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WEB FED NEWS YEARBOOKS Earthdate March 2001 |
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WEB FED NEWS YEARBOOKS Earthdate March 2001 |
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INSIDE SCOOP |
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Last week, Chewbacon complained about vac suits. Why, he asked, do they offer no protection against the vacuum of space when you accidentally teleport there? As the manufacturer of the leading brand of vac suits in the Galaxy, my company Suits You, Inc, feels impelled to respond to what we feel is an unreasonable expectation. Mr Bacon is overlooking the facts of what actually happens when an unfortunate slip of the teleporter leaves you stranded in the Interplanetary Wastes. It is clear that the vac suit itself does perform its function admirably under these circumstances. As you transport yourself into the airless environment, the suit automatically activates and forms a complete seal around your body - no matter what size, shape or configuration you happen to be. You therefore do not experience explosive decompression, which is what would happen if you were not equipped with one of our suits. The suit's airtanks are topped up automatically on a moment-by-moment basis whenever you are in your ship or in a location fitted with air units (which is to say, any bar, trading exchange, landing pad, repair shop... just about anywhere in the vicinity of the usual facilities on a planet). The suit's on-board computer knows your species and knows what mix of gases you need to stay alive, and makes sure the tanks are filled with the correct formula. Therefore, when you find yourself suddenly navigating the spaceways without the benefit of a ship, the tanks will inevitably have a full complement of air with which to keep you alive. They are likely to keep you going for several hours, give or take or few minutes depending on the consumption rate for your species. In ideal circumstances, this would be plenty of time for you to call for help and be rescued. Unfortunately, intelligent beings of all races seem to experience a very similar reaction to these circumstances. They panic. Blind, unreasoning panic sets in. Experiments show that those who do port into space are so confused by the experience that they completely forget how to operate their comm unit. All they can do is scream (silently, since in space no-one can hear you scream) until the air does, finally, run out, and they die. Only then does the transponder imbedded in the skull activate itself and beam a message to the cloning facility that there's a corpse that needs to be picked up. Of course, intelligent brains being the resilient things they are, on revival in the nearest hospital nobody ever remembers the time they spent spinning in space, a gibbering wreck. The hours of madness and hideous despair are compressed into a moment, reduced down to a simpler level which can be dealt with rationally. All you remember happening is this:
So don't blame the vac suit; blame the intelligent brain, which is completely unable to call for help. Or blame the insurance companies, which are too cheap to come up with a way of telling when a client needs help before they die.
FED OP-ED: THE CRYING GAME Upon a night of looking for subjects to poll, I ran across a crying figure in a room. I decided I’d cheer up her life by giving her a chance to be in the Chronicle… Who would have known that we would have so much in common?
Emotionally Unstable, Breyer is here. Breyer grabs a tissue and quickly buries her head in it, weeping. Breyer says, "I'm sorry, it's just so hard to talk about..." You ask, "Hi, I'm here to int... are you okay?" "I'll be okay, let's just get this interview over so the whole world will know!", exclaims Breyer. Breyer wipes an eye and sits up slowly. You ask, "Yes... yes, what is it?" Breyer says, "Well, It all began when I started writing Questions for "Who Wants To Be A Billionaire"... it started with constant stalking for more questions... and it never stopped..." Jelly looks concerned, "Constant stalking for more questions? Continue, please" Breyer says, "Well, I would be sitting in my planet's bar minding my own business, and suddenly I'd get a odd tight beam." Breyer mimics, "I know where you live." "Oh my!", you exclaim. "At first I thought it was some boy calling on me, but then, a man who could only be described as insane stormed into the bar.", says Breyer. Breyer says, "I hopped onto the table, and he grabbed a chair and threw it at me, crying, "WRITE QUESTIONS NOW!"" Jelly looks flustered, "Oh my, oh my! I would describe that as insane myself" Breyer asks, "For some reason, I put up with this constant torture. When the evil one asked me to help with Survivor I was terrified, what else could I say?" "Somehow, I can sympathize...", you say. You say, "Pray, continue..." You ask, "Who would do such a thing?" Breyer looks around, and then whispers, "Macnbc, Host of Who Wants to Be a Billionaire and FED Survivor." Breyer starts to cry but manages to hold it back. Jelly gasps, "Not Macnbc, the Host of Who Wants to Be a Billionaire and FED Survivor!" Breyer says, "Yes, Macnbc the host of Who Wants to Be a Billionaire every Saturday and Fed Survivor, ending today, Sunday." "But he has never been know for such things!", you exclaim. Jelly hides a chuckle Breyer says, "Why just yesterday, he threw a rock at me! I, being the camera person, have a video tape of this." "Isn't there any way to protect your rights as his camera person?", you ask. Breyer says, "That kind hearted, nice gentleman in CDs, Danny, encouraged me to go on strike. But I could never do that." You say, "And isn't he afraid of damaging his equipment?" "Why can't you strike, what is holding you back?", you say. "This man gives out Gigs and Gigs a year, he can afford a new camera person and equitment.", says Breyer. "Can't you find a new job? A better job?", you ask. You ask, "With a kind hearted, nice gentleman as a boss, like Danny?" Breyer sniffles, "Well, you see.. I love him. He asked me out on a date, when I was playing Mystery Guest, and now he refuses to accept when he found out it was I." Jelly gasps You say, "How cruel! How..." You exclaim, "You are too good for him!" Jelly remembers she's supposed to be subjective Jelly regains composure Breyer says, "Well, I threatened to sue Macnbc, he offered me my own show, MacnBrelly Productions will be sponsoring The Mole, hosted by myself this May." Breyer breaks down and cries. "Won't you be happy with that show?", you ask. Breyer grabs her hair and starts to tug on it, "Why! Why! Why can't he love me, why does he do this?" You ask, "Without him to mistreat you... or to taunt your love?" Breyer says, "I'll be thrilled with the show! It will be the biggest thing to hit Federation since Survivor." Breyer says, "The best part, he'll be my assistant, and I'll be his boss." Breyer cackles. You ask, "Then what is the problem?" Breyer quickly remembers her mission, and goes back to crying. Breyer says, "He's mean, he's cruel, and he throws things at me, and his other assistant." Breyer says, "Even the Prop Audience Member got attacked." You ask, "Is his other assistant a sweet, nice, lovely young lady?" "Very, she is a beautiful, young, innocent, loving, young woman.", says Breyer. Breyer says, "I wish her only the best, yet she has it worse than myself, infact.. she is his ..." Breyer chokes under the pain and finally gasp, "His daughter" The crazed lunatic, Macnbc has just arrived. "You're both fired.", says Macnbc. The crazed lunatic, Macnbc has just gone north. Breyer screams in horror. Jelly gasps You exclaim, "Wait... He can't do that! That's it!" You shout, "I WANT A MERCEDES!" Breyer laughs. Breyer cries she means. ;) "Okay, perhaps we should change the story a bit.. perhaps we are extending the truth.", says Breyer with a wink. "Are we?", you ask. "Well, a little", says Breyer. Jelly is trying to get a car out of this, come on! Breyer says, "He never stalked me, or tossed a chair at me." Breyer winks and says, "The rest he actually did... to one degree or another." "But he DID attack the prop audience member, did he not?", you ask. "Okay, let's focus on that one attack then.", says Breyer. Breyer says, "A story about a man being so enraged he attacks a prop... it will be a human interest story, amusing, and not ruin his integrity or character." Jelly hides the tape recorder that has been recording the whole time Breyer says, "Well, we were in the middle of taping of another episode of "Who Wants to Be a Billionaire"" "The prop audience member was sitting innocently right over there...", says Breyer. Breyer points to a small pile of sawdust Jelly brings a hand to her mouth and gasps "He was waving his arms and clapping nicely, like all the real audience members.", says Breyer. Breyer says, "He even got the question right when the contestants needed to poll the audience." Jelly nods intensely Breyer says, "Well, Macnbc felt he needed to destroy him. He picked up the hotseat, and tossed it at the prop audience member. Which is completely out of character for Macnbc." You say, "Who would have thought..." "Whoooo would have thought...", you say. You say, "…That Macnbc would have prop audience members.." The crazed lunatic, Macnbc has just arrived. Breyer has given Macnbc a passionate tickle! "I DID mention you were fired, right?", asks Macnbc. The crazed lunatic, Macnbc has just gone north. Breyer says, "I think he was just jealous... because.. the prop audience member and I were seeing each other..." Jelly raises an eyebrow, "Oh really?" Breyer whispers to Jelly, "The best kisser I've ever found in FED." Jelly looks at the pile of sawdust... "What a loss..." Breyer whispers again, "The only one I've found... but that's just between you and me." You say, "Of course... just between us..." Breyer nods as she slowly approaches the sawdust and burries her head in its sweet pine aroma. Jelly double checks that the tape recorder is still running Breyer inhales deeply the smell, and starts to gag and choke. "See! See the working conditions I must suffer from.", says Breyer. Breyer winks at the sawdust, "See you after hours." Jelly again raises an eyebrow You say, "Well, I must wrap up this interview as it is my bedtim... I mean, I have to get to a party at Chez D's..." "Yes, that's it... a party", you say. "Oh! Tell Danny that I love him, and his shoes are so sexy... almost as sexy as the sawdust.", says Breyer. Jelly nods, "Will do!" Breyer says, "As a final thought..." "I would have to compare Macnbc's average anger level to that of Megadude after being backstabbed on Survivor.", says Breyer. The crazed lunatic, Macnbc has just arrived. Macnbc shouts, "YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN IN BED 15 MINUTES AGO!" The crazed lunatic, Macnbc has just gone north. Breyer winks and says, "Bed time." Jelly laughs nervously, "Well... I must run... not that I have a bedtime or anything..." "Well, it was nice interviewing you", you say. Jelly extends her hand Breyer shakes her hand tenderly... "Good Luck..", says Breyer. Jelly runs off quickly yelling "Dad! I'm on the way to bed! Don't ground me!" Breyer shakes her head slowly, "Poor Girl"
It's been nearly a year since Icedrake implanted a new cerebral cortex in my skull - giving me roughly the IQ of a cantaloupe - and Hazed dubbed me a Dishonorable. This job of Senator came with several important perks and unique powers I'd like to share with the rest of the Fed-masses. For one thing, I automatically tune to channel one whenever I appear in Fed – a special ability awarded only to groundhogs, commanders, navigators, demi-deities, dataspace hosts and hostesses, mysterious players without titles, planet owners wanting to know how to navigate from their link to their duchy capital, and players wishing to suck up to Hazed when she's in Fed. It is an elite group, indeed. I own no planet. That means no yard to mow, no taxes to pay, no locations to write, spell-check, and load into the workbench. No one can gossip about the grammar on my planet and they can't snicker about the lack of theme or shoddy events. There's no tedious decision over which duchy to join and nothing to haul but fleas. Senators also have the privilege of pretending to be Very Very Busy doing some Important Obscure Senator-Like Thing when messages come in over the comms unit. In other words, I can ignore stuff. This is really handy, though it comes with a price. Her demi-goddessness has a fondness for using my unit as a cudgel to whap me on the snout, and occasionally a message comes in that should probably get a little more of my notice. A couple days ago my attention was concentrated on a full bowl of chili-cheese nachos with a side order of Liv'r Snaps (cottage cheese for dipping, of course!) when my comm unit buzzed annoyingly. Food is at the top of the list of Important Obscure Senator-Like Things so I tossed the unit into my water bowl. Usually the water bowl is a particularly good place to muzzle the device while still appearing (in case any nosey staff members glance my way) to be alert and on the job. This time the talking electronic leash bobbled on the surface of the water and, although greatly muted, kept bleating something that surely wasn't as important as my snack. In between crunches I could still hear something that sounded like this: "Obfus.. glug.. close.. glug.. will go.. glug glug glug.. system.. glug." It was my Senatorial Duty to not worry about it. I'd been having a quick peek at the planet Obfuscation in preparation for this week's review. Well, really I'd been roaming in space around the system trying to find the hambone Eenigma had promised, but once the nachos were consumed I figured the hambone could now wait until I finished exploring planet-side. I knew I'd be famished again by then. So after stowing the wrapping from my meal in that handy trash container called 'under the pilot's seat', I started getting down to business. >land >j Darkshadow >whine >suicide >di Obfuscation >gl Not only was I behind the eight ball, I was behind the whole rack. The planet, tiring of my continual disregard of the closing notice, had shut down and taken me with it. I was trapped in this location, unable to explore, forage for food, quest for poodles, or write a planet review this week. Unfortunately, it doesn't look like I'll be able to string out this excuse another week. Since they voted Eenigma off of Pulautiga, I'll expect my bribes... er, I mean gifts back from those other tribe members playing Survival pronto!
As a preface, I'm going to relate a little story from my personal life. It's about a pair of my friends. Due to circumstances way beyond my control, I had to live with them for about eight months. Let me tell you this: if you see pictures of those third-world nations and think "my, what an awful place," you never want to see that place. Comparatively, those countries are hospital clean. The level of squalor I was unwillingly subjected to was beyond reason. We had mildew colonies in the bathroom that could qualify for statehood. There was a silverfish ranch in the living room, complete with roach ranchers. Food more than a month old was still laying around. The only way I could've cleaned this place properly was to use napalm. But heaven forbid I actually CLEAN, because apparently all of these trappings of lower-lower-lower-lower class living were all critical to their personal Xanadu. I'm still having flashbacks. I was remembering this as I surveyed a bar that had just endured a two-day Fed party. The condition of the bar was indescribable, but I'll do my best. It was still clean. Someone, please, explain this to me. How is it we can have people swinging from the rafters, blowing up bottles, and doing things I really shouldn't talk about back in booths AND YET not even have major upholstery damage? If we were to do these things in a real bar, you can bet the federal government would be there in four seconds declaring the place a disaster zone and bringing in the napalm. While we're at it, when was the last time we saw a trash can in Fed? True, they exist, but they're an endagered species. But even the ones you can find are empty! This is incredible when you consider we consume more ale per capita than Germany, Luxembourg, and Los Angeles combined. Furthermore, have you noticed nothing stains anymore? We have people blasting each other with the ingredients for a complete sundae, and yet not only do the clothes come through without a mark, but the surrounding environment is almost always untouched. I mean, we're talking about stuff that could stain steel. Maybe we're lucky. Or perhaps
technology has advanced to the point where we don't have
to worry about these things. Or maybe, while we sleep,
the workthingies pack everything into bags and shove them
into a parallel dimension. New Jersey.
FED OP-ED: UNDERSTUDY EDITION In the wake of Jelly's absense, I, Danny, have taken the reins of this column for the week. Please, hold your applause, just throw money. Jelly wrote the questions, I asked them. I also asked myself, because the term "journalistic integrity" means nothing to me. Probably means nothing to you too. But that's for a future article. Now, onto the good stuff.
Rasal: Hauge of course, because it's mine. Cloudstrife: The Sun... because its sunny. Qaxlor: Mine, I'm always there anyhow and almost never talk to anyone on comms. Calyx: Antigo... because all the workthingies cower at my approach. Eggie: Horsell. Danny: Hmm, I wonder. Mars maybe?
Cloudstrife: The hobo. Jen: Gotta be the hobo... I was so poor for so long. ;) Kariscats: Hmmmmm... the cat maybe :) Rasal: Hmm, I'll say the marillion just for the heck of it. Eggie: The Cleaner... I'm always picking up [everyone else's stuff]. ;) Calyx: The grizzles... I love the grizzles. Danny: I'd have to go with Danny... heck, a couple people have mistaken me for a mobile.
Jen: Anywhere but CDs. :) Cloudstrife: I like the transuranics room because its always warm during the winter. Calyx: Hey! Jen stole my answer! Eclipse: The ruins was my home five years ago. Rasal: CDs, so I can bask in the glory that is Danny. (You hand over the cash.) Danny: CDs, of course. Where else?
GREATER MARS COUNCIL In the pursuit of Open Source//err Open Meetings, here's the latest proceedings of the Greater Mars Council. Geiiga says, "That's it.
Danno. Hostile takeover of all brackets in DataSpace.
Available for use only as per royalties paid, 1m for a
right bracket and 2m for a left bracket."
Over a year has passed since Icedrake yanked me up by the scruff of my neck, implanted a new cerebral cortex in my skull, and charged me with chewing up planets and spitting out their remains in the form of articles for the Chronicle. Occasionally a few things have gone a little wrong. Well, maybe more than occasionally. And I'm sure planet owners can get those stains out of the barroom carpets eventually. And Bella can fix the ruins someday. I was well trained on how to review planets. Icedrake passed on all the ancient knowledge handed from generation to generation of planet munchers. I'll never forget his solemn yet hideous countenance as he handed me the planet-reducing device along with his insight. "Grasshopper," he intoned sagely. "The review is entirely subjective." Armed with that wisdom I've begged and howled for planets to review, explored until my paws were cracked and sore, died dozens of different ways, and collected a nice little stash of under-the-table bribes. Life has been good. At times though I get asked to perform a service that reviewers everywhere dread – the Planet Postmortem. Now most of the time the planet isn't dead yet – just well on the way. The owner will send in a note saying, "Hey Al, this character won't be around but a week (day, month) longer, would you whip up a review?" But sometimes the decay process is so advanced that the planet no longer even exists, and classics like this come across my mailbox:
My response usually looks something like this:
The time to get your planet reviewed is when you're still breathing. I view the process as a way to promote tourism and show off some of the best creative talents in Federation. Unfortunately, it's hard for most Fedizens to tour a planet that has vanished. So get your creation before the public while it's around to be enjoyed, and you're here to accept the kudos (or the abuse I dish out) for your work! Besides, I carve really ugly tombstones.
TOP TEN THINGS ABOUT BEING A
NEWSDROID After a certain incident last week, I began to compile a list of things I learned by being a Federation newsdroid. Here's what I came up with:
BOXER THIEF SUED BY MALE
POPULATION MARS, SOL - Danny, head of the DataSpace Bar Association, on behalf of the entire male population of DataSpace, has filed a lawsuit with the Galactic Courts against Redspice, infamous boxer thief. "Taking boxers has to be sexual harassment of some type," said Danny, council for the plaintiff, "and since people work here, it's also creating a hostile workplace. Being without underwear is also a great emotional trauma for a man, and if he zips himself up, causes great physical damage. I even chose not to pursue the criminal aspects of petty theft and breaking and entering, and it's still beyond imagination." The plaintiffs are requesting 4.3 billion Imperial Groats in damages. The judge hearing the case issued the following statement: "Stealing underpants? You mean that stupid stuff particularly immature 13-year-olds do in summer camp? You're telling me adults are doing this? And you're only asking for 4.3 gig?" Redspice was not contacted for comment.
Hazed tries to keep me on a pretty tight leash with a long list of Things Senators Must Not Do. It starts off with all the rules one would expect; you cannot be late with your articles, you cannot dig holes in landing pads, you cannot be rude to her demi-goddessness, and you cannot tell her highness what to say. These I ignore on a regular basis. The rules that really bother me are the ones that took me a while to work around – er, I mean adjust to. I’m not allowed to gamble, buy a spybeam, or have cybersex with anything but planet mobiles. To top it all off I’m kept so poor I can’t bay up enough hay for a nightmare. It didn’t take me long to work through the Sol mobiles. The grizzle is too tall, the marillion too insubstantial, and reality just passes me by. Whenever it’s time to roll over and snore the tinguey starts tinkling its branches and wanting to talk. Even Krystal has developed a wicked front snap kick that sends me flying off her leg and crashing into the far wall. But her demi-goddessness slipped when she gave me Aibo last Christmas. My mechanical canine companion can lay chips on the table for me and command my network of spy-fleas with meticulous precision. As an added bonus, well… you’re better off not knowing what we do in the privacy of my cargo hold. During one of the slower nights last week Aibo and I stopped in at the Lunar Casino for a bit of late night action. On evenings when few players are around (and Aibo is winning) we stay until the croupier droid covers the table and then the three of us head over to Mario’s for some suds and marsrat chili. Mario himself joined us at the table, buying the first round and adding a liberal dose of green food coloring in anticipation of the upcoming St. Patdroid’s Day. For the hundredth time he asked if I am trained to sniff drugs - leading to a classified discussion which I can’t tell you concerned a little side business I’ll be embarking on to supplement my income. By the time the third rounds and second helpings of chili were laid out before us the croupier droid was starting to nod into his food and Mario was regaling us with tales of some of his more sordid family ventures. I nearly spit beer and chili all over the table when he revealed that he had briefly opened another casino in Sol with a certain unnamed demi-goddess as a partner. Located where Fedruckers now resides and patterned after a similar family-run establishment on Earth, the casino was decorated with garish colors and boasted high-wire trapeze acts over the gaming floor. In addition, video games of all varieties were placed on the periphery of the main action to entertain the kiddies while parents were stripped of their groats at the tables. Leaning over and whispering, I asked Mario if the closure of this endeavor had anything to do with ‘The Incident’. He told me he didn’t know anything about any incident, he just came to work one day to find the casino transformed into Fedruckers and his office furniture shipped to this seedy bar on the Moon. He said he was actually quite relieved; demi-goddesses seemed to carry around far too many Rules for his tastes, and he preferred the kind of partners that he could silence if needed. I burped my sympathies and told him I understood completely. The hour had grown too late for exploration, so Aibo and I thanked Mario, pushed the long-unconscious croupier droid into a corner, and curled up under the table to sleep off all the rounds and spiced marsrat. Planet exploration would have to wait until the morning.
TOP TEN THINGS TO PONDER IN
FEDERATION DATASPACE There are just a few questions I have, things that have been bothering me on and off for ages, some even since I was a young Groundhog. So, here is my list of the Top Ten Things to Ponder in Fed DataSpace:
AND, the number one ponderable in DataSpace:
We're going on a little sense-memory field trip today, folks. Everybody close your eyes and remember what the food was like in college or high school, whichever is easiest to remember. I'm willing to bet that the memory isn't a pleasant one. Well, don't be too upset with me; mine aren't at all enjoyable, either. My college was founded in 1812, and the running gag (no pun) was that the food they served in the cafeteria was on hand for the grand opening. Either way, the general concensus was that the food was palatable much in the same sense that gravel is palatable. You know the kind of food I'm talking about. This is true of many types of mass-produced quick food, and most of it is found in cafeterias (hospital, workplace, school, what-have-you). I'm reasonably sure that cafeterias are the people who buy overstock of industrial materials. This is why we were barely able to choke it down, most times. However, has anyone yet noticed that we don't seem to have that problem with the food in Fed? What happens when you order food in Fed?
I have never seen it say:
This food is mass-produced, obviously. How else can they have it ready less than a second after you've ordered it? And yet, it doesn't seem to have the symptoms of mass produced food (ie vital signs). This is both unnerving and uplifting at the same time. It's uplifting in the sense that it gives us hope that we may have, in the future, found a way to mass produce edible food. It's unnerving because maybe ALL the food is like that now, and we're used to it. Judging by the amount of mail I receive, I could well leave the formula for turning lead into platinum down here and nobody would use it... possibly because nobody reads this. However, if you are reading this, and would like to send any thoughts to me, the address is, as always Horatio_TheWriter@excite.com! Open 24 hours.
FED OP-ED: CHANNEL 9 REVISITED This week, I again asked the frequenters of 9 questions about their experiences in Fed and thoughts about Fed. Let’s see what they said.
Geiiga: "The marine. You just know it's a hard-line conservative." Kao: "I'd back the Pirate... at least you know what he's up to." Dwight: "Why back a politician? Why not shoot them instead?" Diamondlil: "Mario... he's the most like a RL politician." Redspice: "The hobo... he had to work hard to become something besides a hobo." Jeblt: "The pirate... since you know he is out to steal your $$$$$$ so at least he is not lying."
Andy: "Arch-duke. Then I'd create a character named Ferdinand." Eenigma: "And start World War I?" Andy: "Exactly..." Eenigma: "I volunteer to be the assassin." Andy: "I'd go cavorting about screaming NO MAN CAN STOP ME!" Geiiga: "Geiiga the Great." Kao: "Whiner... between Explorer and Squire." Diamondlil: "I'd make an Empress rank... and make it so only one person could hold it, at a time." Dwight: "How about a slave labor class?" Eenigma: "A player accessible Senator Rank." Jeblt: "You make a lord that has some duchies in its solar system then have a king or queen to have a few lords in theirs. Or go one up and have a prince and princes under the king/queen."
Witchdoctor: "Getting lost in the ruins maze." Kao: "Trying to get the urban spaceman to stop and talk to me." Mira: "Trying to find that mythical place behind the sun. ::sigh::" Diamondlil: "Feeling slighted, because I couldn't get into Chez Diesel."
By shirking my responsibilities as planet reviewer this week I once again validated my claim to the title 'Dishonorable'. Of course I have an excuse, it was the first week of spring on the old home planet Earth. No matter that the forecast called for more snow and freezing temperatures, the first days of spring are always accompanied by a quickening of the blood, a renewed spark of desire, and a rekindled lust for life itself. For me that lust was named Fifi.
I had no request to review Carnival, but it was only a short teleport from the planet I'd started sniffing. I took a guess at the location of the landing pad (about half the time I end up sucking space when I do this), and found quite a nice package just waiting for me.
Without hesitation I scooped up the Fifi. I was a lucky dog indeed that the Duchess of Carnival was snoozing in the next location and didn't notice that the mobile was returned a half hour later - pink ribbons somewhat wrinkled and untied and fur a little mussed. The bone was safely stowed in my galley. It was looking like a perfect first-day-of-Spring fling until I returned to my doghouse for a nap and found Aibo waiting on me. My robotic assistant was tapping a paw and staring at me with mechanical eyelids narrowed and the bolts on its neck standing straight up. "What's the matter?" I inquired. The Aibo answered with an irritated and high-pitched, "Woof." I've noticed something odd about Aibo's speech synthesizer ever since I dressed it up as my Valentine's Day date; every day the pitch of its woofs had grown progressively higher. I mused over other changes that had been happening as it continued to yap more woofs at me – we have to stop and browse at every clothing store we pass, Aibo tends to nip at my heels whenever I wink at Diesel anymore, the shipments of lub-oils for the robot have started arriving in scented varieties, and last week Aibo woofed some nonsense at me about not ever understanding it. Aibo stomped off into a corner and has been sulking there ever since. I asked Hazed if it might be time for an overhaul, but she suggested chocolates and flowers might be better. I don't know, chocolate doesn't agree with me and I don't see how putting flowers behind my ears would fix Aibo's circuitry. I hope something happens soon; we've got planets to explore!
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