 THE DEATH MARK OF DOOM (WITH BOOKBAGS)
by Horatio
Almost all of us, at one time or
another, have had to walk long distances either
vertically or horizontally because the more efficient
methods just weren't there. Car ran out of gas, left your
helicopter in your other pants... whatever the reason,
we've all been there.
My most vivid memories of such
events stem from college. I was among those (heh) lucky
few who had a class beginning at 7:45am. Of course, as
we've previously established, I am not a morning person,
which is akin to saying a tsunami is a ripple in a pond.
And, by some other quirk of fate, my class met on the
third floor of our three-floor academic center. This
prompted myself and my fellow classmates to ascend the
steep and generally uncomfortable stairs up six flights
to our class at 7:44am. This was not a walk. It was a
death march with bookbags. Always, as you walked towards
the Building Of The Stairs, you were secretly hoping for
a major earthquake that would level the building, thus
placing your class on the first floor and allowing you to
forego the steps.
Sure, there was an elevator, but it
was apparently powered by three elderly narcoleptic
gerbils. Assuming they woke up when you pushed the call
button, it would take them about one presidential term
(per floor) to get the elevator to you, and once inside,
you had to pray they didn't go back to sleep before you
got to your floor.
So most of us just took the Death
March of Doom (with bookbags) up the stairs every
morning. And we all hated it. Which did nothing to
improve our already sunny dispositions (at that hour of
the morning, there is no sun on a college campus).
Consequently, I think my math class was on the verge of
mutiny pretty much nonstop.
This is why, in the present day, I
wonder just why anybody would spend money on a
stair-stepping machine. I see ads for exercise clubs
which frequently include those evil devices and have to
wonder: "Why?" Most of these places are two
stories tall now, so why can't we just send the happy
psychos up the REAL steps instead of letting them take an
elevator? And every time I see one of those devices, I am
instantly reminded of the Death March of Doom (with
bookbags) and feel compelled to hide under my couch until
it goes away and my Night Court rerun comes back.
I suppose, then, that this could
explain why I sometimes get so angry at Fed. In Fed, we
can run the Death March of Doom (with or without
bookbags) ALL DAY and never get tired. We can run around
entire PLANETS (once again, with or without bookbags) and
be fresh as the moment we woke up. Let me tell you
something. You climb as many steps as we did every
morning, you're sure your ankles are going to fall off
about halfway up, since you're carrying something that
weighs as much as a dead hippo on your back. With the
exception of that rather bizarre accident one Mardi Gras,
I have never in Fed seen anybody's ankles fall off. (And
the one set that did was skilfully reattached with duct
tape.)
What am I getting on about? I
haven't the foggiest. Call it an indistinct gripe about a
lack of physical exhaustion in Fed. Or, possibly, more
accurately, a gripe about a lack of stamina-refilling
things in my former math class.
We didn't have beer and pizza.
WHAT A COINCIDENCE!
by Chewbacon - the big fur, the big teeth, the big feet -
It's all in style!
When someone goes on a 4-5 hour
road trip, they usually bring something along to keep
them occupied. Sometimes conversation can hold for the
entire trip, but not in my case. I have to have a
CD-player and headphones. Sadly, my last CD-player
tragically committed suicide when it jumped off the side
of my truck and landed in Applebee's parking lot. I still
remember holding on to the headphone wire, "Don't
let go! Hold on!" but it was all in vain; the poor
little trooper couldn't hang on. So that provoked me to
buy a new one because I will not go through the hell of
my sister's "rules of operation" (she really
calls it that!) when I borrow hers. So I cough up the
money to get a nifty CD-MP3 player with a 120-second
anti-skip buffer. Hey, that's great! I thought.
After burning a 9-hour mp3 disc, I'm set for music to and
from my destination!
Last week my article was about
living it up as an only PO in Calyx's duchy, Antigo. Like
yelling at my former CD-player, the article with intent
of using reverse psychology to recruit players was in
vain. Some of you may know what happened Sunday night: I
got home, checked my email and saw something from Calyx
in my inbox. Ooh, an email from Calyx! My happiness
immediately left me when I read it. "I cancelled my
account, take all the groats out of my character and DD
it when you're done." My immediate response:
"#$)*#! Son of #*%@ @#(!" (Say that 10 times,
real fast.)
I followed the drop-dead-hottie of
a Duchess' last order with about ten people on the planet
to wish her well. We refused to leave when Calyx finally
left DataSpace, never to return, which provoked the boys
to show up and remove us. They weren't very happy about
it.
Speaking about not being very happy
about something, I wasn't very happy about Calyx wanting
to leave that week. Calyx, couldn't you have at least
waited another month? The most ironic thing is when I
click SEND on the email holding my article to Hazed, the
thought, "Now she'll want to cancel the account this
weekend," ran across my mind. Sometimes I hate being
right all the time.
PEOPLE ARE RUDE
Experiment conducted by Jelly and reported by Danny
I have a theory. My theory is that
people are annoyingly rude. Of course I'm not one to
judge this theory, being quite belligerent myself most of
the time, so I enlisted the help of a genuine nice person
to conduct the experiment.
As all of you should know, Jelly
conducts polls, then writes about them for this very
publication. Thus, she already has experience with rude
people. In the name of science, however, we attempted to
recreate the phenomenon. Jelly asked a question which had
received many replies earlier in the day, namely, what
should I do for my Third Annual Build. The results were
startling.
Nobody said anything.
Even though there were more people
on the channel who were actively conversing with each
other than the previous time the question was presented,
nobody answered. As a matter of fact, everyone stopped
talking completely.
My observation is this: When
there's no reason to answer, people will answer. However,
when answering will help someone out, nobody will answer.
This all leads me to believe that everyone is rude.
There's other evidence as well.
Jelly reports that often, people will email her
suggestions for polls, then when the question is posed
even the person who suggested it won't answer. Same goes
for suggestions about places to do the polling.
What can you do about this growing
pandemic? Simple. When someone asks you a poll question
for this very publication, answer. Even I, most hated of
the hated, rudest of the rude, will answer a poll
question to help someone with their article. I won't give
you a loan or read the Guide to you, but I'll at least
give an opinion. Think before you go silent.
ALSATIAN'S CAREER REVIEW
In honor of the end of my 14th
year as Fed's canine planet reviewer, I thought I'd share
with you my tally of events during my tenure. In that
time I've received:
- Two ear-tweakings from
Ashkellion for counting in dog years.
- 103 whaps on the muzzle from
Hazed for late articles. I did manage to turn in
one on time.
- One Follow-Me-Everywhere rain
cloud from Bella.
- 442 auto-reinsured deaths.
- Two fan mail letters (one
slightly obscene).
- 64 questions of ‘How did
you get to be a Senator?' (I peed on Hazed's
shoe).
- 22 questions of ‘What is
an Alsatian?' (A dog. A German Shepherdly dog.
Not a Doberman. Not a Poodle. Not a Bloodhound. I
used to guard the back yard at the mansion, now
my American cousin has that duty).
- 2 requests to review planets
that didn't exist.
- 19 steaks tossed to me by the
greatest most wonderful PO in Fed – I can't
remember the name.
- 176 cat scratches.
- One robotic companion.
- 602 cookies.
- Two 40-pound bags of kibble as
bribes.
- A dozen shock collars from
players who didn't realize I had fangs and
wouldn't hesitate to use them – shock collar
or not.
- A flea here and there.
- 19 questions of ‘How did
you get to be planet reviewer?' (I was the only
one dumb enough for the job).
CAN'T UNDERSTAND IT
by Chewbacon - the big fur, the big teeth, the big feet -
It's all in style!
I understand Federation is a social
environment. Sometimes I even feel like we are social
guinea pigs in DataSpace. Federation is its own real
world: politics, money, friends, etc. The significance of
the "real world" ends about there for me. The
rest of the elements of Federation's social life slips
past me. One I have in mind is war. In the real world, I
agree with Franklin Roosevelt: "I hate war."
However, I believe sometimes it has to be done and
someone has got to do it. Kind of like draining a septic
tank; no one – no one – likes to do it,
but it has to be done sometimes! So I come down to war in
Federation DataSpace: I do not see the severity in it.
If there must be war:
Dukes/Duchesses, why fight your enemies? If your enemies
are the ones who fill your POs' deficits, why call them
enemies when they're just making money? Whoever your
enemies are or whatever they do to upset you: ban them!
Get rid of them for good! Not only ban them, but also
have your POs haul out their exchanges to them (I
wouldn't consider that fighting). Okay, I think that's
enough whining over ignorance.
EMPEROR CEN AND EMPRESS XYLI
DIVORCE
Empire split, Chancellor declared
Stardate 212291:250 - MARS, SOL
In an event of galactic scale, the Emperor Cen and
Empress Xyli have divorced. The Empire, composed of all
planets and duchies, has been split in an agreement
mediated by DataSpace Bar Association president and
generally evil character Danny. The agreement is as
follows:
Xyli receives the following
duchies:
Omegaone
Memphis
Holiday
Gentletouch
Jeep
Aries
Syphon
Aura
Nightstar
Loverly
Snowcave
Tetons
Que
Police
Juelz
Shadowdonia
Pepperland
Britania
Carnival
She also receives the duchy of
Belowzero upon Cen's promotion to Duke.
Cen, on the other hand, receives
everything else but Sol and Belowzero. That includes all
duchies created from stardate 212291 on.
The real shock of the negotiations
is that the disputed territories, Sol and Belowzero
(until Cen's promotion), fall under the shared ownership
of Cen and Xyli, and therefore under control of the
trust... which means Danny, who has declared himself
Chancellor and taken power.
The only exception is Mars, which,
in order for it to remain neutral ground, has been
returned to Mayor Arrogant.
Emperor Cen, Empress Xyli,
Chancellor Danny, and Mayor Arrogant were all unavailable
for comment.
SHIP RESTORATION
by Chewbacon - the big fur, the big teeth, the big feet -
It's all in style!
We all take pride in our major
expenses: planets, polished up exchanges, ships and
duchies. I usually don't paint my ship; I show off my
nostalgic manky shade of gray. What could be better than
a classic ship? Or even better, flying a classic truck?
If you go to my planet and hang
around long enough, you'll see someone flying my modified
Chevrolet pickup in the charted sectors surrounding my
orbit. I've had it for about a year and have only had
time to perfect the engines (except that nasty oil leak
that is nearly impossible to fix) and modify it for
atmospheric and space flight.
Sadly, I haven't had the utilities
or Workthingies with the experience to do some serious
bodywork. All of that is about to change, though! Some
anonymous donations to my planet have donated money to
start overhauling the body. Removing rust and repairing
holes are the first step; priming the body with a manky
shade of gray will be the next; and finally, it will
be time to paint.
Finally, whenever you see my truck
rapidly accelerate in space, bits of rust won't fly off
and spin in its wake! Hopefully, the engines will be
overhauled later; or should I just get a GroundHog to
joyride it in space, their flight components don't wear
out.
ALSATIAN CLEANS HOUSE
I had the best intentions of doing
some real planet reviewing work this week, but someone
ratted to Hazed that commanders were refusing to enter
their ships or even approach the Earth landing pad when I
was in residence in the dog house. She demanded I take a
week off and clean up the problem.
No one can see the inside of your
ship. Not even high-ranking staff members can teleport
into your control center! So it had never occurred to me
to clean out the nearly-empty pizza boxes, old boxers
that even Fed's boxer thief had rejected, and discarded
cans of Thraxxian ale (you know, the kind with the carbon
dioxide canister at the bottom that causes the really
cool green head on the ale as you pour it out). I never
dreamed the smell would get bad enough that my air
scrubbers would completely clog up and send the stench
wafting to the landing pad.
After a few days of trying to
sanitize and some unsuccessful attempts to sell my ship I
finally climbed over the garbage and piloted my ship to
Arena. Those cans and containers floating in space from
my demise might at least make interesting target
practice!
STYLING VS. PRUNING
by Horatio
Well, folks, your buddy Horatio has
survived the onslaught of work and come out of it
(nearly) unscathed. While I have suffered a good number
of paper cuts, and have endured the blurred vision and
headaches caused by staring at a computer monitor for
several days on end, I remain alive and approximately as
sane as I ever was.
I know that isn't saying much.
The work itself was pretty
stressful, and quite frankly, it was driving me almost as
nuts as my hair was. I'm not a vain creature - in fact, I
tend to subscribe to the Wash & Wear school of
hairstyling. My general opinion is that the hair is still
attached to my head despite my best efforts to rip it out
while debugging programs, so I just let it live its own
life. It's a pretty equitable system for both of us until
it starts raging out of control.
You see, I really was drowning in
work, and as I didn't even have time to write an article
last week, let alone go and get my hair cut.
Consequently, by today, I was beginning to look like a
member of the cast of Star Wars... specifically,
Chewbacca.
When I get stressed, I get annoyed
quickly, and my hair was being VERY annoying. So much so
that I actually got mad at it and trimmed it myself with
a pair of scissors to get it to stop crawling into my ear
and tickling me as I tried to type.
The doctors tell me the stitches
can be removed soon.
Today, though, I was able to get my
hair professionally removed, which has considerably
improved my demeanor. I have ceased (for the most part)
snarling at the office clerks and it has been - egad -
hours since I've thrown a paperweight at someone's head.
But the weeks preceding today were a nightmare of hair
annoyances at attempts to mentally avoid my situation by
daydreaming.
However, as my thoughts drifted to
happier times as I tried to work, they settled on the
realization that never once do we have to go and get a
hair cut in Fed because we can no longer see what we're
doing. Of course, some of us voluntarily choose to
impersonate Cousin It and wear their hair longer than
they are tall, but that's a personal choice, not Nature
inflicting itself upon us. And when we do change our
appearance, we usually do so when we have nothing better
to do, not when we're unable to take time away from work
for oxygen.
Consequently, this generated a
great deal of resentment in my caffeine-clouded mind,
which I expressed by throwing about eight copies of
defective program code out of my office window.
Unfortunately for me, the wind was up, and Nature
redeposited them all over my floor.
I'm beginning to understand why
some people intentionally set forest fires: revenge.
Be that as it may, the work
blitzkreig has been repelled, and I look forward to
getting back into the usual swing of things, writing
articles for you to enjoy and/or completely ignore. For
those of you buried in work as I was, I wish you a speedy
recovery and a margarita which you can enjoy by proxy by
letting me drink it for you. For those of you who aren't
ambushed with work, though, I offer the following advice:
Go for a hair cut now.
NEW JOB
by Chewbacon - the big
fur, the big teeth, the big feet - It's all in style!
Some of my valued readers may
remember the position I held in Hauge: General Ducal
Annoyance. According to Duke Rasal, it was because I was
a general pain in the arse. I was soon out of a job in
Hauge and I moved in with my favorite Duchess, Calyx, and
held a very high position: Duke. Well, that was pretty
much what I was. "Run the duchy as you see fit.
Hopefully, I can start playing more in the near
future," she said. The job had to be better than
actually holding the rank; I got to run a duchy and
an exchange without paying for an alt.
Calyx left. It really played havoc
on me: not only did she do it on the day I wrote an
article praising the life in her duchy, but did it
leaving me little time to find a new duchy. I had no time
to prepare my resume for my next job in my next duchy.
I'm rather picky about selecting a duchy; I like to be in
one with a Duke/Duchess I know pretty well.
After waiting in Sol for about
three weeks for a worthy duchess, Snowstar tells me she
is going to promote to the rank. Upon her promotion, I
move into the duchy of Starsicle. Not long after my move,
I ask her what my job is.
"You're my pet w00kie,"
she said.
"So I relax all day and
receive attention?"
"That's right."
"And in return, you keep my
water and food bowls full?" I asked.
"Yep."
What could be better than this? Sit
around, get fed, and get the benefits of being in a
duchy. Kind of sounds like a one-way street if you ask
me, but as long as I didn't ask for the job, I won't feel
guilty. Thanks for the job, Snow!
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