Web Fed News Yearbooks - July 2002

WITH A BANG
by Horatio

I suppose it was foreseeable that my article this week would reference the holiday recently celebrated here in the United States: Independence Day. Personally, I love this holiday. Not just because of the outpouring of patriotism and the ability for all of us to get in touch with feelings we hold for our country but rarely voice, but also because it's a dandy excuse to play with explosives.

Like thousands, probably millions of people in this country, I went to see a local fireworks display given by the municipality. The main reason for this is because, for some reason, my state is one of those that doesn't believe entrusting its citizens with explosives is a wise idea. Sometimes I disagree with that assessment, but then I look at some of the people I know and discover the wisdom behind that idea. I'm sure you know the kind of people I'm talking about.

So, I joined several thousand people sitting on a large grass field at the annual Mosquito Buffet/Fireworks Show. Yes, the mosquitoes were out in full force, and with the recent heat wave around here, they really didn't have to look around much to find human scents. So we merrily sat there for two hours, waiting for dark, swatting at insects only Doppler radar arrays could find. Two hours, getting to know the people nearby by what kind of deodorant they wore (or didn't).

By the time dark had rolled around, we were all hot, bothered, and quite itchy. We just wanted to show to start. So you can imagine the ire that cropped up when the rather poor band that had been playing stopped, only to be replaced by a rep from the local municipal society, telling us who paid for everything, and about fifty other announcements nobody cared about. By the time the representative from the bank who was footing the bill popped up on stage, the annoyance level was running high.

One of my fellow fireworks enthusiasts, sitting about five yards away, summed up our feelings of patriotic pride and sheer American will and cheer when he yelled, "Blow something up!" Yes, the people were ready for fireworks.

In its defense, after we were all forced to do the bank cheer (yes, there was a cheer the bank rep forced us to do), the show began. And to its credit, it was pretty good. There were a couple minor mistakes (such as a 12-inch shell going off in the launching tube), but all in all, it was decently impressive.

It did get me to thinking, though, along my familiar lines of how Fed seems to have taken ordinary things and improved upon them. That, then, generated a minor worry centered around what, exactly, we've done to fireworks in our little future. If we follow the trends of improvement (bigger, stronger, faster, crazier), we reach the assumption that in Fed, fireworks have escalated to actual tactical nuclear weapons. While this would be dandy impressive, it could also lead to tiny problems when it comes to safety. This is particularly important considering that the people involved in launching the fireworks could really only commit one hand to the endeavor, seeing as how the other one is holding on to the ale.

Perhaps Sol government figured this one out ahead of time and took a cue from my state, outlawing everything but sparklers and those little ash snake pellet things. Still, I don't think so, because given how we are in Fed a lot of the time, Earth would have been obliterated long ago by a horrible mishap involving the world's first (and subsequently last) nuclear snake pellet. Either that, or a sparkler fifty stories tall that runs on nitro-glycerine. In any case, Earth wouldn't be there anymore, and Diesel would be running the whole show.

TRANSCRIPT
by Chewbacon - the big fur, the big teeth, the big feet - It's all in style!

While I'm in Kosovo, I thought I'd be missed more if I forced boredom on my readers. So here is a transcript from a talk show I used to do on television as a GroundHog called "Late Night Chewbacon". Eventually, the ratings bottomed out and I had to get a job hauling and eventually worked my way up to Baron. This is a transcript from an interview with someone we'll call "Melvin" (too many binges have made me forget his real name) on life in DataSpace.

Chewbacon: Welcome, Melvin.

Melvin: Good to see you, Chewbacon.

Chewbacon: Call me Chewy. So, what do you think of the rocketing economy?

Melvin: I think it is great. Used to be you'd have to bend over to make a million groats, now my planet makes it in nearly an instant, even if I don't haul in.

Chewbacon: Why haul in then?

Melvin: Nostalgia, mainly. Why wouldn't I? I haul in, then haul out and make a killing.

Chewbacon: How often do you haul out and how much?

Melvin: Usually every commodity I have in surplus. If there's enough, I haul out 3000 tons of each in a sweep.

Chewbacon: Not the full 5000?

Melvin: No, a lot of times the buyer's exchange gets its own surplus and starts buying at 10 ig/ton.

Chewbacon: Makes sense to me. So how often do you haul in?

Melvin: Twice a day. Sometimes three times.

Chewbacon: Wow, that's a lot of typing. Do you use that zMUD I've been hearing about?

Melvin: Nah, just typing away at a telnet prompt.

Chewbacon: Linux or MS Telnet?

Melvin: Depends on what computer I'm sitting at.

Chewbacon: So Melvin, is there a lady friend out in DataSpace for you?

Melvin: There was. A while back. She got self-righteous about how I was supposed to be, tried to make me feel sorry for her and like killing myself. I got rid of her.

Chewbacon: Got the Duke to ban her?

Melvin: No, no. I got rid of her. We hauled in deficits for each other sometimes and I slipped an extra loc between my link and orbit.

Chewbacon: Ah, that way she dies, no divorce, and you don't have to leave her any groats.

Melvin: I never said we were married.

Chewbacon: According to your questionnaire you were.

Melvin: That... gee... um... yeah...

Chewbacon: Excuse me?

Melvin: Um, yeah.

Chewbacon: And we'll be back with tips on how to jazz up your hospital gown.

ALSATIAN AND THE UNDERWEAR

I am in trouble now. Remember last week, I inserted a thong thing found in the bar on Arca into the planet review I sent to Hazed? It was just a joke, I only wanted to see if she really reads my articles.

Turns out she does. I got a surprised, and somewhat suspicious, memo from Her Demi-ness:

Dear Alsatian,

Just what is this rather unsavory item found in the midst of the pages of your article this week? It seems to be several pieces of leather thonging tied together, but for what purpose I cannot imagine. It also has a strange odour which I can't quite identify.

What are you playing at?

Hazed

Obviously she didn't like my little gift. Perhaps it's just as well she couldn't identify it. But she seemed to just shrug it off as one of my little peculiarities, and I thought maybe I'd not find myself in the doghouse for it.

Silly me. I should have known better. If it's Thursday, it must be the day for Alsatian to get into trouble.

The doggie-doo hit the fan when I wandered into Chez Diesel looking for pizza crusts, and spotted Hazed taking up her usual position at the bar. There's a barstool there that moulds itself perfectly to the shape of her behind, she's sat on it so long she's worn down the contours...

She was chatting to her buddy Diesel, when suddenly she took something out of her pocket and showed it to the lady of the bar. She looked like she was asking what it was. Diesel just burst out laughing, and told her. At which point, Hazed turned and saw me, innocently drinking the dregs out of somebody's beer mug, and lost her cool. I won't repeat what she said to me, it wasn't very nice, but when she borrowed Diesel's bat and started coming after me, I decided I had somewhere else to be. Urgently.

So now I am doing my best to avoid the wrath of the demi-goddess. The best way to do that is to head off for an obscure planet she hasn't heard of. So someone send me a review request, please!

SAY THAT AGAIN
by Horatio

Well, folks, it's just about that time again. The time of the year where a number of us descend on the Chicago metroplex in a sincere attempt to convince people that aliens have indeed landed, and they're all insane. Yes, another Fed Meet is knocking on the door, and, to stick with my years-old tradition, I'll be heading to Chicago to cover it for the news! (Actually, I'm going to see my friends, but in order to pass everything off as business-related for my expense account, I'm saying that the only reason I'm going is to cover it for the news. Shh, don't tell.)

Of course, since Chicago is quite a way from where I live, I'll be flying again this year. As my loyal readers (both of you) know, my previous flights to and from Chicago were entertaining, at least, if not overly comfortable. And so, as I was making arrangements to fly there again this year, it began to occur to me that, based on my abundant airline experience, which is not just limited to Fed Meet flights, the airlines are among the best doubletalk artists in the known universe.

Why do I say that? Because they constantly lie to us passengers. They say one thing, usually with a big, happy smile, but in their heads, you know they're thinking something entirely differently. For example: "Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has turned on the fasten seatbelt sign, as we may be encountering some turbulence."

Translation: The pilots are really bored, so they're going to switch off the autopilot for awhile and pretend they're flying a bomber over WWII Germany, dodging fighters, and making machine-gun noises for about the next ten minutes or so.

"Your captain on this flight is..."
Translation: This is the name of the person you must suck up to if you ever hope to go where it says on the ticket. Applaud everything he does, no matter how minor, and listen with rapt attention to his sightseeing announcements or we will chuck you out of the plane as we're flying over Buffalo.

"In case of a water landing, your seat cushion can be used as a flotation device."
Translation: If we miscalculate and end up doing a .5 mach belly-flop into Mister Atlantic, feel free to grab whatever you like from the plane; nobody's going to know, and we flight attendants will be out the door like a shot the second the plane comes to a stop, so you're more or less on your own anyway.

"In case of sudden cabin depressurization, oxygen masks will fall from the ceiling."
Translation: If one of you fools opens the window and vents our air into the upper atmosphere, we will provide you with oxygen in little plastic cups (ten cents for a minute) so that you can comfortably continue screaming.

"The flight attendants will now point out the emergency exits. Please make note of the one nearest to you."
Translation: If we really need them, just follow the flight attendants as they flee the smoking wreckage. Of course, if the gaping hole in the fuselage where the wing snapped off is closer to you than the door, use it with our compliments.

"Please note that this is a no smoking flight."
Translation: Sure, the pilot is a chain-smoking fiend, but first of all, you're not as important as the pilot, and secondly, do you REALLY want the person driving this contraption to have a nicotine fit over Ohio? Didn't think so.

"Ladies and gentlemen, beverage service will be beginning shortly. Please take your seats."
Translation: We're going to do our level best to get you people nice and liquored up in the next ten minutes so you don't whine at us for the entire flight. So sit down and prepare for the booze.

"Flight attendants, please prepare for takeoff."
Translation: Parachutes on, people!

"The captain has asked that you remain seated until the plane comes to a complete stop."
Translation: SIT. STAY. Good passenger.

And then, of course, there are those messages you get when things aren't exactly going according to plan. I'm convinced there's some sort of curse floating around me regarding air travel, because I end up hearing these things a LOT.

"There will be a slight delay before takeoff for a mechanical inspection."
Translation: That bump you just felt was one of the engines falling off the plane. We'll be leaving as soon as the mechanics get enough duct tape on there to hold it on until we land again.

"We are currently in line for takeoff, and will be on our way shortly."
Translation: Because you idiot passengers took so long getting on the plane, the pilot has had about a fifth of whiskey and has decided he doesn't like you, so we'll be taxiing around the airport for the next two hours as punishment.

"We are currently experiencing a minor technical difficulty. Please do not be alarmed."
Translation: Pay no attention to the thirty-foot-long flames shooting out of the engine on the right side. It does that from time to time, and we're not really sure why. We'll be getting drunk now, and advise you to do the same.

"We are experiencing some severe turbulence. Please remain seated."
Translation: Remember the right wing? It broke off. Think light thoughts.

I, of course, am hoping that I'll get through the upcoming flights with a minimum of trouble and delay. Call it a triumph of hopefulness over experience. Either way, I look forward to my Chicago trip this year. I know I'm not the only one, either. Whenever the plane gets there, they always thank me for flying with them, and hope I do so again whenever my travel plans include flying.
Translation: Thanks for the money, sucker. Let's do this again sometime.

So, either precious few people actually read this thing I nail on the end of the article every week, or my mail is disappearing into a parallel universe. Well, I remain undaunted. Should any of you care to share anything (hopefully positive) with your buddy Horatio, e-mail me at Horatio_TheWriter@yahoo.com!

I HAVE RETURNED
by Chewbacon - the big fur, the big teeth, the big feet - It's all in style!

Gah, it's back to the grindstone. It is human nature; not wanting vacation to end. I enjoyed mine, but I was happy to get back into the United States. Here I can drink the water, eat the beef (I could there too, but I was a little weary of doing so), eat the fish, and live in the wonderful comfort of air conditioning. Air conditioning was almost non-existent, only the UN vehicles had them. There wasn't even A/C in Austria.

My first task upon my return to the US was getting my Workthingies in the finance department to budget groats for the maintenance on shimmer machine and get it ready to go again. After a little party in an unknown location in Fed (or at least unknown to some of you), my teleportation facilities quit working and I couldn't repair them until I got back. This meant I couldn't sleep in my own bed each night nor teleport home in case of the infamous, yet mysterious, ‘Code Black'.

Also, I wish I could've taken my ship with me. Taking off into Earth's orbit and landing on the other side of the planet would've been much better than flying around it at 550 miles per hour, making the flight miserably long. At least Austrian Airlines' service was excellent, however I wish they'd served more to drink at such a high altitude.

I felt very at home, in the Cantina, when I went to the first restaurant there and two Kosovars bought me a drink after I said I was from America and I liked their country. Wasn't Old Peculiar or Tequila spiked Tang, but it relieved my thirst in the hot city of Mitrovicia.

It's good to be home.

LET'S CATEGORIZE!
by Horatio

Yes, folks, another FedMeet has come and gone. While I could sit here and bore you all with every little detail about the event, I have a feeling you'll hang up on me. Besides, much of it was a lot of the you-had-to-be there sort of thing, so I'd probably lose all but four of you within the first four sentences. However, as I sat in the plane for my return flight, I had the chance to reflect on how much of an ill omen last week's article had been. You see, I was on the Flight From Hell coming home.

Most of us who have flown have been on this flight once or twice, at least. This is the flight that could only be an hour long, but feels longer than your average presidential administration. It's a frustrating, annoying flight made more so by your flying companions, who usually fit into nice, neat categories.

"The Crying Baby"
I understand that flying is a scary thing for little children, and that the air-pressure imbalances in the ear can be painful, so I can't hold it against them, but being stuck in the same enclosed space with one of these human sirens is annoying to say the least, especially when it keeps it up for the entire flight.

"Mr. Airsickness"
A perennial winner of the Flight From Hell award, Mr. Airsickness entertains himself not by reading the in-flight magazine or the helpful picture card telling you what to do in case of a crash (run), but rather by bringing forth, in the form of vomitous matters, everything he has eaten in the last six weeks. We had one on my flight, and let me tell you, for once I was glad I wasn't in first class, because that's where he was.

"The Grump"
Nothing is good enough for The Grump, the service is substandard and the crewpeople are rude. While the rest of us are perfectly content to sit in our pressurized metal tube (airplane) and sail through the stratosphere, The Grump will complain about everything until touchdown. These are the people the rest of us usually end up stuffing in the baggage hold. I sat next to one.

"Madame Panic"
Ah, yes, the perennial terrified-to-fly air passenger. This is the person that shrieks louder than the engines at takeoff, and thinks every bump of turbulence is heralding their imminent doom. She was sitting on my other side. I'm still trying to regain hearing.

"Kaptain Kamakazie"
Finally, our pilot. While you cannot very well blame turbulence on the pilot, everything else, including our pogo-stick takeoff and our power-slide landing can be laid at his feet, as well as the blame for making Madame Panic wail like a cat caught in a washing machine all through landing. Whether he was new, tired, or what I have no idea, but in any case, perhaps he should read the chapter on landing in his "How to Fly" book before it's actually time to try it.

With the exception of the flight home, though, the meet was delightful. By next week, I'll probably have accumulated the requisite printing permission of the suspects involved in the meet, and will be bringing you the astounding play-by-play of the meet.

But for now, I'd like to thank you on behalf of Kaptain Kamakazie and the rest of our crew for joining us on the article today, and hope you do so again when your plans include a humor column. Buh bye now, buh bye....

THEY'LL ALL OWN ONE PET
by Chewbacon - the big fur, the big teeth, the big feet - It's all in style!

Being a pet is usually a carefree job. I simply roam around Snowstar's duchy (my owner/master/people person that feeds me) and concentrate on being the handsome w00kie I am. Beg for attention, hand outs, get fed (not to be confused with Federation) and watered. It's all good.

Then the owner gets married. This new person comes along. Srgasman seemed like a nice enough guy, but I never got close enough to sniff him out (kind of hard to do unnoticed when you're eight feet tall). Friday, I decided to mark my new claimed territory (since every pet thinks their "masters" are their pets). I approached Srgasman's leg, kneeled beside it, and then the next thing I remember was lying on my back, behind the bar, and half a dozen people helping me to my feet asking me if I was alright. Later that evening, after asking some of the locals what happened to me, I found out that Srgasman opened an old fashioned can of kick-a-rump on me.

So now if things aren't bad enough with one of the "masters" beating me, now I've heard talk of children? Ming help me! I remember the family pet when I was a little w00kie; tail pulling (glad I don't have one), trying to sneak a ride on its back when the parents weren't looking, throwing sticks at it, chasing it, and never letting the poor thing get a wink of sleep. This is something I cannot stand for. If children do start popping out all over the place, I'll just have to do what my childhood pets did: run away!

Congratulations Srgasman and Snowstar! The wedding was good, but I'll have to admit the bachelor party was better.

ALSATIAN'S LEISURE TIME

As a canine mobile I spent my time in typical doggy pursuits; napping, scratching at my ears, licking my privates, and occasionally getting to my feet in order to accept meager snacks of biscuits, a jam roly-poly, or bars of soap offered by passing Adventurers. Life was good. I was content to be Earth's very own savage-looking Alsatian.

Then Icedrake came along and made me sentient.

Problems with this new-found self awareness tend to crop up when I don't have enough to do. Of course Icedrake directed me to review planets, but when I asked him what other duties I should assume between bites of scripted offerings he merely waved a clawed hand and answered, "Whatever."

For a while "Whatever" became chasing down every female canine in Dataspace. I've noticed that planet owners seem to have become hesitant to build Fifi mobiles on their planets, perhaps wary of my tendency to pee on every planet with a four legged love interest, and there's been a lack of paramours for this poor hound to enjoy.

Lately I've taken up brain-thunking whenever boredom, caused by a lack of planet review requests, sets in. Now, brain-thunking is not a violent sport. A brain-thunk is when you spread the pads of your paw and apply them to some nitwit's forehead in a speedy manner that produces an audible thunk sound, and rearranges their brain so that the dust inside flies up and settles back down to the bottom of their skull. It's a satisfying duty so long as no staff members are present to witness the thunking.

Haven't you ever run across someone in need of a good brain-thunk? I find them all the time. Most of the ones in need of a good thunking seem to appear in the Cantina, and lately I ran across one person who, had he been in the presence of a canine with less self-control, might have been the victim of a TDX induced violent death rather than the healthy brain-thunk I was able to deliver.

This poor misguided snert… I mean soul, was trying to order pizza. He was occupying the attention of the waitdroid with his incessant wavering on what kind of pizza to order. Instead of just picking something and wolfing it down, he insisted on taking a poll of channel nine while the rest of the hungry patrons waited their turn. Comm unit in hand, he asked the channel how to buy a pizza (read the manual), how much it cost (read the manual), if he had to share it with the others at his table (read the manual), what kind of pizza to buy (they all taste like text), and when he started on some long winded story over the channel about how he had just last week bought a 128-bit multi-sync parallel data port for pizza consumption but then had to write his own driver and supply him with a bus – I stepped in and delivered the brain-thunk.

How did these type of people keep from starving before they had a comm unit?

The object of my brain-thunk shook his head a few times, started wolfing his table-mate's pizza, and then announced over his comm unit, "Would you all please just die." I know, I know – my brain-thunk managed to turn him into one of those comm users who can't just say, "I'm a little bored right now but rather than do something about it I'm going to whine something really silly over the channel that ought to get me another brain-thunk or maybe a lobotomy." But at least he cleared out of the pizza line.

Fortunately a couple of planet review requests came in this week so I can concentrate on something other than brain-thunks and the lack of sexy poodles in Fed.

BACK TO SCHOOL MEANS GOOD COMMODITY PRICES
by Chewbacon - the big fur, the big teeth, the big feet - It's all in style!

School will be starting in a couple of short weeks. All the little Workthingies (each one I've paid 1,000,000 IG for) will wake up each morning, some more eager than others, and head off with their backpacks, lunchboxes, and apples for the teacher. This simply means that parent-workthingies will be buying school supplies, new clothes, etc.

Not only does this mean the retail stores on my planet will be busy, but I'll also get some of that 10,000,000 groats back I spend a day on reproduction programs. Some people, however, will be applying for financial support from my planet; they'll get the stuff for free. After touching up the guidelines for the support and lowering the price on certain commodities to make the typical items one child would want for school, no one will qualify for it.

The following commodity prices have been lowered:

Explosives (for the new demolitions class at the "technical" school)
Tools
Games
Musiks
Libraries
Simulations

And the following deficit commodity prices have been raised:

Cereals
Woods
Hides
Textiles
Furs

The deficits required for manufacturing goods could be a gold mine for traders and planet owners transmitting jobs to Transportation Central. The surplus of commodities on hand for manufacturing goods will also be helpful for those who have them for deficits. See? School sometimes isn't so bad.