 STUPID PEOPLE NEVER SIGN ANGRY LETTERS
by Danny
The great and wise Jedi Qui-Gon
Jinn said it best: "The ability to speak does not
make you intelligent."
Many people who decided to write me
with comments about the bracket tax reminded me of this
fact. I'd like to open with a response for all these
people, choose the one which best applies to your letter.
1. I'm a humor columnist, not a
political correspondent.
2. Being based in Britain, DataSpace does not have to
honor the US Constitution.
3. Even the first amendment.
4. Exponential growth brings a tax from nothing to a lot
very quickly. It's already unreasonably expensive.
5. I don't care that it's unreasonably expensive.
6. Brackets are less amusing in an email letter than they
are in a message over the comms.
7. Even if bracketing me a whole lot was funny in the
first place, the joke died long ago.
8. I am not anyone's alt.
9. I didn't make any of those quotes up.
Well! Now that we have that out of
the way, we can get on to the point. I have a common
sense life rule for everyone: Never send a letter you
won't sign your name to. It's not funny! And if you think
staying anonymous will protect your privacy consider
this, if I knew who sent a letter I wouldn't publish it
out of human decency, but if it's anonymous I can put it
right in the news for all to see, like this:
I feel that the braket tax
should be greater because it would not be a problem
if you had 2 gig groats. (Note: That isn't a
segment of a letter, it's the whole thing.)
What I'm getting at is that while
DataSpace may be another universe the people you're
talking to are still real people, so there's no excuse
for acting like a total idiot. Just because it isn't
reality doesn't mean you're free to do whatever you want.
Don't believe me? Want to test my theory? Go to your real
wife and explain to her why it's OK that you also have a
Fed wife or two. Or even better, do it on a national talk
show so all the world can watch you get yelled at,
because it'll be funny for everyone but you.
So, before this becomes a sarcastic
version of A Closer Look, I'll come to a close. Think
before you act. I'm not out to censor anyone by saying
what makes you look dumb on the boards, I'm out to tell
you that it isn't funny, and it isn't cute. It's just
about as funny and cute as what you'll find on the wall
of any gas station men's room, but worse because your
name's attached to it. Think before you post, think
before you speak, and think before you click send.
FRIGHTENING
NEW ADVANCE IN TECHNOLOGY CAUSES CONSTERNATION IN UPPER
RANKS
Those who doubt the ingenuity of
the average player will be heartened to hear of a new
development, which offers a fast track to both infamy
and, perhaps, promotion. An ambitious Merchant has
apparently constructed the DataSpace equivalent of the
infernal machines that in another reality call people at
dinner, put them on hold, then play them a commercial
announcement. He name is being withheld while the
authorities track down this apparent technological
crosstalk between the dimensions.
Your comm unit relays a message
from Magesmiley, "Your comm unit relays a
message from ********, "You wouldn't consider
parting with some of your money, would
you?""
Your comm unit relays a message from Dead, "He
tbed me too."
Your comm unit relays a message from Wrkincaid,
"ROFL, a begging macro!"
Bystanders, noting the quick
passage through the "who" list, in the order of
appearance, deduced the existence of the macro and began
an onslaught of rewards, insults and rotten tomatoes. The
beleaguered Merchie quickly left the game, complaining of
a conspiracy of "hostile dutchie people." After
a fast round of klompen dancing, business on channel 9
returned to a discussion of why the workbench would eat a
planet's events. Authorities ask that DataSpace
inhabitants notify them quickly of any further outbreaks
of this frightening phenomenon.
ABORT,
RETRY, RE-INSURE?
by Horatio
Has anyone ever had this
experience? You're happily playing around in Fed,
chatting in a bar or gathering the commods you've been
putting off for a month when, out of the blue, your
computer just decides it's break time and crashes? I
doubt I'm the only one. In fact, I know I'm not; when I
asked someone about how well their computer works on an
average day, a remarkable percentage of her answer was in
the form of four-letter words.
Of course, we also have to remember
that the entire Universe (as far as Fed is concerned) is
really in one giant computer. That's just a little bit
unnerving. I mean, how would you like to stroll out of
your house, and as soon as you get outside, have an
ear-piercing beep rip the air, followed by "general
protection fault!" That wouldn't be fun.
However, I'd like to point out that
that's never an issue in Fed. Let's face it: you've never
climbed into your ship, told it to go to orbit, and
"general protection fault" as a
response. Could it be that in the future we've finally
done away with Windows? That's a scary thought. What
would replace it? I don't think that running a ship with
UNIX would be a good idea… it would take a week to
just turn the cabin light on.
That also leads to the point of:
computer errors in flight. When your home computer breaks
down, true, it's annoying. However, while you sit on hold
with tech support (a call that's costing you a few
hundred dollars a nanosecond), bear in mind that you
still have air to breathe and aren't drifting towards the
sun. If I were going to die a fiery death by falling into
the sun, I don't want my last action to be waiting on the
phone listening to Barry Mannilow.
Billy Joel would be better.
NEW
GENERATION OF DROIDS TO BE UNVEILED
Mario had never in his entire life
had to wonder if he felt lucky. He was only motionless a
moment before he pounced like a cat on the red-faced man
and dropped him on his rather protuberant belly. The
other two backed away but Mario caught the one on the
left with a sharp backhand slap to the left of the face,
knocking him into and over on top of the second backup.
Mario picked up the red-faced man by the back of the belt
and dropped him on top to the heap of hospital security.
'Let me guess,' I said disdainfully
to the administrator, who was fervently hugging linoleum,
'You need a panic button, because you have so MANY happy
patients....'
'Let it go, boss,' Mario advised.
'You want we should take these guys with us?'
'Naw,' I said, 'Tie them up and
stash them in the office. Take the fat one's gun away,
before he hurts himself.'
And so we crept down the hallway,
looking for the lab. A nurse hurried past, but
fortunately she was preoccupied and didn't notice the
confiscated weapon in my hand. I stashed it in my
waistband just in case, though. We crossed the lobby
without incident and investigated WARD IV and the
operating theatre without encountering anyone. Then we
hit pay dirt. The pathology lab, on the far side of a
small office littered with incomprehensible papers.
Keeping the guns ready, we quickly moved through the
room. There was nothing in the freezer drawers, which
left us... the specimens in the jars. I drew close in
awful fascination.
'Seven to Uni,' I said, pulling out
my communicator. 'I think we have found what there is to
find... can you teleport us out of here?'
The world turned to swirling golden
dust just as the door to the lab burst open and settled
into comfortable confines of Uniquette's office. 'Regular
reports, my rear end,' she remarked, 'I had to hold the
late edition.' I looked around at the specimens that
surrounded us. 'There were a few complications, boss,' I
apologized, forbearing comment on the attractiveness of
the left foot in question. Uni waved impatiently at an
open door. Mario helped me haul the body parts into the
lab and excused himself, mumbling something about
inconvenient and uncooperative traders.
I spent a number of
formaldehyde-drenched hours with the specimens,
determining at length that their provenance could not be
established with any certainty, as of course there is
nothing unique about the DNA of cloned droids. I did
however produce a working prototype of a new improved
beta droid, which will be unveiled at the conference next
month. Its speech and learning ability seem much improved
over those of the previous generation of droids; however
still unresolved is its serious, almost phobic, aversion
to water.
A
RETURN TO FED
When Fed went to the web I was
crushed. As a student, I couldn't afford to play the
game, and was too young to drive so I couldn't work. I
have always wanted to come back and play again. I have
felt a special bond with the game even after I left,
let's just say that I checked the website every Sunday
for new changes. Recently I came back to Fed, and I am
working on getting up the ranks. In one hour I ascended
to Adventure! Needless to say I was shocked, because on
AOL, it took me three months, playing five hours a day.
After backing away from the game
for a second and pondering all that just happened, and
all the changes that have occurred in Fed, I realized
that my interest in it have changed. I used to be
interested in it for its glorified chat, for the hundreds
of people, and the ability to do anything I wanted.
Now, exploring the ranks was
actually interesting, I had been gone for so long, I
forgot how the game worked. I read all the manuals and
learned things that I never knew. The Fed staff are
right; you should take time to explore each rank. Of
course GroundHog, Commander, and Captain went by rather
fast. The hauling was incredible, my fingers have not
flown that fast in so long, and it felt great.
When I reached Captain I took time
to explore some of my old haunts and I was shocked at the
changes, only twenty-two people were on. The Cantina,
empty at five o'clock (Pacific), The Rivers of Rain,
nothing changed there, and waving to the security guard
roasting chestnuts. Things have changed, but the game
still entertains. If I can come back to the same game
over two years later, and enjoy it for something totally
different, that is a well-designed game. Fed will become
another large chunk of my life again, and hopefully I
will not have to leave again.
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CONSTERNATION IN UPPER RANKS