Want to notify the TF world of "n*ws"? Well, get the hell away from me and use this list

Illegitimi non Carborundum

[Fluffy] My friends: I lost him, yet at the same time, I found him. Cryptic? You bet your precious antique spoon collection, Chumley. Let me provide a brief (as brief as anything ever is here behind the silent, cold stone walls of the illustrious Citadel) narrative to act as my grim messenger of death. As I ... no, wait - wrong messenger. Sorry - there's been a ... hang on a sec ... there's been a horrible messenger screw-up ... jeez ... hang on .. JANICE!!! Where the hell's the "messengers" file?!? Ach - Damn that woman .. [sounds of shuffling through papers] ... dammit ... here - just listen to this lame-ass story and figure it out for yourself, Chester:

As I tracked the elusive Moriarty (pronounced "Orry-orry-arty-may") through bog, fen and moor by eerie moonlight on his retreat from the the ETF assassination & noogie squads, I began to wonder "Who is this man, this Moriarty? How could one make such a difference to so many? How can we repay him for his selfless act of singlehandedly destroying the looming 'n' menace? And what, sweet LORD, what is that smell?? Man, these bogs REEK!! Phoo! Anyway. I trailed him for many days, surreptiously aiding him by hiding yams in the pockets and hats of the ETF death squads. This annoyed them to no end, and they ended up spending most of their time on yam patrol instead of hunting down my boss with the ruthless efficiency that is the hallmark of all ETF personnel (except for Belgand, that is. As far as we can tell from the ETF offices, his hallmark is leaving vast amounts of empty Chee-Tos bags layin' around the place). Anyway ... where was I .. bog .. looming 'n' menace ... yams .. right. Ok. So I'm following him at a distance, because he was in a really bad mood, and you just don't wanna be around him when he's in a bad mood. I guess being tailed by remorseless killers'll do that to ya. Anyhoo, so I'm following at a discreet distance, pondering what it all means in a very abstract, cosmic, almost Tim Leary-esque way when it suddenly strikes me: a large rock, right on mi cabeza. I guess I hadn't been following far enough behind, and the boss got lucky with a toss. Anyways, when I wake up, he's long gone.

I'm pretty sure he evaded the ETF assassins, since when I was recuperating at a nearby Hooters I heard someone proclaim loudly "Damn! I can't believe that we, ETF's elite killing force, couldn't rub out one measly newsie! And what was with those accursed yams??" I can only assume he made it back to his west-coast sanctuary unharmed, where he is no doubt resting up, rebuilding his powers, plotting and scheming with that magnificent, scintillating intellect, in comparision with which the combined brainpower of a whole family of common lawn gophers pales to translucency. It is indeed a sobering thought that somewhere, deep in his crystalline Fortress of Aloneitude, the man known as Moriarty, as the Professor, and yes, even as Baby M, sits waiting. Waiting for the time to come when he shall once again rise from his exile and unleash the unholy terror of the Long-Winded, Rambling-But-Still-Funny-As-Hell update. My friends - I think that time may not be so far off ...In the meantime, keep watching the skis! erm ... I mean skies!

On a lighter note, things haven't degraded past the normal point of abuse, and this of course leaves me quite happy, a cheerful little cockroach in one arm and the tender love-claws of a cute little vixen around the other. Sometimes, I just get a little out of whack and have to resort to such meandering, but hey! I'm human, and it's not like a man's large intestine can ever really absorb all that water. You think I'm kidding? That's the greatest miracle of modern science, kid. Why don't you get out there and try spearing a mackerel on the end of a fly rod? Things like that just don't happen anymore. Back when the laws of physics were a little more relaxed, and perhaps the men of the law weren't as honest as they are now -cough-, sure, maybe. But now? That'd be like asking a poor hunchbacked old man to change a tire on a city bus using nought but a thesaurus and a few wisps of straw. Things like that just don't happen! Do I have to spell it out for you? You strike me as the kind of guy with smarts rivaled only by a set of garden tools. Maybe a few clowns short of a circus, eh Donny? Smart as bait. 'Bout as intelligent as a box of hair. You catchin' on? If you ask me, it's pretty obvious the cheese slid off your cracker, if you catch my drift. IQ of about 2, but sorry -- it takes 3 to grunt. It's always a challenge to get in a battle of wits, but this is like whooping up on a punch drunk cripple.

I just finished watching the Tennessee - FSU game, and BOY was it a travesty. Who would've thought taking volunteers from the crowd would result in such a crack football team; I bet a few 'gators lost a pile o'dinars over that one! Do you think I should leave this wall up, or just tear it down with a confident roar? Mrs. Puxtawanexty two doors down said so, but she said she could bake a dozen keylime tarts in forty-five minutes, and I didn't believe her -- and neither did the pile of garbage sitting out on the curb, waiting patiently to be collected since Thursday. In this weather, there's no way I could possibly find enough milk money in the sofa to satisfy those kinds of demands. In a lot of ways it strikes me as one of those Sleepless-in-Seattle-ish type takeoffs, where the auctioneer says goodbye to his good sense and hops on a train for Memphis, only to find his true love and a bad case of cirrhosis, along with half a case of Jack Daniels and a nice hefty fountain pen, the kind they just don't make anymore. But if little Maximilian learned one thing in all his outlandish adventures, it was this: never buy a man any Chopin, because without fail his thumbs will itch and pale when they even think about thinking about a good massage, one like they just don't give anymore. That's not my fault, though, and you'd certainly better lay off the booze if you don't want your half sister to find out about that little incident in the bog last winter. Keep that in mind next time you go swinging your ball and chain around like it's a mace, or something.

That's right, Belgand, that means YOU!

So, you limp-wristed little n-monkey, it seems that you've blown my little plan for revenge wide open. To add insult to injury, my hired goons didn't perform as instructed (most likely distracted by a shiny bit of tinfoil) and Deadpool, finally chewing through his arm to escape from his bonds, unleashed an arsenal comparable to that of a small Middle-Eastern nation upon my innocent, unsuspecting followers. It saddens me deeply to gaze out upon the carcass-ridden wasteland, my bovine brethren laid waste to like so many cattle. Oh, the horror ... the horror!

Every TF site in the entire bloomin' world was under my thumb, but this one backwoods, snot-nosed little goober had to go sticking his nose where it didn't belong and muck things up worse than Closeau hot on the track of the world's most dangerous hot dog vendor. Some of you may wonder why I espoused such wanton destruction in whatever sick, demented and dairy-fresh crusade I was undertaking; it is all explained by the nobility of my goal. First, reconnaissance of the ever-expanding ETF complex revealed that the infamous "n-Files", first exposed right here at the Citadel, were being re-opened under cover of a research project involving dwarf giraffes and Volkswagens; however, our crack spy team saw through this obvious hoax and dug to the crux of the matter. ETF, in a typically diabolical fashion, was again conducting experiments with the most powerful, and dangerous, substance known to man: 'n'. What was I to do? I couldn't just write it up on the page, because no one would believe the stupidity of reviving such suicidal material. Last time, we were extremely lucky; I personally examined the files kept during the first 'n' experiments, and I tell you what, a little ol' capful of n releases approximately 10^32 joules of energy when combined with a gallon of household bleach and a teaspoon of lemon zest! Imagine my horror when I examined the ETF dumpsters and found eight hundred crates of bleach along with the testimony of an anonymous n-factory worker that at least six megavats of the material was being cooked down to detonation viscosity deep underneath the castle of doom and destruction. My only hope was to cut off their lemon supply at all costs in order to preserve civilization.

That was the purpose of the cows; being naturally affinitive of lemons, I boldly planned to surround the ETF complex with a living, breathing, lemon-chomping barricade of holstein cows. Unfortunately this particular group of holsteins had been bred as sheep cows, so their ability to control other animals, especially those of their kind, was especially strong. What was intended to be a very calm and cowlike siege ballooned into a worlwide uprising of livestock from every race, color and creed. But as long as they prevented all Citrus limon from entering the Gates of Hell (as I like to call them), I could not be justified in calling off the cow-incited rebellion -- even if I could've, which I doubt. I was eminently successful in this endeavour; you'll remember both Belgand and Joe mentioning symptoms which were amazingly similar to scurvy. My cows had done so well in sealing off the fruit perimeter that not a single bit of sweet, juicy Florida citrus passed into the Den of 'n'. My apologies to those of you whose homes were destroyed in the rampage, but this is a case of having to destroy the world in order to save it. Deadpool, in his maniacal and careless use of the Microwave Nuke (by Swatch®), also destroyed the few remaining lemon plantations. So, until modern science devises a way to synthesize lemon zest, I think we will all be safe.

Okay, so I didn't have anything to talk about today. Go suck an egg if you don't like it.

"Endi, get down! Turn the lights off, quick!"

"... Your antlers, are showing, moosey ... move over behind the giant twine ball!"

"... OK here he comes ... no, wait ... that's just Hal passing gas ... "

"... dys I TOLD you not to bring the Squeeze Cheese, I get a peptic ulcer just looking at the stuff ... "

"... look hojo, no party is complete without a little pressurized dairy fun ... "

"... hey guys, you mind if I practice my birthday poem?"

"SHUTUP Raz you've done it a thousand times and it gets worse every time!!"

"... Moriarty, that'd BETTER be your ear ..."

" ... What was that noise?"

"SSSHHHHH!"

"ssssssshhhhhh!"

"SSSSSHUSH!"

"quiet quiet quiet ... "

* creak *

* grumble ... squeak, chatterchatter ... "stupid lightswitch" ... thump OWWww chatterchatterchatter*

* click *

"SURPRIII --" *gasp*

[ the crowd is silenced by the sight of a small woodland creature, blinking in the bright light, clothed in full drag ]

"Whoopsie ... hey buddy, when we said 'casual dress', we thought you'd take it a little less literally!"

Yes Fluffy, yesterday was your birthday (just in case you missed it), and here at the Citadel we've been preparing for weeks.

OK, OK! You got us, this was a last minute thing, we didn't realize until Endiku dropped by yesterday and started blathering about "presence" or something similarly asinine ... but let's let byegones be byegones. Speaking of Endiku, the guy wouldn't put his gun away until we promised him some airtime (datatime? who knows) on the page, so we thought it in our best interests to comply. The following is the recording session, verbatim as requested.

Hello.... *tap tap*... this thing on?

He.. Hello?

Oh the red light means ON!

Well jeez, I'm not a broadcasting major, how was I to know?! I mean a guy lives most of his life associating red lights with NEGATIVE things... stop lights, cops chasing you down, nuclear reactors going critical, the enterprise being in danger, lasers shining directly into your retina, low fuel, the steely death gaze of the terminator when YOU know that he knows THAT you know that HE knows that your hiding in the corner cuz you see those eyes staring at you... those horrible ghastly never blinking machine eyes of a killer, eyes that stare straight into your very soul!!!

*shiver*

Oh man that gives me the willies, sometimes late at night... I actually think I see those eyes... Ok Endi get a grip man!

Scuze me for a sec, I just need a glass of water to cool my nerves.

Right, that hits the spot, now where the hell am I? (Citadel? What in the fiery domain of the Dark Lord for? Oh right, that)

And... what by the chilling abode of Pluto was I talking about!? Dam nit Mortimer (what? moriarty? who the heck is that?? oh him, fine fine) well like I said, "I'm no professional 'k !" So if I get confused with the techniCALities of your little gizmos and operations well exCUUUUSe me.

Ya ok, Red light means were recording, you think I'm dumb or something??? Like I don't have a memory or any recall facilities, that maybe the storage areas of my brain are not operational?! I KNOW it means we're recording, you JUST told me that. And WHO the hell is that guy behind the glass that keeps pointing at his watch anyway!? Hurry hurry, push push, rush rush. I guess that's all people care about anymore, getting the deadline met, crossing all the T's, doting all the I's. What about THIS "I", huh? What about my feelings on the matter.... ramble ramble, whine whine, cuss, ramble, meander, spin, ramble...

... ever since my mother gave away all my transformers!!!!!!!!!

O K, with those points out of the way NOW I can deal with the issue at hand. Namely a retrospective look in an introspective mannor at the often times speculative nature and lifestyle of a most spectacular specimen. Yes. Who and what else than *trumpet sounds* "A LOOK INTO THE LIFE OF THE FLUFFAE"

(trumpet sounds?!?! AAALLLLL this fancy crap and the best you can do is *trumpet sounds*!!! Why you cheap *expletive* you probably wasted all your cash on these stupid little flashing red lights!) Well that's the end of my nicely planed saturnalia. The whole mood is just GONE. Good work Morris or whatever in Hades they call you.

Interjection, I guess I'll get right to the meat and skip the gravy.

As a long time comrade and close confidant to the obstreperous mamma. umm.. anima... errr.. hairball (sorry folks I have studied the mysterious beast in question personally for many years but still have no clue) I've had the (mis?)fortune of observing many of his spectacular and wondrous habits. Believe you me, the infrequently seen customs of the Western Fluffae are a true site to behold.

But it is the recent activities of this mongrel of the net that I wish to draw focus and elucidate.

I first noticed that the small hand mirror in the Exiles bathroom always seemed to go missing... and then ending up in or around Fluff's locker. Well Fluffo was never the tidy sort so I paid it no heed. Then came the strange questions from the Fuzzy One- "Do I look shorter?" "Does my fur look different to you?" "Test me on something... ask me to count to 10 without missing a number!" "Does my fur lack any luster?" "Are you gonna finish that enchilada?" "How's my fur look?"

Well one hardly takes notice of the exact height of such a minuscule creature in the first place and Fluff was always a strange one to begin with so, although bizarre, I just shrugged it all off to Fluffy-weirdness. But then the REALLY aberrant occurrences began.

I noticed Fluff started to dress funny (dressing at all was funny in itself) Wearing V-neck sweaters down to his stomach without a shirt underneath, skin tight leather pants so that he couldn't even bend his knees and walked about as if some foreign object was lodged up his posterior, obsidian-black miami-vice shades and so much gel in his hair I was afraid a stray overly intense sun-beam might set him ablaze.

And then the WOMEN. Everyday it was a new one. He would pull up in a *a-hem* RENTED miata, always with a differnt bodacious babe that you would swear should still be waiting in line for her drivers license.

Well enuf was enuf. I had to find out what on earth was going on. So after a little background checking in the X's files (oh what a horrid pun) I found the dreaded secret of the Fluff.

The reason for all his abnormal activities was at hand! You want to know what that secret is?
Well I could never be so iniquitous as to betray the trusted secret of a close friend.

Oh btw, HAPPY 30th BIRTHDAY FLUFFY!!!

*snicker*
Doh, and if you also wanted an in depth look into the psyche of the Fluffster then.... Fluffy is.... how to put it....he is.... fluffy.
That pretty much sums it all up in a nutshell.

Do I get paid now?

Ah yes, Mr Ku, the check's in the mail! Thanks for that heart-warming look into the goings-on behind the >X< curtain, especially that of our favorite cuddly member of Phylum Fluffata. Now just let the nice man in blue take the gun, and everything will be fine ...

So that's that, Fluffster ... have a good one, and don't spend all this love in one place. Everyone, you're welcome to remain for the reception -- hey don't get rowdy yet, the party's just started -- the food's on us, the band is taking requests, and the milk will flow like wine. However I'm sorry to announce the balloon release and shuttle launch have been canceled due to the perpetual fog which hangs ominously 'round the Citadel. Maybe next time.

At least Endiku did all the writing, but not for want of
effort on my part at least. Come on, the guy had a gun!

And that, my friends, is what I call dedication to the job. You can forget that kind of service with a national provider.

So much for shorter jokes ...

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