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WEB FED NEWS YEARBOOKS Earthdate February 2001 |
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WEB FED NEWS YEARBOOKS Earthdate February 2001 |
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INSIDE SCOOP |
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LIKE A BROKEN RECORED There are certain things that occur again and again that we consider a comforting constant. Then there are those that we just can't make sense of. There are many reasons for that: we're drunk, it's an inside joke, or the meaning has been obscured by the ages. Such is the case of the Public Address System of Earth. This duty-bound system has been working for years and years, without so much as a coffee break. It's a reliable system, having survived innumerable bar fights, bar parties, and tourists. However, while the people have changed, the announcements haven't. So, the question that popped into my mind was, "What happened to the subjects of these announcements?" With a little exploring, questioning, and cajoling (all of which went on my expense account so I could deduct the last six months), I was able to get to the bottom of most of the announcements.
Master-Trader Bury actually retired five years ago, but nobody told either the registry bureau or the announcement system. His ship, having sat in one place for so long, has been converted into a wildlife habitat (mainly cockroaches).
BigGroat has continually sent in letters and made phone calls requesting this announcement be stopped; he doesn't want his marbles back. However, being the generous fellow he is, he's offered to donate them to whomever wants them.
The "baggage" security keeps yelling about is actually Master-Trader Bury's German Shepherd, "Boomer." The reason security doesn't like Boomer is because he continually growls at them and occasionally steals their sidearms (he likes shiny things). They always get them back, but covered with doggie drool.
The delegation from Mars gave up on the good Senator two years ago and headed home. Reportedly, the Senator now works in the ship-permits department in the Earth Government office block.
The Cleaner was unfortunately on Venus at the time of the original call. The Code 7 mess in the main lounge has long since set into a stain that vaguely resembles Diesel.
Captain Ahab now runs a frozen-fish company (Cap'n Ahab's Funny Fish). Passenger Moby is still at Starport Information, now emitting a rather rank smell.
Well, now you know why we keep hearing these long-running messages. While they may no longer be germane, they are reassuring; despite how much the duchy maps change, we'll still hear these announcements. And maybe we shouldn't mess with it. At least it keeps the speakers useful. That and… Sorry, they just called my name.
FED
OP-ED: PLANETS This week I invaded 9 to see what they had to say on the subject of planets…
Rere: "Ryno's Checkmate did." Naiad: "Singapore's planet. It reflects his... ahem... sexy personality… his planet is very detailed, perfectly written... it's just so much like him. Perfect! ;)" Wolfyn: "Maybe Bartholomew and Boomtown - the planet is a good extension of his pirate role-play or Cptmartin and Academy - both USAF 100%!" Danny: "Mine, Jelly. It's closed for business."
Naiad: "Tough one... I would say Corf. Jonathan is a wonderful guy, lots of fun to be with. His planet has so much potential, and maybe one day he will finish it. :)" Wolfyn: "Any non-Bureaucracy planet I've ever owned... they seem to make groats in spite of my best efforts. ;)" Rere: "Rasal's Hauge, cause he's so much more than what he's got there :) :::mutters bout scoundrels::::"
Rasal: "I think the dreaded NasalHog's planet would be quite interesting." Wolfyn: "I'd like to see what the Soap would come up with." Rere: "Weebles, Wobbles could be a kewl place! :)" Naiad: "A Guild Master planet! Not even his workthingies would be able to find him!"
Rere: "The whippy flag, any location with that flag assures a whippy blast ;)" Ddking: "A flag that allows your link to be a non-peace location! :)" Gant: "A gamble or casino flag." Naiad: "It would be a hideout flag. Nobody can come in, spy or anything at all, unless I personally allow them. :)" Wolfyn: "I'd add a flag so you couldn't port out of locations, I think. Not just in, but no leaving either."
OFFICIAL
REPORT ON THE FIRST DANNITARIAN CHURCH First and foremost, for those of you who have yet to hear about the First Dannitarian Church, I'll give you a quick summary: Born from an idea by the Prophet Cen, the First Dannitarian Church is founded on the ideals of lies, injustice, and the apathetic way. It has several churches, temples, and saints, as well as several priests and priestesses and even some followers. We have ceremonies and all, and even a holy book entitled "First Dannitarian Religion for Dummies" which may soon be published in this publication in serialized form. Now onto the point. Certain people have been lurking in the shadows of Chez Diesel, our unofficial headquarters, and listening to conversations about the Church between myself, the Prophet Cen, various Apathetics, and even some Saints. They then reported this information to the public in distorted form. Shockingly, this informant then was... special enough to sign his own name to said report. Various church Councils and Tribunals have debated proper reactions to this travesty. What could a church do to someone who adamantly hates it enough to lie in public records and face the scorn of an entire religion? Finally, we came up with the answer. Welcome to the church Chewbacon, Patron Saint of Baseless Hissy Fits! Next week: further church doctrine and propaganda... um... I mean updates. Yes. Church updates. Exactly.
EXPLORING
THE UNIVERSE I get personally insulted regularly. Yes, it's true. Regularly. And one of the major subjects of said insults is my immobility. Really, that seems to bother some people. So I have decided to explore the universe, expand my horizons. I moved outside CDs. It's true. I've moved... to the Duff Modem Pub. Not forever, mind you, but until my horizons have been spread. And for no other reason. Of course I couldn't go alone. Joining me are my loving wife Derian, Barb, Arrogant, Saint Nightdroid, Cen, Andy, and several others. Why would so many people follow me on my pilgrimage? To keep me company. That's it. No other reason. So when you see everyone outside CDs, don't be alarmed, don't be suspicious. It's nothing. Just one of my bonehead schemes, and nothing more. So ignore it. And have a nice day.
I apologize to all Fedizens. There, I said it. I still don’t think it was my fault, but Hazed said I had to apologize. If I don’t she’s going to create a senator called Barker that does nothing but announce on the comms every hour to have your pet spayed or neutered and, furthermore, I’d have to contribute my family jewels to set an example. I woke on Friday morning, took a leisurely stretch and stumbled out of the doghouse door just in time to catch the conversation on channel one. It sounded like Hazed was fielding some questions concerning the lack of GroundHogs in Sol, and everyone seemed quite distressed. Obviously they needed the assistance of a hound with a keen nose, sharp eye, and superior implanted frontal cortex. >who sol >xt Woof! There’s plenty of GroundHogs in Sol. Just look! Your comm unit relays a message from Hazed, "Not those GroundHogs, Alsatian. THE Groundhog." >spynet report THE >xt Woof! Quit pulling my choke chain, there’s no player named THE! Your comm unit whaps you on the snout with a tight beam message from Hazed, "Not the player the, you goofy mutt. The GroundHog. The one that’s supposed to show up today and let us know if we will have six more weeks of lag and high taxes!" >tb Hazed Eh? Hazed has appeared with a shimmer of teleportation effect. "You didn’t eat the GroundHog this year, did you?", Hazed asks with a frown. >act glances about furtively. "Uh, I don’t think so. I’ve been a Good Dog!" Hazed scowls. >say I went to Scoutranch last week and learned all about how to be obedient and helpful and clean and reverent and, and, and I’ve been doing all these good deeds and helping old demi-goddesses cross the street and burying all of Nightdroid’s dirty socks! Hazed taps her foot on the ground and interrogates, "What do you know about the GroundHog named Phil?" >spynet report Phil >say You don’t mean that newbie that was calling himself Fedxsutawney Phil, do you? The one that was saying he’d been a GroundHog for years and years? Aw, I was real helpful to him yesterday. I showed him how to get his permit and ship and told him all about how great it was to finally promote! >act wags his tail and smiles, anticipating your praise. While deftly dodging the rolled up newspaper she wielded I managed to decipher some of the words Hazed screamed in my direction. Apparently six weeks of lag is nothing compared to the outcome of having no GroundHog Phil prediction at all. Without the Fedxsutawney Phil we’re doomed to listen to another ten-week season of Fantasy Football chatter on channel 9. I’m sorry!
There are some places that, when we hear their name, we automatically associate with relaxation and good living. Aspen. Bermuda. Bimini. Hawaii. Italy. All of these are places that we tend to think of as hospitable and comfortable. You'll note, however, that one name is missing from the list. Right: Pluto. This is mostly my fault, I admit. As I was flying back home, my ship developed a rather worrisome noise I can only describe as "the sound a 182-piece socket wrench set would make when sucked through a shop-vac." (Don't ask how I know what that sounds like.) The closest place to set down was our farthest-out buddy, Pluto. Thankfully, despite the lack of official repair facilities, someone (I think he was a cook) mentioned an ability to repair most problems with engines, so I remanded my ship into his custody. However, that also meant I was stranded on Pluto until it was fixed. I suppose I could've traveled on the spacelines, but that's pricey, and I left my wallet at home; I only had a few groats. Conveniently (or not so, as it turned out), that's more or less the price of a bunk at the barracks on Pluto. While there, I learned several important things. 1. There are uncomfortable things to sleep on. Bunk 942 is not one of them; you can't sleep on it. 2. That blue light doesn't stop blinking just because you've gotten into the bunk. 3. In fact, that blue light doesn't ever stop blinking. 4. Catsinians don't have a nasty bite. Pirahna have a "nasty bite." Catsinians have a downright evil bite. 5. Catsinians are aggravated by the color blue, apparently. As it turns out, the chef apparently did have his fuses screwed in right, because he managed to correct the problem with my ship (I'd apparently vacuumed that danged tourist into an intake again). So my ship is better, and the mauling I received is expected to heal. However, Pluto isn't quite on par with Aspen when it comes to hospitality. It tries, but it can't quite stack up. Still, I don't think I'll book my next vacation on Pluto. I'm going to aim a little higher in terms of comfort. I hear the sun is lovely this time of year.
FED
OP-ED: MAC ATTACK Hi, Jelly here, with an exclusive report about the outbreak of "Mac"s in Fed. To see show how serious this problem is, we’ve come up with some footage for you. Macnbc, "hello 9." >Look Derian, "Maclifetime." >look "...", says Cloudstrife. Cloudstrife, "i left my
spanner in my other pants..." Mactbs pokes mtv
BRAIN
LEECHES Last week I didn't send anything to the Chronicle, this week I'll explain why I didn't for the people (if any) who enjoy my articles. It started while I was sitting in my office high above Providence sifting through the daily worries of a planet owner - how much money will I make? Where will my stock deficit be at GM? Will I promote? Etc. All of a sudden, the phone rang. I answered it and it was a girl I know and have been rather distant with the past couple months. Little did I know, she was infected with a rare parasite known as brain leeches. Brain leeches look very much like the leeches you'd find on your feet after treading through a swamp on earth, but a lot smaller. They're passed on by another host talking to you on an emotional subject. This causes the leeches to manifest within you. In this case, this girl was pretty much letting out a cry for help and asking for advice. This put my emotions in a bit of a stir. An hour later, she asked me something that tossed them into a washing machine and blended them to perfection. After I got off the phone, my thoughts were as accurate as a potato gun in the hands of a four-year-old. I simply couldn't think of anything to write about. I informed Hazed. The next day, I was sitting with her in CDs and she asked me, "Will you be able to get something to me next week?" "Sure, I've just haven't been able to think after yesterday. Something sticking in my mind like a leech." Hazed blinked and took me to the hospital on earth, and sure enough I was diagnosed to be infected by the little parasites. I'm not allowed to leave the hospital, so I can't really do anything. However, a few people have dropped by already and talked to me; Godot, Dr Fogg, and the tourist, who made sure to bang my ankles with his lunar crocket mallet (perhaps he thought this was some kind of cure?). You know, some of you people could drop by and say hello to me. It would make my day worth living and I wouldn't try to escape again. After your days of puzzle-solving in the Solar System, you should remember where the hospital is very well. For the people with teleporters, you can find it at Sol location 385. Can't come by or just don't want to? Send me some email then! Questions? Comments? Death theats? Send me some email at chewbacon_and_famous@hotmail.com.
Requests for planet reviews have come to be as scarce as bird droppings in a coo-coo clock, so I’ve had plenty of time to consider my social life in anticipation of the upcoming Valentine’s Day. There are always good events for a hound to choose from: The St Valentine’s Day Chewup, the Shed and Clog Hottub Party, and the ever-popular Valentine Snogging Contests. I always have plenty of dog drool for those. There was one problem this year. I didn’t have a date lined up for the festivities. It seems I’ve been banned from Fed’s puppy farms – even though I’ve done absolutely nothing but engage in free trade and social commerce. Indeed, I’m not sure I was even at those places! At least if I was I had a good disguise on. Or I was just passing through. There have not been an overwhelming number of poodles written into planets I’ve been exploring either. Ashkellion used to give me good tips on where to find the latest litter of hot little Chihuahuas, but he’s refused to even talk about it ever since I tb’d him with a "Yo, Ashpimp – what’s on the menu today?" I had worked myself into a dateless state of panic when it dawned on me that I might get advice where all those wise planet owners hang out – channel 9. >tune 9 >xt Good afternoon ..WOOF Fed! Your comm unit relays a message from Rere, ":::tosses Alsatian a nice juicy bone:::" Your comm unit relays a message from Ditzy, "::pats the big ol' puppy::" >xt I have an Official Senatorlike Announcement to make." >xt Since Hazed isn't here I can say stuff like that. >xt <-- peers behind the door to make sure. Your comm unit relays a message from Rere, ":::Listens up in a duchess like manner:::" Your comm unit relays a message from Ditzy, "Listens to the Puppy." >xt I need to find True Love out there for Valentine's Day. Or at least populate the universe with more half-breed mutts. I seem to be dateless. Your comm unit relays a message from Rere, ":::shudders:::" Your comm unit relays a message from Mynewday, "::::peers around and wonders what planets she could put in the queue to save the universe from more halfbreeds::::" >xt <--- ponders... maybe there's some available cuties in Carnival. I could float out that way. Your comm unit relays a message from Rere, "We do have a few Alsatian ;)" >xt Any of them have those sweet little poof-balls shaved on their haunches? Your comm unit relays a message from Rere, "Hmmmm, sorry to say, no..." >xt Hrmmph. :::peers towards Oz::: Is that little pooch a female? Your comm unit relays a message from Rere, "Quick, put Toto in the pink bubble!" >xt You know, it has enough hair. Even if it's not female the duchesse could shave poof balls on it and I could pretend! Your comm unit relays a message from Rere, "Run Toto RUN!!!!!" Your comm unit relays a message from Mynewday, "::::::puts toto in the bubble:::: and hrmphs at the puppy..." Your comm unit relays a message from Mynewday, ":::looks in disgust at Alsatian:::: such desperation..." >xt :::peers towards Litterbox, wrinkles his nose, and quickly looks away:::" >xt I'm not desperate enough for felines. Maybe by tomorrow, though. Your comm unit relays a message from Intrepid, "How would I go about doing the dex puzzle?" >xt Let me find a little poodle type and I'll show you, Intrepid! Your comm unit relays a message from Intrepid, "A poodle?" Your comm unit relays a message from Catspaws, "::waves a paw at old TailBreath::" >xt <--- opens his maw in a great big grin and breathes all over the cat! >xt Got any long haired felines there willing to go for a haircut, Catspaws? Your comm unit relays a message from Catspaws, "Not with you, hairball!" >xt ::grumbles:: Gonna be another long weekend. Your comm unit relays a message from Catspaws, "You know, if you were deflead and had a good grooming, and took care of that butt breath problem, you might get a girlfriend. What you need is a visit to a dog spa." >xt Oh no! I saw you painting over the sign at the low cost spay and neuter clinic last week. You're not fooling me again! Dog Spa indeed." Your comm unit relays a message from Catspaws, "Al, old buddy, old pal! Would I deceive you?" Your comm unit relays a message from Alsatian, "Drop those nutcrackers RIGHT NOW! WOOF!" Your comm unit relays a message from Catspaws, "::hides her paws behind her back and purrs innocently::" I could see with one eyeball tied behind my back that channel 9 was out to solve my problem, but not with exactly the solution I was hoping for. I needed advice, and I needed it from someone I could trust. I needed someone who was always there for me - through thick and thin, rain or shine. >teleport sol 487 Snack bar Godot is waiting here! >say Buddy! How are you? Long time no see… been here long? Godot waits. >say Still the same, eh? Cut right to the chase, cut the small talk, get down to the problem. Well, see – it’s like this. I don’t have a date for the Valentine’s Day festivities. No new hot dogs have been around in Fed, and the old standbys aren’t answering their comm collars. Any suggestions? Godot waits. >act nudges Godot. "Yeah, yeah.. I heard that gossip about Estragon. If only he’d waited five more minutes!" Godot waits. >say I’ve tried the puppy farms, asked the planet owners, nada. I can’t show up at the events alone – everyone would say that the cats finally got Hazed to neuter me again! Godot waits. >say Now you’ve inspired an idea.. I don’t know if I can pull it off, I’d need a lot of stuff.. and I’m not real sure where I buried the Aibo last. But maybe it would work. Yeah! I can see it now! Gee, Godot – thanks! You’ve come through again! Godot waits. >act hugs Godot, gives him a drooly snog, and starts whistling for the Aibo. My work was cut out for me. Aibo, my mechanical canine assistant, is about as attractive as hammered mud. Fortunately my head can be used for something besides a hat rack, and my implanted frontal cortex was blazing with ideas on how to make the woofing robot into something special. Aibo was about to become the Valentine date of my dreams. In Camp I sent a squadron of fleas through the back door of the kitchen and had them haul out every marshmallow they could carry. A few of the treats looked a little melted already but I rolled them between my paws trying to return them to their original shape. The fleas strapped the rest of the load on my back, hopped on, and we snuck back out of the duchy. Maybe the Duke will think those white sticky paw prints on his planet were made by local wildlife. In Carnival I just came right out and asked for what I needed. Rere was a little perplexed by my request for the very oldest whippy cream she had in the warehouse, but I knew better than to call it by its right name. Glue just doesn’t go over well with a vixen. The stuff that puts the pink froth in Hazed’s drinks was a little more challenging. She keeps her stash in huge barrels behind the bar at CDs. When the rounds start flowing the kegs are tapped, and liberal doses of the sticky liquid added to each drink. With the addition of a bit of red nail polish purloined from the Accessories Department of Tux Deluxe, I had almost everything I needed. I’d left Aibo buried in one hole or another in Sol, and it took a few hours of sniffing before I found it in one of the grizzle lairs, safely buried away with half a sandwich and a jam roly-poly I’d hidden for later. I gave Aibo the command that meant ‘Stay – No Matter What Happens!’ and began to work on the robot’s toes. Well, the robot doesn’t have toes – but he does have little contact sensors on each paw, which I covered with the red polish. Covering those sensors causes it to walk with a funny, swaggering prancing sort of gait. Reminds of a little of Barb’s first steps when she’s wearing a new set of spike heels. Perfect! Next I took tapped one of the barrels of frothy goo stuff and dipped each and every marshmallow until the entire stock was a uniform sickly pink. Using the whippy cream glue I attached the marshmallows, covering every inch of Aibo’s metallic hide. Then I stood back to admire my work. Aibo woofed hesitantly; I tightened its collar so it woofed in a little higher pitch. I gave it the ‘Model’ command and Aibo made a slow circuit of the room – pink puffed marshmallow fur waving slightly with every roll of its hips. A quick teleport netted the string of pearls – the ideal finishing touch! The rest of this weekend we’ll spend rehearsing our puppy-love gazes, blowing kisses across the room at each other, and in general acting disgustingly besotted. I’ll make sure to oil Aibo’s joints; I wouldn’t want any annoying squeaks giving us away. And a name – I’ll call it Aiba for the day and no one will be the wiser. If not the best looking date in Fed for Valentine’s Day, I’ll at least have the tastiest!
TOP
TEN IDEAS FOR NAMING YOUR PLANET So, you made it through Merchant, Journeyperson and GM - and now you're an Explorer! Congratulations! Now you can get a planet, but wait, what should you name it? Just to help with this dilemma, I have put together this list of the Top Ten Best Ways to Pick a Name for Your Planet.
Last night, I had the pleasure of attending a theatre production. Theatre (yes, I use the British spelling for live play) is one of my favorite things to both attend and work in. However, as I was walking out of the auditorium last night, a thought struck me: what happened to the theatre so that it no longer exists in our Fed world? Think about the fun that we're missing out on. What with how our lives really go, imagine what live fiction could do for us! True, I doubt that Shakespeare would make it for all of us in Fed. While some of what he wrote is still germane to us, it needs updating. After all, he didn't have the benefits of spaceships and teleporters. So here are a few prototypes for Shakespearean rewrites, see what you think. King Ming - the updated version of the tragedy King Lear, King Ming is a docudrama on Ming's life. Attendance probably won't be good. The Merchant of Earth - we could technically base this one on anybody, but at present I'm thinking we can just pick up any random merchant, and use Krystal the Muse as our version of Portia. Macmonty - "until Martian ruins come to the moon rays" doesn't have the flair of the Burnham wood original line, but the tale of our favorite tyrant pirate will probably draw a crowd. Besides, he dies in the end. The Taming of Diesel - no further explanation necessary. Hamlet - the title hasn't changed much because our lead - the butler in the Earth mansion - doesn't really have a name. I think he's suited for the part, though... he's more than a little flaky to begin with. Now bear in mind, I'm not a professional playwright, and these are more or less my first attempts at drama. However, I still think that these will at least jump-start the Fed theatre community. It's worth a shot. Just no comedies about newswriters, okay?
FED
OP-ED: TASTY PLANETS As an owner of a planet owing allegiance to a food product, I only found it fitting to seek out similar planets - planets that somehow related to a food product in some form. Let's see what planets I came up with: Report for Lollipop - Duchy of
Essencia Lollipop seems like a sweet enough place. Unfortunately, it being closed for business, I was unable to take a closer look. Alas, I shall never know how many licks to the center of the too... never mind. Report for Nachos - Duchy of
Essencia Nachos spices things up a little. This one seemed extremely fitting for this article, especially with the overlord's being named "Beandip". I zoomed in on this one. Docking Bay Your spaceship is berthed here. Hmmm….. no sign of food on the landing pad. Sigh, I must continue my quest. Report for Thyme - Duchy of
Biohazard L'sigh! Yet another planet, so tastefully named, yet so depressingly closed. Such a planet name! Such an overlord name! I sigh yet again. Report for Pepperland - Duchy of
Pepperland I found another food product one… achoo!… excuse me… that I thought might be good but… ACHOO!… technical difficulties beyond… ACHOOOOO!… my control prevent a closer look. Report for Smuckers - Duchy of
Carnival Aaahhhh... home sweet home... mmm... the peanut butter café there, I think I'll stop by...
TIME
IN THE WARD Sunday, a little after the news was posted, I ran to Providence to get a few things out of my office - my Palm Pilot, comm unit and a few other doodads. I traveled back to Earth, trying to hide that large opening on the back of my gown while riding the taxi. While standing in the Foyer of the hospital, I realized that security was out eating doughnuts, so I strolled around trying to find the recovery ward. I grabbed a novel in the vending room and met some interesting people. Time in the ward passed quickly. I occupied myself by playing cards and building sculptures out of the body parts left over from "accidents" in the cloning area. I know it was morbid, but brought me to constructing a cyborg from the organs and used cloning equipment. After all was completed on it, I was reminded of something from Quake II. I had a few visitors: Bearclaw, who stayed with me for an hour and built cyborgs (which later turned against us and I had to lock myself in a cloning tube). Mind dropped by for an instant so he could mock me with a resounding >THWOK<. Then Kingdragon dropped by later the same night with a Imperial Navy order for me to travel to Horsell with him (as if I'm expendable or something?) and Zrasputin. Thank you, to all those who gave me someone to talk to, and as well as the occasional person who died in Sol. Those medical droids do not take kindly to you when you're on a gurney. Finally, on Tuesday afternoon, the doctors rushed in and pronounced me well after several prostate examinations and stomach probes. I only found myself asking, "Why are there medical students in here, each doing a prostate or stomach examination on me when I have brain leeches?" I guess there's some medical mumbo jumbo that would cause them to look in those two places. For the rest of the week, I'll be as fit as a w00kie on Prozak and Loritabs can be. Which is good because I think Catspaws is getting tired of my whining!
Last week I’d slaved and stolen to make Aibo as the dog date of dreams, and we headed over to some of Federation’s party planets to show ourselves off as the perfect Fed couple. Actually, I was just trying to save myself some work by combining the party circuit with the review process. Unfortunately Aibo fell into the first hot tub we came across, and most of the pink marshmallows that I’d glued on with whippy cream floated off the robot’s body. The rest of the partygoers threw us out in disgust, Aibo developed a terrible rust rash, and I’m still trying to work some of the gooey mess off my paws. Ever since then the Aibo has developed some peculiar tastes. Whenever we pass a clothes shop, the robot starts barking and clawing at the door. And just this morning delivery droids left a bay of scented lub-oils at my doghouse door. Maybe it’s time for a tune-up for my mechanical assistant. I had to prepare the review on InfinityII by myself this time; Aibo was sulking and mumbling something about not wanting to mess up nail polish. I don’t know what it was talking about, my nails were just fine.
An interesting thought occurred to me last night. Most of my thoughts come to me at night, don't ask me why (personally, I think it's the caffeine). Anyway, what I realized was that Fed appears to be the last bastion of true charity in the world. Follow me on this (and give me some leeway, if necessary). How often, in the real world, do you give someone money for no good reason? And I don't necessarily mean a couple bucks, I mean a few million. Almost never! Now, true, most of us aren't in the position to be able to plunk down a few million dollars at a clip, but we can certainly afford a few spare dollars for someone who might need it. Even so, we rarely do. Yet, in Fed, we share our wealth as if it were a daily to-do. Why is that? For fun, let's assume we're all multi-millionares in the real world. Even with all that money, how many of you would be willing to give away large portions of it just for the sake of doing it? You don't need to raise hands; it was a rhetorical question. But think about it. So maybe Fed is the last great bastion of charity. One of the few remaining places we can be the people we want to be but don't have the resources to be. Or, maybe, it's more of a blueprint, a guide. Sure, there are a number of people in Fed we wouldn't want to meet in the real world, and there are a number of people in the real world we don't want to meet in the real world (we call them 'auditors'). But perhaps we can take a life lesson from Fed. Be the kindhearted, charitable person you want to be. This could be training. Well, it's done little good so far, but should you want to tell me about something you'd like to hear me write about, email me at Horatio_TheWriter@excite.com.
WHAT'S
THIS THING FOR? Are you playing Fed right now? Are you logged into the game? Okay, type i or inventory. When I type it, I see a comm unit, a lamp, a ship-owner's permit, a trading permit, a planet-owner's permit, a spybeam screen, an ID card, a long service medal, and a vac suit. One thing stands out to me – the vac suit. According to the Real Life News last week, you use it on Mars since there isn't a atmosphere outside of Chez Diesel. The vac suit comes in all shapes and sizes (and conditions). Mine, for example, is nicely fitted for a w00kie, like myself, but is dusty and the creases in the material from being folded up in my personal kit are painfully visible when worn since I never use it. So you use this vac suit to walk on Mars unharmed and it only takes you a fraction of a second to put it on when you leave CDs or your ship. So why is it that you can't put it on when you want to teleport into space? If its job is to keep you alive when you're in an airless environment, and it obviously works when you port from the comfort of the bar onto the surface of, say, Titan why won't it keep you alive when you accidentally shimmer into space? Heck, I can't even examine it! I've fumbled with dozens of different combinations: >ex vacsuit Nothing works! The thing that drives me the wildest is, I don't even know what it looks like. Enlighten my compulsive nature and tell me what your vac suit looks like. Is it a designer's fashion? Does it have the most zippers on it? Who made it? Email me below with your descriptions.
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