes as well as my fingers when I send an article in for approval. I am in pain. And yet, despite all this, we tromp around in things far less comfortable in Fed. You can see seven-inch stiletto heels on people who claim they're dressed casually. I assume formal requires scaffolding. True, the average guy in Fed isn't usually dressed at the height of fashion, so I guess we don't get to complain. But even when we are in our best (that, of course, being a relative definition), we don't ever feel the need to honestly complain about our attire. I don't know - perhaps future formal wear is made from Play-Doh and subsequently never tries to strangle you. Future shoes must be like the ones in the Jetsons; they looked like socks. I will, however, be among the first to say that getting dressed up and going out is enjoyable - from time to time. This is the primary reason I'm a humor columnist; you're never expected to be in a suit at work, unlike the "reputable" journalists, and at social functions people expect you to be dressed like you just woke up in a trash compactor. Consequently, what I wear probably works out to being a nice surprise, at least for my editor, who claims I'd probably forget to put the coffee in the cup before drinking if it weren't for the big sign she'd nailed to the coffee maker. What am I saying? Well, I suppose it boils down to just general wonder. How we still have toes, despite our incessantly bad choices in footwear are boggling. How we can wear half of the things we wear in Fed without requiring major attention from a chiropractor (or perhaps a contractor) is completely beyond my capacity for reason. Stop snickering; I am capable of reason, I just choose not to most of the time. So, to all of us in Fed, I raise this glass of genuine imitation quality champagne and say... Here's to your toes. Should any of you like to tell me anything, you're cordially invited to e-mail me at Horatio_TheWriter@excite.com! I'd also like to ask that "Here's to your toes" NOT appear on my tombstone - all those glitches in your computer are caused by angry ghosts, and I can carry a grudge.
Diesel has reported that a previously permanent presence in Chez D’s is now missing. Diesel said that a character of the name "Derian" has been missing for "quite a while". When she noticed that Derian never returned to Chez D’s, Diesel contacted the authorities, reporting a robbery. After being informed by the authorities that she never actually *owned* Derian, Diesel hired her own private investigator… me. So now I ask for your help. Any information you have pertaining to Derian’s disappearance is vital to my investigation. Send any evidence or information to Jelly@columnist.com. I will try to keep the Fed public informed as to the developments of this investigation.
Incarcerated in a vile dungeon, imprisoned for a crime he did not commit, our intrepid planet-reviewing hound is in despair. His only hope is to receive a request to review a planet, so that he can convince the authorities (ie Hazed) that he can be of some use to society and should therefore be released to do his duty. So please, all you new POs out there. Take pity on the desperate dawg. If you don't, Hazed says she will throw away the key!
IT'S BEGINNING TO FEEL... Like mayhem. People keep saying "'tis the season to be jolly," but these people have obviously never spent time in a suburban mall parking lot on the famed "Black Friday." I now understand the significance of Black Friday; it is the day the asylums let everybody out on a day pass to the local mall parking lot. These are not nice insane people, such as the fellow who gave me a flaming drink in the Cantina the other night, but malicious, violent crazies, who are fully willing to ram you in order to get your parking space... or anybody else's, should you unfortunately find yourself in their way. Their holiday anthem (sung to the tune of "Jingle Bells") likely sounds like this:
Therefore, you are forced to park in a somewhat remote space, typically near the border of Germany. If you're lucky, you've brought hiking supplies with you, have sight of the mall, and are in the company of a friend. This is not to keep you from getting lonely. This person is parking-space-maniac fodder. "'Tis the season to survive" is your motto at this point. Once you find yourself in the mall, the party has not ended. Some people have compared a holiday mall to falling into a Zlitherworm nest. Frankly, I think these people need to get their heads examined. Holiday shoppers are truly violent creatures, primarily because they suffer a sort of temporary blindness; they can only see where they're going, and you're not it. It's similar to being stuck in the running of the bulls at Pamplona in red trousers - your only choice is to flee before them. Then there's that wonderful experience, after you've successfully battled into a store and selected something, of finding a salesperson so you can actually buy something. These people deserve to be on the endangered species list. You never have trouble buying things in Fed, whether it be food, fuel, or a lamp, but God help you if you're trying to buy a necktie after Thanksgiving. Overall, I think we should probably be happy that we have few problems buying things in Fed. Moreover, we should be glad that we can't shop for things in Fed, beyond commodities (and your loved ones won't appreciate a ton of soybeans, trust me... another long story). I, however, will be enjoying the holiday shopping experience. I'll even enjoy making my purchases. However, I think the system could work better if we just changed the salespeople a little. We should make them carry flares.
MINIMALLY EXCEPTIONAL On Thanksgiving, I sit down at a table, eye a humongous bird and can only think: What a stupid, yet delicious, bird! It would have to be pretty dumb to find a way to sink to the bottom of the food chain so quickly only one day of the year (except chicken which is at the bottom everyday, but I do give them credit for rising up several notches on thanksgiving). Every year farmers gather a hoard of turkeys together and feed them until they’re plump and juicy for the slaughterhouse; and the turkeys fall for it each year! You’d think that after over a hundred years of this, evolution would’ve stepped in and offered what little help it could in such short time. Teeth and venom could help them out on survival. This will bring me to my thought, pointless or not, for my article. Go into Sol and type WANTED… **>> Stardate: 212151:227
<<** Pegasus – just another horse to hunt down and sell to a dog food factory in my mind. An easy 2 megs, but if you do the math, he’s an easy -4 megs after you pay for insurance, repairs, weapons and that bright and shiny fighter. The pirate – Most of us Barons and all of you Dukes have taken him out once or twice. The Dawg – Doesn’t fall into Sol’s regular mobiles, but he’s still rather relevant. The Eel – Ditto. The Albatross – Again. The Scoutship – What’s with you POs and your provoked violence? And cheap payment to do it as well! Chewbacon – I wonder how that happened? Cruise – Everyone wants to nail a DataSpace Navigator from time to time. Danny – Who else did you expect? So the actual players on the wanted list are irrelevant, but I wanted to continue my commentary. My real point is, especially when it comes to Monty, these mobiles are no smarter than the turkey that’s wrapped up in my refrigerator. Each time you blast Monty, Pegasus, or any other mobile out of the sky, a little while later, there they’ll be floating around up there with their thumb up their rear end waiting for you to replace it with a missile. You’d think that after years and years of the same routine, Monty would be using the SpyNet Wire Service to get word of anyone coming after him or even better, just keeping his bum on the ground!
I managed to keep a positive attitude during most of my jail stay the last couple weeks. Each day, as I awaited trial on charges of illegal program enhancements to my mechanical helper, I'd mark the passage of time on my cell wall with a dry crust of kibble. Confident I could gain mercy from the court, I practiced tirelessly on the well-timed puppydog eyes and contrite whines that had never failed me in the past. Then my outlook took a plunge when they dragged in Godot and dumped him on the floor of the cell next to mine. There was only one person in Fed cruel enough to sentence Fed's paragon of patience to a jail term for asking, "..but which Christmas?" The judge could only be Hazed. My suspicions were confirmed as I entered Court #1 for my trial. On the bench sat the demi-goddess herself, regal in black robes and using her gavel to punctuate her rulings with whacks on the defendants' heads. The makeup of the rest of the court led me to believe the rest of Fed's lawyers must still be creating paperwork and compiling billable hours on the Boxer case! Serving as my court-appointed legal beagle was the Tinguey, who's only legal strategy consisted of waving its tentacles in attempts to misdirect the court's attention. To my horror and dismay the Tax Inspector was serving as special prosecutor for Ming. Rumor is that this man has jailed his own grandmother for undeclared income on jams and jellies! The first charges presented were those of programming Aibo to do my planet reviews. Hazed solemnly accepted the five foot stack of articles brought in as evidence, eyed them with distain, and announced the charge was dropped. Apparently she'd read them all as she posted them each week in the Chronicle and declared that she could find no difference between the excrement I produced and those supposedly penned by Aibo. With a bang of her gavel she assigned the evidence to line the floor of the Mare's Nest and directed the Tax Inspector to proceed to the next charge. I sighed in relief, but knew I wasn't out of the woods yet. The court bailiff blushed as he read off the next charges. "The defendant is charged with installing illegal enhancements to the Aibo in order to engage the robot in illicit and lewd sexual practices." I don't know who ratted me out, but with a steady diet of low-grade rads, some strategically glued marshmallows and a little code tweaking here and there I'd managed to upgrade my mechanical helper into a companion that rivaled even the best of Diesel's harem. I knew my goose was cooked when the bailiff brought in Aibo, freshly charged and ready to follow commands. Hazed whistled, tripping Aibo's ‘come hither' circuitry and my former companion trotted behind the raised bench for inspection. The judge disappeared behind the bench as she bent down for a closer look and didn't emerge for quite some time. I fidgeted as I waited, listening to rustles and the occasional moan that came from behind the raised platform; the bailiff peeked once to see if Hazed required any assistance, and quickly returned to his post with a blush on his face that would serve well as decoration for the Red Room. What seemed like a hundred JP cycles later the demi-goddess judge emerged from behind the bench, her hair tousled, robe askew, and a dreamy look on her smiling face. "Court is adjourned for today," she managed to say after several attempts to clear her throat and find her voice. "I'll just take the evidence home with me for uh… further inspection." Aibo's alloy tail wagged happily when Hazed called for it to follow. The Tax Inspector appealed to Hazed as she wobbled towards the exit, "Ma'am, what about the dog?" She vaguely waved a hand and muttered over her shoulder as she left. "Just have him stay here and beg pretty until a planet review request comes in!" My legs are starting to wobble now from holding the begging position. Please, folks – shine up your planets and send in your requests!
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