Illegitimi non Carborundum

Now that I've waited long enough to prevent all that traffic generated from Blue's to ever come back, I suppose I can start making a fool of myself again. Just so you know -- if you're expecting something really funny after working on it so long ... well, let's just say that I'm not anticipating the overwhelming 5-6 emails that I got regarding the first one.

No use tooting my own horn for another couple drawn-out paragraphs. Let's go. You and me. Outside. My hat's in the ring. The fight is ... umm, sorry.

Part II of ...

MORIARTY'S TF2
PREVIEW / REVIEW

THE FIRST LOOK AT TF2, EVER!
OTHER THAN FARGO'S!

After that monster session locked up in Tartarus with the programmers from hell, I needed a break before delving into the wonderful world of the TF2 maps. Since I wasn't allowed to leave the Valve building without clearance (and getting a stamp on the back of my hand so I could re-enter that day without having to pay admission again), I resigned myself to a walk around the facility, thinking that I might get lucky enough to happen upon an awkward situation in the boss' office, or perhaps glean some interesting information that I could sell to rival software developers.

I came across a lot of things that were interesting, but I will leave out because they don't deal with TF2 (to misquote Sherlock Holmes, "The world is not ready for such tales"). I did, however, happen to be strolling down one of many office-lined corridors and came upon a staff meeting where many balding and cigar-chewing suits discussed what I presumed to be earthshaking corporate decisions. The bodies that presumably once wore those suits were tied up in the corner. Eager to overhear a valuable phrase or two, I listened intently for several minutes, until ...

... until I got tired of straining my ears for nothing more than a syllable here or there, so I got up and returned to the Gulag so I could get the dirt on some of the contracted maps. The expanded ones, too.

I had a detailed run-through with Ian (the behavioral psychiatrist examined him and allowed him to rejoin the compound with the others), so there were about fifty pages of notes on the topic. Unfortunately, they all got jumbled up on the flight home. I tried to reconstruct them as best as I could, but there might be some mistakes in there somewhere. I slapped this together as quickly as possible, since I had no time to have anyone else proofread it. I've divided it up by map author.

JAMIE "TYR|T2" MACTAGGART

Tyr is the co-creator of one of the greatest underplayed TF maps ever -- 2fort32. Obviously, TFS was eager to snap him up from the very beginning. He's been working on his map since God knows when, but still isn't finished. It's a very complicated map.

So complicated, in fact, that he has been doing some additional work in order to make the map accessible to the ordinary player. "I took advantage of the extremly flexible and extensive mapC within the game and played around with it. Eventually I came up with one bloomer of an idea -- use 'homing pigeons' to guide the players throughout the map. I took a genetic sequencing course at the local community college, extracted the pertinent DNA from homing pigeon chromosomes, spliced it into the map code, toyed around with the entities, and did a little work with the AI so that not only will the pigeons take you exactly where you need to go, but try to shake the opponents homing pigeons that are trying to find you. Of course, they're extremely realistic -- their droppings are deadly accurate and if you've upgraded your team's pigeon high enough, they will even squirt one in your opponent's eye. We now have a very effective way to show players around the map as well as provide an alternative to the regular shoot-em-up style game."

Naturally, when the "pigeons" become superfluous, they can be killed with any weapon in the game.

I found this new concept in multiplayer gaming quite stimulating; surely this will be one of the major features which attracts new players. Shooting pigeons in the middle of a battle? Things are slow, need something to do? HECK yeah! Bye bye, Deer Hunter, hello Team Fortress 2! It's not a bad idea actually, considering how Deer Hunter is selling nowadays ...

As far as the map itself, I didn't see much since the homing function wasn't fully operational yet. It was a city map, hence the pigeons (as opposed to, say, a farm map using dogs abandoned by their owners that would trek hundreds of miles to return home only to get thrown in a pond with a cinderblock tied around their neck). From what I was told, I deduced that it was a terrorist-based map, centered around the IRA taking the head of Chrysler Corporation hostage for not exporting the new and improved "Cheap Imitation of the Overpriced Town & Country Minivan with Steering Wheel on Right Side" to Ireland. Sounds like a barrel of monkeys; we all know what kind of a party those Irish throw when they break out the AK-47s and submachineguns, don't we?

BRIAN "MIDORI" GREEN

Spoken with the fatalism of a true Eastern philosopher. They've rubbed off on him, I guess.

Robin revealed in the interview here at the Citadel that Midori was working on several different styles of maps. The most impressive was the base destruction map -- the residents of a small mountain community band together to torch the HQ of the evil oil drilling corporation that's trying to intimidate them off their property, all the while trying to avoid elk and moose in the midst of mating season; the residents are armed with Molotov cocktails and barrels of black powder along with their usual stock of rifles, traps, and animal skins. The finale on this map is spectacular!

Continuing with the theme first brought forth in the map Braveheart, in another of his maps we are taken to the moors of moden-day Scotland where sheep herders come to blows with a large American corporation wanting to buy up their land for cattle grazing, in order to support the huge McDonald's boom in rural Great Britain. Nothing much to say about this one.

The scenery in this map was incredibly detailed and realistic. The bogs have pockets of noxious gases that shoot high into the air at random intervals, creating a solemn background for the fighting. There are special areas where rocket infantry (don't ask where they get the rockets ... or the infantry, for that matter) can hole up and launch from safe areas; if they run out of ammo, they can search in the swamps for animal bones, chip them into long, thin shards on a nearby boulder, and create makeshift nail grenades (using the "macguyver" command).

And are you noticing a theme here? Big, evil corporation trying to take over the innocent, simple folk who just want to be left alone to live their lives as they see fit ... makes you wonder if TFS isn't just a little bitter about getting run over by the Valve juggernaut.

Naw.

DAVID "SAWYER" RAMIREZ
AND
MATT "HELLFACE" ARMSTRONG

Naturally, I had high expectations for this map, supposedly a beefier version of the original classic, Canalzone (what would that map have been like if Matt had been a mapmaker back then? Say that five times fast). Seeing Ramirez potter around in the much more flexible environment of the TF2 map code is something not to be missed. Unfortunately, they took a chance and departed from the "defeat the evil corporation against all odds" theme. It was tried and true, but they decided to forge ahead (sideways, in this case) and do something totally different. NOW how are we going to get the thousands of theme clones that kept TF alive for as long as they did?? Hmmm?? Answer me!

Think Canalzone, but instead of a peaceful Venetian canals, a boiling cauldron of melted rock and sediment. Think platforms floating around in midair. Think hwguys everywhere. Think spires with command points on top rising out of the lava. Think Pele. Most of all, think David Sawyer knocked unconscious, slumped in the corner of a room, and Hellface grinning demonically -- no pun intended -- as he completes the map entirely by himself. I was utterly shocked; not at the map itself, but at the fact they're splitting the booty 50 / 50 (or so I assume). Come to think of it, the map really is pretty good ... only that most games will end in negative frags (lava deaths), and every 183 seconds a stylized ASCII "(V)" gets displayed in all the windows on your HUD.

Don't ask me. This is Matt we're talking about, remember?

Like I said before, this new map is command-point oriented. It's in a rain forest setting, actually, much like the wilderness of the volcanic Hawaiian islands. This time, a group of Marines has decided to go Commie and take on the entire US Armed Forces by attempting to sieze the island of Kuale-Beppo -- except that the island is so remote that it's days before any reinforcements will arrive. Can you take control of the most important points on the island (phone, electricity, Mr. Goodcents) before they can, or will these evil Red bastards fulfill their dastardly plans and wrap you in a plaster caster? Will democracy triumph over socialism, or can you just not keep those pinkos down? Will two men, one from each side, strip down and duel to the death using quarterstaffs (type "indianajones" at the vote prompt), or will the two last men put a hollow point through each other's skull so the whole thing starts over again? It's up to you and your team.

Well, that was as far as I got before curfew, so we had to quit then. I organized my notes, submitted them to Customs (that's what the skinny guy in uniform calls himself), and got a six inch "APPROVED" stamp on each page, something which made going over them later a mite difficult. I did manage, though, and as you can see, ended up with quite the review, covering less than a third of the maps which will be included in the game. They said to tease you, so I teased.

With more than the usual deftness I have avoided the topic of the game itself almost entirely during this update. Please accept my heartiest congratulations, because DAMMIT I'm not going to go through this hell again for a long time!

Signing off ...

Next time we'll be doing the Q&A, so please send any questions you may have to [email protected] !

After yesterday's horrible news, I'm just not capable of pulling off another segment to the TF2 preview. Sorry for drawing this out, but out of deference I think it would be appropriate to hold off for a while, at least until I'm back on my feet, so to speak.

Come back in a few days, or something.

Since today's update is wholly dedicated to TF2, I think I'll start off with a little tidbit of TF2 news:

Robin Aloysius Walker is now engaged to Margarita Francine Veloso and will be married sometime in the future! (No, really! That's what engagements are for!) Congratulations, Robin, you have all our sincerest wishes for a happy union ... just don't let her "distract" you from your real job. Pleasing your woman? Preparing for a family? HA! Don't give her an office key or your work number, and get in front of that keyboard before I slappa u face with a six-foot Water Weenie I carry just for the purpose.

What I don't understand is how he managed to get outside the Valve offices to find someone to get engaged to in the first place (see below). These things are inexcusable, and my complaint has been registered with customer service -- and if you value your game, you should do so too.

Before I forget, everyone please send nasty hate mail to Olaf. The guy had hand surgery after breaking some fingers and then getting in a bar fight. He only has one hand now, so get your kicks in while he has trouble using a keyboard ...

No, I'm kidding. Write him some nice stuff, or something, I know you all are really a sentimental crowd under that unwashed, anaemic exterior. Let's show the big goon what we're made of, eh? He needs it, I bet he's tired since he can't wield a club to beat off all them bronze Icelandic goddesses now.

Enough silliness! Let us commence the start of the beginning of the initiation of the first installment to my TF2 Preview / Review, the first look at TF2 that anyone outside of Valve has had to date! Other than Fargo and whoever read his review!

Here we go!

Part I of ...

MORIARTY'S TF2
PREVIEW / REVIEW

THE FIRST LOOK AT TF2, EVER!
OTHER THAN FARGO'S!

I stepped off the jet into a cool, humid breeze. At first I thought it was the Seattle air, but after inspecting my surroundings I discovered that it was the cute blonde stewardess I had been eyeing the whole flight up, blowing me a kiss. After a brief tryst, I got into the limousine sent for me and let the driver (Yahn, it said so on his nametag) know that an extra fifteen quid would be his if he didn't spare the buggy whip. Moments later, we pulled up to the towering Valve Software Building in downtown Seattle, and I made like I didn't notice when my chauffeur protested after not getting a penny. It's so easy to exploit the simple folk, it almost shames me.

Immediately, I was escorted by a bikini-clad exec* to the immaculate penthouse, where row upon row of giant monitors and high-powered computers were staffed by diligent coders, furiously typing away. A supervisor strode throughout the room, casually inquiring as the progress of the multiplayer code or some of the game models. Everyone had a smile on their face, and each workstation was amply provided with large amounts of brain food (blueberry muffins, popcorn, and Jolt cola). A large screen on one wall read, "3 Days Ahead of Schedule", with a giant timer ticking down the days, hours, and minutes. I was, of course, awed by this model of utopian efficiency, and I asked my guide whether TF2 would be released on time if work continued at this rate.

"Oh, you silly boy, these are the Half Life coders. TF2 production takes place in here."

She opened the door to the broom closet. A cloud of cigarette smoke burst forth from the doorway, and after the thick haze subsided, I was able to discern several figures crammed into the tiny space, slumped over what looked to be 486s (I can just tell these things). The executive delivered a savage kick to the side of one man, doubling him over, and lifted his head up by what little hair was left -- most of it was gathered in a circle under his chair. She spat out an order to get back to work if he valued the lives of his wife and children. When notified that he had no wife or children, she knocked him behind the ear with a blackjack and signalled one of the attendants to put the man in solitary until he learned to behave.

Smoothing down her hair, she turned to me again, all smiles, and said, "Ian always was a poor worker. Hopefully he'll learn his lesson."

I laughed nervously, fingering the stun gun in my pocket. I wasn't going to take any chances.

I asked Sergeant Svelte to leave us so I could actually see some of this game I've been hearing so much about. The employees were reduced to quivering masses of jelly in her presence, so obviously we could get more done while she wasn't giving everyone the evil eye (or evil foot, whichever she decides). I turned over a mop bucket and kicked aside the decaying corpse of Damian Scott so I could have a seat next to Robin and see exactly what he was doing. I wasn't going to go near John, as he had smeared his own feces all over himself and trembled like a sick dog; but thankfully, Robin was halfway coherent now, and could give me the lowdown on what exactly they had been working on all this time.

He booted up the game from Windows 3.11 (these computer geniuses can make anything happen) and started a new level. The intro movie was quite breathtaking -- unlike the Quake2 introduction, the TF2 initiate is placed in a Tijuana opium den and watches the image change palettes for about ten minutes. The modeling and cinematics is superb in this segment; one part which struck me as particularly stunning was a repeated jump from fluorescent pink to orange and back, which left me with my jaw dragging on the floor (not that strange since the bucket was about a foot off the ground). There was a smooth transition to a briefing room, where we first meet the main guide in your journey to become a combat-hardened veteran -- a holographic Yoda dressed in battle armor, complete with puppeteer. Of course, there are the customary Star Wars takeoffs which are unsuitable for print, but the little guy was moderately entertaining considering his voice was done by Ben Stein.

Now that the "Jedi Training" item was checked off on my profile (no joke), Robin gave me the controls and I was able to enter the single player level dedicated to the tutorial. I was expecting some sort of training area filled with knock-over targets and sandbagged fortifications, but was disappointed to find that it was nothing more than a converted schoolroom filled with middle-aged, overweight thrillseekers and pimpled adolescents. I took the only seat remaining and waited for fifteen minutes until the trainer walked in the room, stubbed out his cigarette, and started reading off a clipboard in a monotone. It was hard to place the voice at first, but after a few minutes, I recognized it as Ben Stein's again. Gudlyf did a good job of changing it though, he almost fooled me.

After a long legal spiel on how by entering the Team Fortress 2 Battlegrounds (no relation to the website), I relinquished any and all rights to claim injury blah blah blah if you've ever played paintball you know the drill. All this time, of course, his mouth movements matched his speech perfectly, and the other NPCs in the room nodded off just like real people would.

Keep in mind, all this was running on a 486 -- I'm almost positive -- with 8 MB RAM at somewhere around 30 fps. In a five year old version of Windows. Quite impressive, considering the many different character models and high-quality textures on the levels.

At this point I was tiring of the tutorial, so I exited. With the click of a button, a multiplayer server was selected for me automatically. I was "born" in a dark corner of the map (apparently they use this term for more realism -- everyone knows you just don't "spawn"). I was then given a menu to select a class, as long as I had completed all necessary prerequisites less than one year ago or taken the placement exam that semester.

Fortunately, I was able to go through and play all the TF2 classes, but only a few of them were interesting enough to mention, so I'll just tell you about those.

THE ENGINEER

You know I had to pick this one first. I wanted to see what they did with my baby.

Overall, I like the changes. Instead of a spanner, engineers now carry huge 20 hp drill motors with a little tool belt full of attachments (doesn't he sound cute?). Now sentry guns go up in seconds instead of that agonizingly long process we had to go through before. The wonders of technology, eh?

Engineers can also build cameras, ranging from cheap disposable models that botch half the photos taken (just like in real life!) to full-fledged video cameras that track the fighting and have a neat little wiper on the lens (à la the headlights on Mercedes and Saab sedans) to wipe off the blood when things get nasty.

Again, the use of holograms is interesting. Before building the new and improved sentry gun, you place a hologram so you can see how it will look, whether it will fit in the space you've selected, or if you think the color matches the decor, etc. Most of the maps have that gritty, industrial / military feel to them, so more likely than not this gritty, industrial / military object will fit in just fine. You never know, though. That's why it's there. I received this exclusive screenshot of the hologram, never before seen, in the mail from a source requesting not to be named.

Cool tip: swing the hologram around like a muscleman, you'll look like quite the athletic chum ... or you can pretend like you're coming at someone with it, just swing it right through their head and everything -- it'll scare the crap out of 'em! Hahahaha!!! You'll be the life of the team barbecue.

Oh, and I think they made some changes to the sentry gun, or something, but they're not anything spectacular. You can wait.

THE COMMANDER

There's nothing really special about this class other than the model. You can see his hair waving in the wind as his disembodied head floats by on a cushion of air. Whoa.

ROCKET INFANTRY

I think this class gets the game's "Most Fun to Dick Around With" award. The first time I saw the RPG fired, I almost blew a gasket laughing. I just wanted to scream, "Hey, man, ease up on those burritos! You almost killed a guy standing behind you when you let that one rip!" Or maybe, "Did anyone step on a rocket-propelled grenade?" Perhaps even the classic "You've got hot lethal gas spewing out your rear end! Should we prepare for any incoming projectiles??" I think we'll be hearing a lot of that. I'm already working on a config that will bind these to one of my mouse buttons.

Of course, now that rocket-jumping is out of the game due to realism factors, a lot of people are kind of miffed. Don't worry, my friends -- what they have neglected to tell you is that the rocket infantry now wears a McDonnel-Douglas R2000 Prototype Jetpack that will allow him to fly around the level for hours on end, often performing intricate aerial acrobatics that will stop entire battles due to their extraordinary maneuvering capabilities. I predict that squads of players will form aerobatic teams and perform for the great pleasure of old ladies and small children on live TV.

Then again, judging by some of the names clans have given themselves, it would be an 18 and over show ...

At this point, Robin started coughing up blood; thankfully, I managed to convince the "bad man with the whip" (as he is referred to) that he needed medical assistance. I stuffed a fistful of cotton down his throat to stop the bleeding, and forced him to proceed.

THE SNIPER

One of the most hated classes of the first Team Fortress game, it is destined to become even more so. The programmers have given him several new abilities that make him an even bigger source of frustration for low-bandwidth connections:

• The ability to become invisible for twenty seconds at a time if the "Fatal Breeze" spell is learned. Originally, it was thirty seconds, but for the sake of realism ("no wizard or conjurer could ever stay invisible that long") they chopped it down a bit.
• Even though sniping is technically rifle hunting for humans, snipers are no longer required to wear blaze orange vests or hats.
• The lasersight now slices through anything in its path.

Plus, he's got this really ugly face, so you want to reach over and gouge out his eyes with your thumbnail anyway. Getting killed by such a goon just makes it worse.

However, the sniper's biggest enemy (not the spy, you twit ... it's the other team's sniper) has also been beefed up, so maybe it won't be so bad for us common folk scurrying around below.

Well, I think I've got enough for today, don't you? Yes, plenty. Check back soon for some map reviews and an update on Robin's tuberculosis case.

I will also be doing a Q & A section -- if you would like more info regarding TF2 that was not included in today's segment or any other segment, I will conclude this series by dedicating one update to answering any questions sent in by readers. Please mail them here.

* I later discovered that this was Lisa Mennet, but I was too
lazy to work it in anywhere other than what I've done here.

I have got it made as a webpage owner. I have a ready supply of wacky ideas and on-target criticisms on call, twenty four hours and seven days a week. If any of you are familiar with the P.G. Wodehouse stories involving Bertie Wooster and his trusty butler Jeeves, you'd pretty much have my situation nailed; I'm the well-meaning but incompetent society man constantly having himself rescued by the levelheaded butler who steps in to save the day, then fades back into the woodwork.

Matt Armstrong plays Jeeves, of course.

One of these on-target criticisms was brought to my attention late yesterday afternoon, on the topic of what direction the page has been taking lately. In his direct and honest stlye, I was made to understand that I have covered most every topic other than TF in the past few weeks, and all things considered, I'm on an exclusively Team Fortress oriented host and I'd better get my act together before my sentence is commuted even further. And we all know commuted sentences are bad, don't we? Sentences must be as long as possible, so that I can fill up huge amounts of disk space on the Criticalmass servers and live to tell the tale. He went on to explain that matters pertaining to my real life, no matter how zany and/or touching, took second chair to the game.

He's right, of course.

I puerishly inquired, "Do you think this is the reason why no TF players read the page any more?" He shot back a heart laugh and "I don't think so, I know so." We both jabbed each other on the shoulder and made sure our hair was OK for the freeze-frame. The canned laughter was on cue and the director sighed, "that's a wrap".

Just like Jeeves, not only did he point out the problem, but he had an idea to remedy it. Honestly, if I didn't know of the guy's drug habit and his romantic tastes bordering on the necrophilic,* I'd think he was a messenger from heaven. His suggestion to get back on that topic which we all love so much -- Team Fortress, you ninny -- was that I should do a review of TF2, "unhampered by any bulky and unnecessary TF2 knowledge". I liked the sound of that very much.

Therefore, I shall begin a long series of updates concerning my own insights, comments, likes, dislikes, and gut instincts regarding Team Fortress 2, which have absolutely no foundation and even less applicability. Luckily, I was able to cut Matt off before he fired off any more good ideas, so at least I could tell myself that I had filled in the details myself and not ripped off yet another book of funny stuff so I could take all the credit for something I didn't do.

However, today we will go with something a little more interesting and, dare I say, dramatic. Places, everyone ...

HOW SHAKA THE INDESTRUCTABLE
MET HIS END

SCENE I: An adobe wall bordering an authentic cobblestone street which is filled with people. Arabic characters decorate the exterior of the building, much like a picture on the cover of U2's Achtung Baby album, but without a bearded and bejewelled guitarist standing in front of it. The street is filled with miscellaneous hawkers and purveyors of handmade crafts. A rickety old peddler's booth with a fresh coat of paint stands out among them -- but it's obvious that it's seen better days. A hand-painted sign which reads "Shaka's TF" adorns the front. A large group of what seem to be battle-worn soldiers of various getups and outfits is gathering in front of the booth. They are all types -- tall, thin, short and fat, flabby and muscular, but it's apparent that all present are bloodthirsty and ravenous fighters. A man -- presumably Shaka himself -- is standing on a platform inside, speaking at the top of his voice to any who will listen.

SHAKA: ... yes, sir, your question is a valid one. I hold here in my hand the highest quality high-pressure nailgun on the market today. If you are a man familiar with the terms of the business, what I have here will fire over six threepenny nails per second at speeds exceeding six hundred feet per second. If that doesn't impress you, this will.

* He fires the gun into the wall and demolishes a hefty section of it in seconds. Astonished glances are traded among members of the crowd *

SHAKA: Incredible, no? And it is priced in at only sixteen hundred dollars. A quality price for a quality weapon. Any takers?

* The rush to buy is fast and furious; a heavily armored man with a beret and sunglasses comes away triumphant, and sixteen hundred dollars closer to broke. *

SHAKA: Excellent, excellent. Let's show an effort to keep the peace, please ... if the man in the yellow bandana would please stop making such a racket with that machinery in the back, I'd appreciate it ... On to our next item.

* Shaka brings a small pellet-gun like weapon with a bolt action out from behind the booth *

SHAKA: Here, gentlemen, we have a modified Daisy air-propelled pellet gun. I see the looks on your faces, asking in so many words, "why the hell would I want a pellet gun in a full scale war?" It is an easy question to answer: this is no pellet gun. It has been modified by a highly skilled German engineer to fire fletched tranquilizer darts at your enemy. These darts [ pulls tube of darts from pocket ] will instantly put a 250-lb. man to sleep. Two of them will most likely put him in a coma, or worse. I have personally travelled through the tropics to get to the primitive villages of Africa, South America, and Indonesia so I could get my hands on such powerful drugs. I slit the throat of an eight-foot tall behemoth in order to enter the secret temple of Untebbe-Flatulence and get my hot little hands on this stuff. It's a small wonder that I'm selling the whole package for three hundred dollars.

* The listeners need no further encouragement. They swarm over him, waving large bills at arm's length in a manner only reflected by paid actors in the Ginsu Knife informercials. A man dressed in gray fiberglass-like armor walks away with the gun *

SHAKA: Excellent! I can see your enthusiasm growing. This next item will surely pique your interest.

* He lifts a small satchel from behind the booth's flimsy wall; he hefts it solidly in his hands, and a hush falls over the crowd *

SHAKA: This ... this beautiful piece of technology will allow you to atomize any carbon-based life form within sight, and makes a really cool sound, too. Nine hundred seventy-five bucks. Any takers?

* Shaka has his money in a matter of picoseconds, a man dressed in red and white with a surgeon's mask takes off with the detpack *

SHAKA: Know a good bargain when you see one, eh? Very nice. [ snickers ] Well, moving right along, we've got a lot to cover today ...

* They go through his entire stock very quickly. Soon Shaka is having to turn away customers, telling them to return tomorrow if they are still interested. *

INTERMISSION
(Popcorn and Junior Mints are for sale in the
lobby, please no food in the theater)

SCENE II: Same place, next day. More shoppers are gathered around Shaka's booth, and there are many unhappy faces in the crowd.

SHAKA: [ opens door to booth from the inside and proceeds outside ] Hello again, my faithful friends! I see many new faces, with money ready. Well, that's good, because today I have something that will make it all worth your while.

* Waits for the murmur in the crowd, but it doesn't come *

SHAKA: [ aside ] Hmm ... wonder who dumped the chili powder down their panties. [ proceeds with sales pitch ] Yes, today we have something very special. Straight from the wilds of the Gobi Desert, I have procured this vial of specially treated opium. For seven days I trudged without food and water, wearing only an Old Navy t-shirt on my back to the highest mountain in Manchuria, on top of which was a Buddhist monastery. There I engaged in the ritualistic and ornate welcoming ritual which the Buddhist monks practiced, the botching of which would end in the slaying of the botcher. I performed it to their liking, and they then forced me to dance for them for three hours as payment for bed and breakfast. I chose the Native American Sun Dance that I learned from a Sioux brave back in my cowpoke days to show them my courage and resistance to pain; not once did I wince, even when the wooden spikes were inserted into my pectorals and I was hung from a pole by them, stretching my skin to thrice its normal size. After the dance was completed, I was treated to a cold saltwater bath by the monks (no idea where they got the saltwater) and a hearty dinner composed of two chunks of cracker bread I could only describe as similar in texture and taste to matzo.

[ pauses to take a deep breath ]

However, when the monks discovered what I had come for, they became extremely hostile and I was forced to take drastic action to protect myself. One of the attendants pulled a Mauser and I was forced to knock it out of his hand and drill some holes through his torso to make an example of him. They calmed down nicely after that, and I waltzed in to the secret vault and got a bottle of what I hold here. Of course, that totally skips over the story involving the horrendous thirty-headed chimera that would grow a new head every time one was chopped off, but the government let me escape alive if only I kept that a secret, so ...

But now, the potion itself. Suffice to say, a sip of this at the beginning of a match will give you speed that man has never imagined. Your legs will pump like cylinders in a Mustang. Your heart will beat so fast that it will emit a low buzz instead of the customary "lub-dup, lub-dup". Of course, your eyes will constantly be searching for something that isn't there, and you will find it impossible to sit still for more than a few seconds, but you will be nothing more than a breeze on the face of your opponents. I offer you this wonderful piece of ancient medicine for only six thousand dollars.

* Again, he is greeted only by silence *

SHAKA: Anyone?

* pause *

HECKLER: You sold me defective merchandise!

SHAKA: Uhh ... what? I'm sorry, sir, I'll address your concern at the end of the --

HECKLER: The hell you will. I want my money back.

SHAKA: The policy, sir, is that all sales are final. I'm sorry that I can't help you. *ahem* Are there any takers on this incredible --

HECKLER: WRONG ANSWER! [ makes his way to the elevated platform Shaka is speaking from ... we see that it's one of yesterday's satisfied customers ] I bought this gun yesterday from this man, and it didn't work. Three of my comrades died in battle because I couldn't save them.

SHAKA: DAMMIT! I HATE ENDING MY SENTENCES IN HYPENS! DON'T MAKE ME DO IT AGAIN!

HECKLER: [ looks puzzled ] What?

SHAKA: Don't cut me off again, you stewed fruit! Now get off my stage!

HECKLER: I'm not moving until you give me a refund.

SHAKA: Look, cretin, you probably broke it while dragging it along the ground like Cro-Magnon man and his club. Go beat your puny chest somewhere else.

HECKLER: I'm not going to take any more of your lip, that's for sure. Have a care, mate! [ launches the gun in a trajectory crossing the airspace occupied by Shaka's pate ]

SHAKA: [ dodging ] All right, that's it ... [ brutal fistfight ensues ]

HECKLER: Ow! damn! that hurt! come on guys, help me out!

* The crowd rushes forward and proceeds to tear Shaka into guitar pick-sized pieces *

VOICE FROM THE SKY: That, boys and girls, is the story of how an honest adventurer went bad and tried palming off inferior merchandise to TF players -- a notoriously demanding crowd. Imagine that, requiring working merchandise this day and age ... but that is a story for another day. May those of you whose bosses reside somewhere in or near Seattle take this lesson to heart, for if you do not, the results could be horrifying.

I know. Lame. So shoot me. It's called writer's block, and considering what was going on around me when I typed that, you should be quite happy with what you got.

Just one more thing -- hop over to Cheat_H8r's Study of Online Gaming Ethics and after reading up everything that guy has worked up for the past six months or so, download the "air gib" demos. Funny stuff, especially the very beginning of the third demo (airgib3). I launch myself against a wall and with a resounding -SPLAT- explode in what your local weatherman would call "heavy precipitation of blood and flesh".

Good stuff, Maynard.

Steel yourself for another hellcat of a update. Next time, I tackle a TF2 map.

* If you are TFS / Valve, ignore that.

What is this BS? I enjoyed Perfect Drug so much that I decided to hop over to the local Best Buy and snag a copy of the single. On the back it says, "Versions of 'Perfect Drug' ". I say "great", sneak up to the cash register and rub the little magnetic sticker off, then walk out with it and don't pay a cent for this unholy trash. What I get are five techno-rock songs reminiscent of the MIDIs that came with Windows 3.1, whose only recognizable tie-in with the original song are the lyrics "you are the perfect drug". [ Note the distinction between that and "you are the perFECT drug", a much superior method of pronouncing that phrase. ] So, I think I would've been royally ripped off if I had actually paid for the thing. I'm still pissed though, because now I have to go back up and purloin another CD to get the original version.

This was made difficult by the fact that I had my sister along with me. Under the strict advice of my parents, it was in my best interests, and hers, to preserve her childlike innocence as long as possible so that the transition to college life would be as jolting and nightmarish as possible. Ergo, I did not let her in on my conspiracy to put the store out of business by stealing about one CD a year, since Amnesty International requested we boycott them after they sent a multi-million dollar donation to the ULA. You see, she and I had been shopping for a birthday present for my mother all morning and were taking a break by browsing the anorexic classical section of, you guessed it, Best Buy. After almost three straight hours of drinking at the fount of foot fatigue known commonly as the Dillard's Ladies' Wing, we needed a break, and gnashing our teeth at the auspicious lack of Rossini operettas present in the music store was a relaxing pastime my family has engaged in for generations. My great grandfather would bat an elderly fiddler around at the square dances because he didn't know any of Dvorak's Slavonic Dances. Nevertheless, our otherwise persuasive arguments fell on literally deaf ears (Marylin Manson has a talent for that sort of thing, or so I hear). At this point, I value my "Liberace plays Led Zeppelin" album more than this adenoidal froth.

As I mentioned before, the quest for a b-day present for mommy was the cause of our side trip to the scenic electronics and appliance store. This was the one year that she had actually made clear beforehand (through subtle hints) exactly what she wanted. We had been at the mall a few days before, and in passing, she said something along the lines of, "look, Nick, there's a nice purse, why don't you buy me that for my birthday?" Having the minute attention to inflections of voice and subtle body language that I do, I immediately picked up on her intent much like Holmes could ascertain the nature of a client's dilemma merely by giving them a visual once-over. From her mannerisms, it was obvious to me that she was really saying "look, Nick, there's a nice purse, why don't you buy me that for my birthday?" Confident that I had scored, I filed the deduction away among my little gray cells for later reference (in between a recipe for curried chicken and the phone number of that Aphrodite look-alike I had wooed in the car wash lobby) and strutted smoothly down the hall, chest proudly thrust forward, weaving in and out of mallwalkers like a super-G slalom veteran.

Unfortunately, I failed to keep this piece of information within easy reach, as I awoke early yesterday morning (the big day, unbeknownst to me until brutally wrenched from REM sleep) to the form of a blurred but wildly gesticulating sibling informing me in hoarse whispers that "I'd better get going because we're going to have to buy mom a gift!" Reflecting upon her words, I find it rather ironic that she chose the pronoun "we" in this situation, since I almost (I'll explain later) shelled out the one thousand dinars for the gift. That estimate may be off, I'm not sure on the precise dollar-to-dinar exchange rate at this time. Anyhow, we crafted an elaborate story involving cock fighting, hair loss, and relationships with convicted felons -- Seinfeld was quite memorable the evening before -- and made it out, checkbook in hand, to go boost the GNP by a good three hundred percent.

After innumerable twists and turns within the labyrinth of sunglass huts and cell phone kiosks, we arrived in the relative peace of the women's stockings and accessories section. We made a beeline for the three-story pyramid of purses which dominated the department. Our expectation of a simple and facile shopping experience was shattered at this point, for as we approached the heap of leather and vinyl, dominated by such brand names as Ralph Lauren and Perry Ellis, it became apparent that this was no simple task. We were greeted with the spectacle of several-hundred middle-aged women clawing and bellowing in search of the perfect purse -- we had failed to hear the screaming because of the vast distances involved in a department store. What looked to be three stories from the entrance of the women's department now loomed above us like McKinley before ... that guy who climbed McKinley, his name has slipped my mind. Either that, or I threw his file away to make room for that funny joke I heard on Letterman the other night. Happens all too often, as I'm sure you understand.

I was at a loss to explain the reason for this battle before me until I happened to catch a tiny, bright red sign perched at the peak of Mt. Bag (as we referred to it) which said, "CLEARANCE -- WOMEN'S PURSES, 25-50% OFF". I understood the cause of the battle immediately, as my logical faculties were aided by a handbag whizzing dangerously near us, exploding in a shower of plaster shards due to a collision with a scantily clad mannequin. We took shelter behind a sales desk. Behind it, we discovered a woman, bruised and bloody, attempting to take a sip from a tin canteen; she was weakened by the loss of blood, but with her dying breath, she gasped haltingly to us, "here, it's Naya." My sister weeped tears of pity for the husband and children of this woman; I snatched the canteen out of her hand and downed it greedily, forgetting that I should save some in case I got thirsty later on.

After tossing a few token burial shrouds (blouses) on the body, we cautiously advanced towards the epicenter of this clash. As we drew nearer and nearer, the pungent aroma of cordite seared my nostrils. We climbed over a makeshift fortification made of high-heeled shoes, jewelry boxes, and display cases, and for the first time, we could see the magnitude of the battle. It was awe-inspiring: as far as the eye could see was the most brutal face-scratching and hair-pulling catfight I have ever seen, or will see, in my life. The bodies of the dead were strewn carelessly about, often mutilated by post-mortem puncture wounds caused by the three-inch heels that many of the participants were wearing. If someone managed to latch onto a good-looking purse, their legs were immediately swept out from under them, and the unlucky shopper was torn limb from limb until someone else managed to drag herself free, purse clutched to her chest, and then it began all over again. In this manner, there were many mini-battles occurring all about.

Suddenly, I had a goose of an idea.

Cautioning my sibling to stay put, I brushed the dust off my sleeve, ran a hand through my hair, and hiked up my pants a goodly amount. With an air of dignity, I strode headlong into the fray, paying no attention to the literally heart-rending spectacle happening not two feet from my path. As nonchalantly as possible, I wove in and out among the dog-piles of screeching Harpies and made my way towards the ultimate goal -- the foothills of Mt. Bag. I surveyed the purses which were still intact; immediately singling out the one which caught my eye. It was a black, glossy purse, but I did not realize what it was composed of until I was able to inspect it more closely. To my delight, I discovered that it was genuine leather, but with the hair of the cow still on it! It was a cute little model that looked just big enough to hold a few Q-tips, maybe even a stick of lipstick if you really stretched things. "Perfect!" I thought to myself, sensible enough not to let on that I thought I was getting a bargain. I had always heard my mother complain about her purses being too big; "I can't see to the bottom of this " was the phrase that stuck in my head. Amazed at this bit of divine intervention, I snatched it up without further thought, as I knew that this was the sort of haute couture accessory that any 54-year-old lady would dream of.

I slipped this object d'art under my shirt and made my way back to the fortification to join my sister. It was like stealing candy from a baby ... the ruse had succeeded. Any true female knows that a man is no threat to them, as far as finding an expensive piece of merchandise for half price is concerned. I had fooled them. I got the best purse out of the whole bunch for a pittance, with nothing more than a scratch from some airborne press-on nails that glanced off my temple.

Except, of course, that it was no pittance. Amazingly, the sales desk was still functional, and I was happy enough about getting out with my life that I figured I could spare the cash, even if it was steep. That is, until I found out just how much cash was required.

After clubbing the clerk unconscious with the heel end of a pump, we made our way back to the car and screeched our way over to Ye Olde Carde Shoppe to find a corporate greeting card that would express in a humorous and endearing manner the way we felt towards our mother for insinuating that she was really worth risking our lives for. Posh, what a mound of flotsam.

That, boys and girls, is the story of Friday, August 21st, in its entirety. Nothing added, nothing changed -- pure, unadulterated truth.

Yes, my sister and I manage to get into some pretty scary situations. We always come out of it laughing, for some reason. Just because we're laughing at something totally unrelated doesn't make a bit of difference. Usually, we're chuckling at her verbal stumblings (such as pronouncing "biped" to rhyme with "piped") and attempts at remedying a faux pas. While at the mall, we went into some other stores, the most interesting of which housed a clerk whose defining characteristic was very small teeth. He was one of those guys you wished you had gone to high school with, so you could've called him funny names like "rice teeth". Another store was patrolled by a matronly, red-headed German or Russian lady, I couldn't tell which. As we looked over the merchandise, she would hover over us asking things like "Do zoo like zis? Zis iss very nice prezent. Very comfort-able. I give you hav off if zoo buy now." As we walked out, sis leaned over and whispered, "Do you think that Spanish accent was fake?"

But her crowning moment was this afternoon. My mother had heard some opera singer's name on the radio and was trying to remember it. She described him as an older Italian man who was blind with a great voice, and was quite the rage among opera lovers. Little Sister screwed up her eyes real hard and said -- this is a direct quote, I swear it --

"Oh, wait a second ... is it George Foreman?"

It should be obvious that I'm on a NIN binge at the moment. On a whim, I downloaded "Perfect Drug" and have been playing it nonstop ever since. Not a NIN fan myself (that whole "f*** you like an animal, closer to God" thing makes me spit blood) but this song is truly one of the greats.

Fluffy will have nothing to do with him -- he keeps blubbering something about how much of a nerd Trent is, and I think something along the lines of him naming himself after an air conditioning company...? I don't care if the guy is the worst parts of Thresh and Urkel combined (how that show could stay on the air for SEVEN YEARS, man will never know), this music is just plain good and I don't care what kind of nerd / punk / rebel image it gives me.

Incidentally, my apologies about the ending to yesterday's update. To tell you the truth, I had written myself into a corner and didn't feel like starting over, so I slapped something on there to end it and then washed my hands of the matter. I had intended things to be a little more humorous, but it spun out of control and soon I had something along the lines of Edgar Allen Godfrey, as Lobotomy Boy pointed out on the board. I'll try to keep things a little brighter from now on, mostly because light stuff is easier and more fun to do.

That said, on with the show ...

Here's a little email I dropped to Cail yesterday:

Dear Cail,

I was wondering if you could make the following changes to the Action Quake2 code for me? They would be greatly appreciated.

1. Could you reduce the bandage time from 6 seconds to 5.5? That extra half second makes all the difference in the world, as it is inevitable that I die just as my gun is coming up.
2. Take out the combat vest. I never get it, and my aim is magically drawn to the chest area of anyone who wears it.
3. Speaking of which, could you include a "Charlie Brown" player model in the next release? It would make head shots a lot easier. (Gooseman needs something to do.)
4. Put in a "luck reduction factor" so that if a person feels they died merely out of bad luck / lag / stray pistol shot / stray grenade they can hit a key bound to "luck" or other similar command which would not give their opponent a frag for their death. For instance, someone with akimbo pistols getting two head shots with one click of the mouse. We all know this is impossible. Be a sweetie and change this one?

Thanks a million, and I love the mod.

Moriarty

Knowing my preeminent ability to pinpoint problems in mods such as TF, expect to see the above changes in the next version.

Speaking of next versions (as Blue puts it, I love a segue), I am sick and bloody tired of waiting for the next version of QW. How long has QW 2.29 been beta for? A month? After playing TF 2.9 beta I can't touch 2.81 just because there are so many improvements over the old version that it's frustrating going back to what seems to be another mod entirely. The update to Quake2 has been out for some time now and I just don't understand what's taking so long. Perhaps if we had nothing more than explanation, the wait would be easier to bear (no pun intended).

Whoops, this just in! Quake2 3.18 beta is out! Forget actually fixing the botch job on QW, let's stick it in beta for months on end and fix something that isn't broken instead. I recently received an email from a source not to be named (not an "inside" source, though) and it pretty much summarizes what I think of this situation:

I can only guess that it is either because he sees how it's affecting the TF community, and anything negative to the TF community can only benefit his piece of shit CTF; or it's because he got royally assraped by upper iD reps for his shitty job on the last QW and is being more careful with this one.

Again, not my words, but there it is. My opinion, that is.

On a lighter note, it seems a new movie is slated for release in late fall, entitled How Deadpool2 Got His Groove Back -- starring Don Rickles as Deadpool2 and Woody Harrelson as Belgand, providing a comic contrast we have never quite seen before against the curmudgeonly style of Rickles. Jennifer Love Hewitt plays his fortysomething love interest. I will let you fill in the details, but I will say one thing:

We're talking blockbuster. As Letterman said regarding a rip-off of this script, "this puts young men around the nation back in business! Why didn't they make movies like this when I was 20?!"

That should pack the theaters.

Never in my 40 years of faithful service to various members of high society have I ever come across an employer such as Mr. Moriarty. Where do I begin to describe him? I cannot. He is a man that defies any attempt to put within a category defined by one word or another, or any combination thereof. That sounds strange once I say it, but it is the only way to put the idea into English. The French say it much better -- c'est menteaux pentaîne j'sui parlêz-vous reît poo-poo ... "he is but a contradiction" is all I can do to relate the eloquence of that Gallic phrase.

How do I explain myself? You would not believe me if you did not see it with your own eyes. It is outrageous to watch him when he believes himself unobserved; it is outrageous and perfectly commonplace at the same time. Do I sound crazy? I am not, I assure you. I look in the mirror every morning and see a sane man driven to the brink of mania. What's strange is that I am not sane, but not insane. I am anything, everything, but I'm not insane. Because Mr. Moriarty is everything but sane.

It's that which makes him the most sane man on earth.

Think of him as the popsicle on a china plate; the diamond ring on the Bearded Lady; the Bic pen on a VP's desk, the crystal ball in the ghetto, the wooden teeth in Washington's mouth, the razor on a European woman's armpits. Do you begin to see my meaning? He is the one human being that can sit upside down in an armchair and look perfectly natural as he taps the ashes out of his Woodbine into the ashtray by his ear. He is more terrible than Jupiter in a rage for one minute, but who would know it by the way he purred like a pussycat the next? Can someone be so full of life that they do nothing more than sit and let it flow like wine from the fingers of Bacchus?

Can a seizure become so violent that every muscle in the body contracts to the point that the person might as well be carved of stone?

Yes, I say. It is not strange once you are accustomed to the thought. Take, for instance, how he takes his breakfast. One egg piping hot, the other cold and stiff. One peppered, the other salted. It's just the way he is. I don't object to that sort of thing; I've seen noblemen with stranger quirks than that. One that immediately comes to mind is the Earl of Gloucester, who required all the household's peach pits to be collected at the end of the day, ground up into a fine dust, and then deposited in an urn which was then taken to the English Channel and dumped precisely one thousand meters from shore from a ferryboat owned by a man thirty years or younger. It is not my job to ask questions; it is my job to cater to whims. That's what makes them "sir" and me "Godfrey".

So when Mr. Moriarty asked that I make an update for him so he could get more sleep (he's working towards 20 hours a day), there was nothing I could do about it. Rather, there was nothing I could directly do to refuse him. Updating the master's webpage is not in the job description; doing what he tells me is. Fortunately, he left me no guidelines or restrictions. To think that he trusts me ... after all that misery he has put me through!

It is time for the world to know the truth. You remember what I said about him being the most sane man on earth? If you knew him, you would know that it was the reason why I hate him so much. The man gives me a tic that makes Chief Inspector Dreyfuss' look like a cochleal hair. Yes, that's perfect -- Closeau and Dreyfuss is the perfect analogy. Mr. Moriarty is unaware of his own maddening sanity, just as that bumbling detective is utterly in the dark about his own ineptness. One drove a man insane to the laughter of millions; the other drove me insane to the laughter of tens, merely for the sake of a gag that even he, the perpetrator, was unaware of.

But this is not where I want to go with this. I have been given the chance to scream at the top of my lungs from the bell tower that MORIARTY is THE HARDEST MAN TO WORK FOR IN THE HISTORY OF MEN WHO HIRE BUTLERS! Ordinary servants do things like set the table, cook dinner, prepare the spare bedrooms for guests, and make sure there's no lint on his coat as he leaves to go shooting ptame ptarmigans with his lazy rich friends; I gut platypi, saw stacks of drywall into tiny chunks for easier digestion, clean earplugs, blow kisses at Janice, and carry a supply of Burger King straws in my LEFT breast pocket lest he get the urge to blow the paper wrapper off the straw at passers-by. If I ask why something must be done, he gives me a smartass answer like, "because that squirrel is looking at me sideways" or "questions are for stupid people". But he is Mr. Moriarty! What else would he do?

You go to work or school each day and mingle with somewhat normal people. I am in constant company with him. Why can he have the respect of the gentlemen and the admiration of the ladies, but the fervent loathing of the one person who should be his closest friend and confident? Should we not be as Wooster and Jeeves? It is a puzzle for the ages. In the meantime, I sit here like a whipped dog and do as I'm told like Jo-jo the idiot circus boy with a pretty new pet.

It has gotten to the point where it is threatening my physical health. I find it hard to eat. I pull tufts of hair out on a regular basis -- something hard to bear for a man with a full head of hair all his life. I have constant migraine headaches. Janice tells me that my eyes have a lackluster hue to them and that the only explanation is my total and unrelenting renunciation of life and anything good and pure. I scoff at you; you are an instrument of life. Bring me a bowl of raw oats and a plastic cup of tepid water, and I will show you what life is worth at this point. To borrow a comparison, humanity isn't worth a bucket of warm spit.

Now mix that up in your Weight Gain 2000 and chug it.

We have Ralph Fiennes and Pierce Brosnan battling for the title of Imperturbable Stony-faced British Secret Agent of the Year.

I'm not used to this solo updating thing yet, and I don't imagine I ever will be again. I am in the habit of booting up the browser to check and see if the page has been updated by my compatriot, rejoicing when a new installment has been FTP'ed for the world to enjoy, but now I end up sulking disappointedly when I discover that my wretched prose still dominates the topmost section of the page. That is a sorry feeling, indeed.

As noted above, the Library has been updated with two new stories recently posted on Bundy's Place. If you haven't been there since the move, you ought to go check it out, as his HTML skills have noticeably improved and he's stopped rambling on and on about the war, or whatever he used to talk about. Good reading. The new stories posted are:

• The Pact of the Defenders (A Tale of Heroes) by Saxon
• The Concussion by Bundy

Two top-notch stories, I highly recommend you check them out along with the related links. For those of you who haven't read any of the Library -- there are some excellent stories in there. I personally reccomend the series done by Opiate (seems so long ago). This won a TF Fiction contest over at ETF a long time ago, it is definitely worth your time. As a matter of fact, I believe it is the only series ever completed ... no, I'm sorry, it was just one long story and I divided it up into chapters. So that means no one has ever completed a series, unless you count Lone Ranger, 'cuz he's done three or four or something. Good reading, all of it, I promise.

For those of you in 800x600 with b0rked browsers (I refer to Billings in particular), there should no longer be a scrollbar on the left frame as I have removed the links section. There is no point in leaving that up anyway, other than to keep this castle motif going, and that was in its death throes long ago. To hell with it.

Nothing going on much lately, other than a lot of Action Quake2. I'm afraid the trend of an empty TF 2.9 test server will continue until Zoid releases the next version of QuakeWorld, and we've got to do something until then, right? Might as well make the most of it, and AQ is definitely the way to go. I am very much impressed with the latest version, though some of the new maps are downright horrible. I don't like what they did with mall2. This mod is most successful with small numbers of players, so I'm not totally clear why mapmakers are cranking out what seem to be 32+ player maps. Hostage had been my favorite map for a while, but Coventry has taken over the spot (as long as there's less than 10 players).

Have any of you noticed the disturbing trend in AQ maps of rows and rows of very bad block toilets included in almost every map? What is it about restrooms and AQ? Is it everyone's fantasy to sneak up on a guy laying some cable and punch some holes in his chest via a .45 caliber pistol? And couldn't they do a better job of fashioning them instead of filling a box with water, sticking it on the side of big tall box and putting it in a stall? In real life, I would personally stay away from bathrooms as much as possible. The possibility of slipping on a urine-covered tile floor and landing face down in a pile of used lolly rags that a little kid managed to drop on the floor instead of in the bowl would keep me far away, no matter how many M4s were inside.

Another thing that bothers me is servers that are running fraglimits set on 30 or even 20. With the new scoring system, 30 frags is a pittance and in my experience games last about 5 minutes or less when a LPB player gets on and starts wiping up (which is all too common, since AQ is very attractive to LPBs. Above a 300-350ms ping, AQ is 99% luck). We end up racing through the map rotations without any chance of actually getting the hang of the level.

If you ask me, the new scoring system is a bunch of baloney.

Geez, three paragraphs on Action Quake! It's just a topic that I find engrossing at this point. Not a funny update today, sorry, just the literary equivalent of a hearty bowl of Fruit & Fiber ... filler ... roughage ... clear your gut ... I'll get creative next time.

'Twas with heavy hearts that we commenced the surprise going away party for Fluffy here at the Citadel offices last night. After quaffing several rounds of hearty brown ale in honor of our fair flocculent friend, we sat down to a top-notch catered dinner for the guests, and coffee, salami, and skittles for Fluffy (hey, that's all he eats, OK?). I spared no expense to see our compadre off for the last time. It was a great bash, Fluffy was the life of the party (as he usually is) and regaled us all with tales of the majestic migrations as well as how the hell he started talking like a bloody nerd. It was really incredible, he had about forty women petting him at once. How he does it, we'll never know.

I would like to say that Fluffy did a great job in his short stint as a comedic "intern" of sorts, often outshining the creator of the page who's supposed to be good at this. The ETF "n" update has been preserved in the annals of history as the most creative and amusing conglomeration of letters of the alphabet ever to grace The Citadel. Though I knew Fluffy for only a short time, I had appreciated his material long before, dating back to late '97 when I caught his quote in the Who's Who (back when you could browse through it in about 15 minutes) and posted it on my then quite ordinary engineering page. Later on, I caught glances of his detailing the Fluffae way of life on the BH and >X< discussion boards. As you know, when Mythias took his leave, I needed someone to take his place, and Fluffy was the answer that popped into mind (only because Dickens was dead and David Letterman wasn't willing to quit his show just yet).

So it began ... and so it ends. It was quite a ride, wasn't it folks? Yes, quite a ride. I enjoyed every minute of it -- except of course when he'd upstage me. Us criminal masterminds have very fragile egos, you know. That's how the good guy always lures us into a fistfight even though I could've put a guard on him so he couldn't escape from the eel-filled pool or other such slow and painful scheme to slyly kill the hero (a la Austin Powers). See, there I go again! This is supposed to be a tribute to a friend and all I can do is talk about myself. 'Course, that's all I ever did here anyway, wasn't it?

To continue on the selfish theme, it's going to be tough here all by myself now. I originally had a very tough time with the decision to bring on another person to help with updates, but knowing what I know now I would not have hesitated a second. On the other hand, I feel as if attempting to revive what we had here would be fouling the waters of the Euphrates, so to speak -- it just can't happen, and it never would. A yearning for what once was has already taken hold here. What once was and never shall be again ...

In short, Fluffy, I give you my sincere well-wishes for a successful life, hopefully involving a lot of humor, because it would be a tremendous waste to see your efforts expended on some pedantic programming job -- that is, unless that's really what you want to do. Do the world a favor and get a pedantic writing job. Get a column in the Wall Street Journal or the New Yorker. Write some books. Don't make us suffer.

It has been a priveledge working with you.

If you're famous one day, expect a phone call from an old friend asking to borrow money to finance a fly-by-night insurance scam, or something equally pathetic. So long, friend, and may the Schwartz be with you ...

Please check out ETF for an excellent tribute to Fluffy.

Friends, by the time you read this, I will be dead.

Ha ha, no, not really. I just wanted to get your attention, before you skipped ahead to the message board without stopping to read this little pastiche of mine, betraying yourself for what you are: little more than an animal. Normally, of course, I could care less what the hell you people do - read this, don't read this, dance around pantsless with a pet lemur, whatever, but today ... Chester, today is different. "But Fluffy," I hear you say, "You know me: I'm as lazy as a panda with barely enough energy to avoid wetting myself. How do you expect me to read all those long words? And what the hell does pastiche mean??" Look, pal - all I ask is that you pay attention just this once. Then you can go back to your constant loafing.

Now, none of this will come as a surprise to those among you who are regular viewers of the Nature Channel, because this was covered in a National Geographic Special sometime last month, but for those of you who could not watch due to overweening drunkenness or incarceration, I'll provide a brief synopsis of the relevant points:

The end of August brings on one of Natures most splendid, and at the same time, most confusing, spectacles: the semi-annual migration of the Fluff. Fluffae Americanis, a cuddly yet fierce creature composed almost entirely of what appears to be dryer lint and felt, at the end of every August feels the instinctual need to move north toward his gloomy, rainy wintering grounds along the northern reaches of Pacific Coastal North America. While the distances covered are indeed great, sometimes over 1400 miles, the Fluff is compelled to begin the migration by instincts as old as the hills themselves. Renting U-Hauls to carry all their stuff is, of course, a somewhat modern adaptation to their surroundings, but this simply shows that the Fluffae are adaptable creatures, occasionally showing almost simian intelligence. Although how they drive those things is beyond the capability of science to explain, for they are not only completely lacking opposable thumbs, they seem to have no appendages. The lure of the far North is irresistible to the Fluff, and soon the coastal highways of California, Oregon & Washington are solid strips of rippling fur, impassable to normal traffic due to migrating Fluffae. As they arrive in their traditional wintering grounds, Vancouver, BC, Canada, the city echoes with the Fluff mating call: "CHUP-CHUP-CHUP-WEEEE!!"

Ahem. Then it goes on to include a feature (in very poor taste, I might add), about our mating habits. Frankly, this is none of your damn business, and it's also not all that exiting. Fluffae foreplay, for instance, consists entirely of making sure your chosen partner is actually of the opposite gender. It's hard to tell under all that fur.

This will, in all likelihood, be my last update to the Citadel. I am leaving for graduate school on the 21st of August, and I do not expect to have the time to continue updating in even the fitful fashion befitting a Fluff [editor's note: sorry about that]. So the time has come to say "buh-bye". My brief tour here at the Citadel has been delightful - never before have I actually been encouraged to act this goofy, nor was I ever more glad of an appreciative, although admittedly somewhat .. um .. 'odd', audience. It sounds trite, I'm sure, but it's you idiots that made this little hobby of mine worthwhile, even if you do keep filling my mailbox with 101 recipes for human remains. Since this is most likely the last time I ever get a chance to speak my fill in a reasonably public place, let me just say just one thing without joking: I love the TF community. From the first day I played TF (Hedge!!) to today, my enthusiasm for the game and for the people involved in playing the game has only grown. Over at X, we're just finishing hosting the SwampThing tourney, and the feelings of camaraderie and mutual respect generated in those matches for both my clannies and for those we battled so hard against are just amazing. I feel privileged that y'all think enough of me to actually read the stuff I write, and I'm sure I'll see ya around when I get back online. I leave you with this.

Well, I found this on sCary's under Monday's weekly section. Read the following:

Percentage Frames

This is kinda web dude specefic, but why in the HELL would you use a % to set your frame width other than 50/50? Generally it's the guy who runs in 1024x768 and just doesnt realize the entire web world doesnt revolve around his desktop. I hate you, and your web page sucks.

Now, if that doesn't explain me perfectly, I don't know what does. Of course I'd have to have a serious paranoia problem to think he was referring specifically to ME (so what if he is?) but I made the changes anyway because those stupid scrollbars have been bugging me for all eternity. Only yesterday did I figure out how to specify absolute frame sizes within my editor. Oi vey ...

I'm just looking at that part I just quoted and I realized how much I hate Times New Roman. It's pretty hard on the eyes. I've got to get a new font here pretty soon. Not anything you'll have to download, just one that came with Windows and is a little more graceful.

And now I'm looking at what I wrote just below that part I quoted and I seem excessively nonchalant about it, don't I? The truth is I hate it when I hear nasty criticisms of the page (or, in this case, potential nasty criticisms) and I usually fix the problem after filling the mouth of the messenger with small white pebbles and then pretending to punch him in the mouth. I enjoy watching the little white pebbles go flying like so many teeth. Yes, that stuff bothers me (harsh criticisms). How about I write sCary up a big nasty mail, saying over and over again that "I know you were talking about me" and "how dare you write nasty things that are obviously directed at my page without coming out and saying it, you big coward!" That would be a bit of respite from this endless monotony of IRC and Action Quake.

Speaking of which, be sure to keep checking the Action Quake homepage since the next version of this excellent Quake2 mod will be coming out (for sure) by this weekend. If you've been following the development of this new version you'll know that this long-awaited update will truly put the mod over the top as the most revered of all, at least in my book. I can't recall everything off the top of my head but I do know that there is a new player model, new dual pistol models, new handcannon model, more maps, more special items, more weapons tweaks (to the handcannon, MK-15, pistol, and sniper rifle), more weapons (?), and a whole bunch more. I'm still enjoying myself playing this bug-ridden and oversimplified version, so I can't wait until this new stuff is released.

Speaking of releases, anyone have any idea why Zoid is taking so long with QW 2.3? I'm tired of seeing the test server empty, and I don't want to play anything before TF 2.9 beta. Woe is me.

Lately Billings has been challenging me while in #etf to a "write-off" of sorts. He wagers that he can write more than me in half an hour. Should I take him up on this challenge? Is he nothing more than a cocky upstart trying to unseat the (to this point) undisputed king of mass HTML production? Or is he destined to take my place? I hope this doesn't start a trend of challenges at the title holder to put the WWF to shame. If nothing else, I might just have to blow the dust off my antediluvian, gold-trimmed volume of "1001 Strange and Unusual Things to Talk About" by Don Ameche.

[ Whispers are traded among members of the crowd ... "So THAT'S how he does it!" ]

No, you've got it wrong. I haven't used it yet. It's only to be used as a last resort! The crippled old man who wore a black cloak and talked in a hoarse cackle told me so, lest all my worldly possessions turn into cloves of garlic! I swear it!

To be honest, I don't think I would win such a contest. I may type a lot of stuff, but it takes me a while. I go through and type things slowly and carefully the first time, and think I finished it; when I upload it and read it again, there's something that bothers me so I go back and change a word here, put in some punctuation there, make it italic instead of caps over here. I agonize over little things, so I'm sure the quality of whatever I write would drop very much if I wasn't careful with what I was doing. Then again, if it's quantity we're shooting for, it wouldn't be a problem. Most likely you wouldn't want to read it anyhow.

I'll let you go now (I laughed very hard when Guido remarked after reading my last update, "Thank God you ended it when you did, I had a Bowie knife poised over my wrist"). Hopefully Fluffy will be around later this week -- I'm not totally sure why he isn't here now -- maybe a cat has him hiding under someone's desk or something. Makes you wonder how the little guy makes it to work every day ... hell, makes you wonder how he can type on a keyboard three times his size. "Life will find a way", to quote that attractively nerdy chap in Jurrasic Park. That's my image of most of the online world -- black leather jacket, dark sunglasses, all black clothes, and rattling off HTML 3.0 specs and TF aliases to their real life friends. Too bad we don't have an equivalent to that little water droplet trick. While Wonder-woman was impressed by that guy, you should see how people's faces drop when I mention my webpage (or anything else I do online, for that matter). No other topic in the world can cause boredom more quickly than a computer-literate person bringing up internet topics to a house painter living on $10.00 an hour. To tell you the truth, even those acquainted with computers are distasteful of hearing about my page. They just don't know what they're missing, do they? Quake makes my world go round. If you don't like it, well, don't expect me to listen with rapt attention to your drinking stories!

Honest, I'm out of here. Now I have to think of a catchy, 30-character headline for PlanetFortress ... that's the worst part.

This evening was interesting indeed. Inspired by Fluffy's hilarious and endearing antics (he's just so cute!) among the various office buildings contained within the Planetfortress complex, I decided to take a sightseeing excursion of my own in order to glean whatever dirt on my compadres I could, and "play them up for big laffs" as my esteemed colleague would say.

This innocent blackmail hunt spiraled out of control into a mother lode of mudslinging ammunition beyond my wildest dreams.

Unfortunately, I can't tell you any of it, because then I can't collect on my threats to expose them all. Perhaps if you do me a favor and email, oh, let's say the staff of CF TF telling them to cooperate with the bad man (just because it's in my best interests doesn't mean it can't be in theirs!), I would be much obliged. Mori needs to eat, you know!

You may conveniently dis-remember the fact that I blow an ungodly amount of money on music. At this moment I am listening to my brand new "Recently" CD by Dave Matthews. For any DMB fans out there, this CD is a must have. It is live versions of Dancing, Halloween (the best version of this, ever), Watchtower, Warehouse, and one other I don't know the name of but still is pretty good. Snatch this up for $10 or less at Best Buy.

Sorry, don't mean to pull a Billings (just substitute "Foo Fighters" for "DMB" and some different names for the songs) but this CD is definitely worth it.

Why did I just apologize? The fact that this page is one big digression from TF in general has been bothering me for some time. Time to expunge all these negative feelings in a leviathan exegesis on whatever is causing my brain farts.

Does the lack of TF-related material signify a lack of interest in TF itself? No, not at all. I think I am one of the few people around that still enjoy TF on public servers. One public server in particular, actually. I think the departure from all things Quake was merely the result of the desire to keep this page alive and running. For that reason I am glad that I do not run a news page; look at the lengths Deadpool is going to keep updating. You all know that the absence of TF news was what spawned the Yellow Duck. Foul, putrid spawn of boredom! I exorcise thee in the name of All Things Interesting!

That's not to say the duck is boring. Now he's the life of the party in #etf (just slap him around when conversation slows -- or even when it doesn't, if you don't like where it's going -- and BANG-SPLAT you've got a tangent a stand-up comic would adore). But you've got to admit, a glimpse into Deadpool's mind when he's bored just for the sake of glimpsing is not what I'd call quality entertainment!

However, this is a point which is quite pertinent in the TF community now, so I'll milk it as much as possible to restore some sense of topicality. The way I see it, TF news pages are surviving. They will always survive, because as long as there is a group to report for, they are necessary, or at least visited for the sake of keeping up to date. It is my well-known position that too many news pages is also a waste of time, and newer ones trying to elbow their way in to the scene is nothing more than glory-seekers with little dedication and even less publishing value. That's not to say that they have no right to start a page, but why start up a McGregor's chain when McDonald's already has a hold on the market? Competition is good, but only when you have something to offer over the other guy.

So, if you don't want to start a news page, but still want to update and create a successful page, what's the next step? Most likely a commentary or editorial page. CF TF is an example. The Citadel started out that way. Unfortunately people are going to want to read your thoughts on any given conflict or debate within the community for so long, and then it's an apathetic goodbye and a scoot back to The Onion. And then, if you've got a knack for it, you're gonna start cracking jokes. Let's face it, humor is the motivating force behind most [successful] pages out there. Look at ETF. Look at Pointless Audio. Look at PlanetFortress (don't tell me the Geezer Cafe and Hal's bad jokes aren't there for kicks). Hell, look at the Clan Braveheart page! Realistically, how long do you think a guy can keep putting out TF-related humor and keep it interesting? Not long. A good example is A BORED HWGUY. Granted, he stuck with it for a long time (the longest I've ever seen a page of that style last) and did a great job of it, but it was only a matter of time before a) he lost interest, and b) there just wasn't enough to talk about anymore. I haven't been back in a while -- the bookmark got wiped in my last browser install -- but I'm pretty sure he just stopped updating.

Next paragraph will wrap it up, I promise.

The natural thing to do is branch out into whatever interests may captivate the author, and hope that there are people out there that share them. In my case, it's lots and lots of words. It's not a topic that attracts a goodly amount of people, but I consider this page a success in that I am still having fun with it and there are people out there that like it. Mostly, though, that I have established a niche in the world and stayed fairly unique in the process. That's what it's all about, and if that means leaving my original intentions behind for the sake of my own satisfaction and entertainment, then so be it.

Readers liking it is just a perk.

WOOHOO! YEAH, BABY, YEAH! YEAHYEHAYEHAYEHEYAHEYHAEYHAEYAHEYAEHYAEHAE SEJFA;FJA;WOEIJAWEOIFJ WAEFJ AWEFJA;S DJFA SIJAWE A WEF A;WEOIFJ ;WAOEIFJAWEOIFJA W;OEFIJAW;EFO AW;EOIF JAWOEI FJA;WOE FAJ;WEOIFJ A;WOEIFJOEW F JWOEIFJAWOIEJ! !!!~!!!!!!!!!!!~ !!!! !!!!~! !!!!!!!!~!!!!!!!!!!! ~!!!!!!!!! !!~!!!!! !!!!!!

WHOMP DEWD JA JA JA J AJA JAJJAJJAJAJJSDOFAOFIEJFE~!~~!!~!

LONG LIVE ME!!!!

It's 1 a.m., I'm back, and there's no way in hell I'm ever going to sleep again ...

An old Red Meat cartoon title. Classic.

Why is it the day after I slam Keeg for letting his site go the way of the dodo (without involving, of course, the rats and dogs and evil white man), he sports a brand new site design and a new lease on life? I'll comfort myself by saying (between sobs) that he did it because of my scathing comments. And come to think of it, Keeg still got more traffic than I, even while the site went through that horrible drought. Notice how our counter has been fixed, but it is my firm belief that it is no longer properly registering hits. That, and my ISP is doing a piss-poor job of responding to my manifold complaints regarding their customer support, and I refuse to take advantage of their poorly maintained services.

* Depression sets in *

[ In the above linked story, the names were changed to protect the innocent. That's not my picture, either. ]

Forgive me if I'm not myself today. Tonight is the beginning of the end of the beginning. My life will take one of two paths tonight; each exclusive, each irrevocable. I can't help feeling as if I've already chosen one, plodding along unknowingly with the feeling that the decision is not for some time yet. Will I become an impossible fool, subject to derision and wisecracks by my peers, or the suave and admirable item I'm planning to be? As much as the former disgusts me, I can't do anything but be drawn slowly, inexplicably, and entirely against my will into its gaping maw. I'm helpless. I'm a mere pawn in the chess game of the gods. I am the cannon fodder thrown into the line of fire by a grizzled, grey-haired general on the other side of the world, on the off chance that my body will stop enough bullets to allow those behind me to complete the objective. What a horrible feeling.

It's my first time bellowing such rhetoric on this page. You should try it sometime, it's quite refreshing. Plus, Boggs hasn't been around lately, so I figure the rest of you might need a hefty dose to make up for it.

So if I really am nothing more than I see myself to be, what's the point of grieving over my troubles? Am I not nothing more than a dandelion sucked up into the spinning blades of the Toro? It happens thousands of times, bound to be repeated every day for thousands of years until science finds a way to keep the dandelions from never growing in the first place. "Existence is meaningless, don't sweat it."

What's more is, I am alone in this. I don't dare to speak to another soul tête-à-tête -- I am forced to spill my guts to a face I've never seen and a voice I've hardly heard because speaking with someone I know would mean instant death. Not that that discussion didn't help, but it made everything seem so artificial. Of course, this is all presuming things go bad. But why should I expect otherwise? It's the story of my life.

Do I sound bitter? I'm not. Just ... tired. Life, at this point, is truly a burden. Do I sound suicidal? I'm not. Just ... not ready to laugh at what I normally brush off with a chuckle and shrug. And I can't make merry here when it's not what I'm doing back home.

What to do? Cervantes once said, "Sleep is the best cure for waking troubles." Sounds good to me.

* Moriarty tosses back a bottle of Dimetapp and passes the hours to his doom in blissful, dreamless sleep *

[ / melodrama ]

Sorry, folks, just had to get that off my chest. Don't write concerned letters (come on, I know you wouldn't anyway, but work with me here). A little wishful thinking on my part, is all. Just because everybody once had to deal with this, and survived it, doesn't mean that it would be against the rules to grant me asylum in the strictest sense of the word ...

[Fluffy] Well, I suppose my legions of adoring fans have been wondering where the hell I've been. Here's the scoop: as you'll recall, during a particularly enjoyable romp with all that bubble-wrap stuff that was laying around after the big move to our palatial new digs here at PlanetFortress, I got some tape stuck on the bottom of my paws. As you can imagine, this is really annoying since, being somewhat lacking in the opposable thumb department, I am unable to remove it. So there I was, thrashing about trying to remove it when, *boom*, I fall down a ventilation duct that had been left open. To me, this is a clear indication of shoddy workmanship on the part of the PlanetFortress construction workers, but being of a charitable nature, I am inclined to forgive them this oversight due to the only-slightly-stale liverwurst sandwiches one of the workmen left inside the duct. Yummy. After sucessfully fending off our otherwise excellent butler Godfreys half-assed attempts at rescue (note to future rescuers-to-be: poking a broom at me does not constitute a valid rescue attempt), I managed to remove the adhesive from my paws. Here, friends, is where the adventure starts. Fortified by liverwurst, I decided that since I was already deep inside the ventilation system, that I may as well poke around some and see what was going on behind the scenes at some of the PlanetFortress news sites. Unfortunately, I did not have the foresight to fall into the duct with a camera, or I'd have some pretty juicy blackmail material (not to mention a picture of The Yellow Duck over at ETF stepping out of the shower, which I'm convinced I could make a fortune off of selling copies to all the Quake babes out there. Take it from me, ladies - he's one hunky Duck). So, without further ado, here's what I found out:

• ETF- Since ETF is just right next door, I figured I'd pop in on them first. My first impression was "Wow ... their offices are HUGE!" But I guess with all those staffers, you need all that space. I guess SailorScout musta been the only one there (it was Sunday), cuz the soundtrack to Appleseed was blaring out of his office. Frankly, I don't see how they put up with that kinda crap. I mean, when I'm watching RoboTech reruns and Minmei starts singing, I just have to leave the room. Anyway, most of the office space seemed to be vacant, except for a few of Norway's finest keeping SirLiam's office under surveillance and the PlanetFortress janitors replacing the paper in Duck's office.
• The Grassy Knoll- Kinda scary. Cableless was just sitting in there, muttering to himself & oiling his rifle & cleaning his scope. A little spooky, if ya ask me. I moved on quickly, lest I become a target.
• Someone's Fortress- Like I said, it was the weekend & all, so Someone himself wasn't there. However, there was all this music pouring out of the place so I had to go check it out. Turns out that the place is a Gay Scout bar on weekends! Who knew?? I gotta say, tho, them Gay Scouts really know how to party - the music was boomin' and the mirrored disco ball was tres retro. I woulda hopped out & had a drink if I hadn't heard weird stuff about gay guys & small rodents.
• CFTF- Really all I got to say about this site is that they shoulda sent Duke's ass to a decent taxidermist. That thing is really starting to stink up the place. Plus, the flies are terrible. Phew.
• Geezer Cafe- Ack - speaking of weird smells: the overpowering scent of Ben-Gay just floods this place. I actually found this place by accident - as I was roaming the ducts, I fell through a weak section & landed not too far from Hal & Bundy, who were either deep in thought (not very likely), asleep (much more likely), or dead (how would we tell?). So I just swiped the blintz from Hal's plate & was on my way.
• The Resupply Station- Walking back to what Moriarty (pronounced Uhm-or-tar-tee) likes to call my 'office' (it's just a little hutch out in the Citadel backyard, the cheap bastard), I stopped by this one. Turns out Mag was at work, but unfortunately all he wanted to talk about was Janice, our secretary ... he says he's convinced she's like Moneypenny in those James Bond movies, and is trying to blow her cover, but I think we all know he's just tryin' to get a date.

Well, that's about it for my behind-the-scenes look at the PF news sites. I hope it enriched your day & provided you a brief glimpse into the glamourous world of TF news!

Just a few things before we get under way:

• Many thanks to those who took the time to write in with their comments on the interview with Robin; there are too many to respond to but I still would like you all to know that each of them were greatly appreciated. I almost went bonkers Thursday night, trying to get packed, making sure the Planetfortress move would go smoothly, and putting the finishing touches on the interview; I'm glad to hear you all enjoyed it.
• If anyone's interested in making a banner for my site to be thrust into the Planetquake ad banner rotation, please contact me and I will reward you with a full complement of hardback Dostoyevsky novels and a big pile of Nazi gold.
• If you're wondering why Matt gets so many quotes on this page ... it's because he's funny. And he can twist a conversation topic around like you wouldn't believe. He leads, and I follow. I pick the bones of whatever subject he devours and leaves behind. Usually, conversations end with me saying, "That one's going up on the page!"
• My email address until the end of time will be [email protected]. Please do not use [email protected] as it is wholly unreliable, along with the counter. I'm afraid it's done for.
• You have no idea how incredibly lazy I am. When trying to load up the Planetfortress main page through the bookmark file, I discovered I hadn't created one yet. Instead of typing in "www.planetfortress.com" and been done with it, I clicked on the TF Newswire bookmark instead, thinking they would have a redirect page up so I could save myself so many keystrokes. Much to my frustration, there was no such redirect page, and my monitor exploded after carooming off the file cabinet and colliding with my desk lamp. It's one hefty desk lamp.
• Make sure your seat is in the full and upright locked position, 'cuz the captain says he got drunk with a pair of Canadian "mounties" last night, if you know what I mean, and will be retching all over the cockpit in a peptic ebullition of a magnitude hitherto approached only by Linda Blair.

Thank you for your attention, now on with the show.

I would first like to congratulate Boggs on his third successive week of totally uninteresting updates. Uh, like I go to the GT homepage to read stuff about GT? Faugh! I'd give the hair off my left armpit to see Boggs' Co-dependent's Quake Related Relationship FAQ v2.0 before I leave. Perhaps if we send him some questions ...?

I also suggest you stop by irc.3dnet.net #etf for some good times. I believe you can also log on through irc.planetquake.com and stomped.3dnet.net if irc.3dnet is not working so hot for you -- as Fluffy seemed to experience earlier today. A more eclectic mix of outcasts, misfits, comedians, barbarians, dwarves, Yellow Ducks (yes there is usually more than one Duck), elephant men, buffalo gals, and rocket scientists you cannot find elswhere on the net. Plus, I created the ASCII colored duck that gets spammed every once in a while. It's so lame, you just have to see it.

Whoa! Would ya look at that! Right over his head! Pay attention, kid, you're missin' the fast ones ...

While they're whipping past you like flies en route to the rotting corpse of Belgand's latest rape victim, I'll drop another little bombshell on you. I had a chance encounter with what I see to be the origins of the phenomenon we know as Phat Dragon. While later sections of this page degrade into simple random keystrokes, the first thing you see when loading the page is, "U? Watisdis?? HUARYU?? Watmiduen ona dis pag? I NO LIKA DIS!!" I saw it as unmistakeable evidence (in addition to a phrase in the bottom section of this page) that the Richie Bear bears (zoom!) striking resemblance to an immature PhD, perhaps in the larval or pupal stages. It seems as if the dialog had not progressed to the early human adolescent subject matter which characterizes a fully grown Dragon. Obviously the scientific value of the Richie Bear is unparalleled. NSA agents will be moving in shortly to quarantine the Richie Bear Site for further study, so get over there quick before it's too late. Thanks to the guys at the Action Quake page for letting us in on this.

Incidentally, I think I'll go back through the archives and pull up that analysis of the name "Fat Dragon" I did so long ago. Actually, I think it was before I was saving updates -- did any of you happen to save that little gem? I'd love to see it again.

An interesting excerpt I picked up from a little-known newspaper:

There you have it. Wish I could take that guy over my knee.

To wrap things up, how about a cozy little Top Ten List? Yes, that will do nicely.

Top Ten ICQ Status Messages That I just Made Up and Am Going to
Say Have Been Used By The Following TF Players

10. Bundy: "Trying to get that cute little blue-hair toting the IV bag into the sack, leave me a message."
9. Matt: "I was sparring at the gym and accidentally put my arm through some poor guy's chest. I'm at his funeral, I'll get back to you ASAP."
8. Kinlord: "Hit my head on the edge of my desk while trying to jump up and hit the light switch. Getting some stitches."
7. SliM: "Oh joy. Gudlyf just f***ed up the hwguy some more, so you can find me at the 2.9 test server, typing in all caps and handing out bitch sessions to whoever insinuates I'm a melagomaniacal, obsessive-compulsive ass." [no offense SliM, if you're even still around]
6. Deadpool2: "Hi! My cat just peed all over my arm, and I'm lapping it up in paroxysms of delight. Be with you in a second."
5. Fluffy: "I'm not here, but I'd just like to let you know I'm a 29-year-old male with a mental disorder that causes me to think I'm a small woodland creature. At least when I'm off my medication. Still want to talk? I love you."
4. Phat Dragon: "inspecin my but"
3. Spaceman Spif: "Restructuring the entire server configuration of PlanetFortress, as well as rewriting most of the CGI scripts and giving Joost some pointers on his latest article. Please leave a message, I'll get back with you as soon as I finish off this new programming language I'm creating."
2. sCary: "Giving my suck-ass web server a hard-ass ass-beating. My ass keeps sweating all over this wack-ass keyboard, and I've got two hot-ass babes giving each other an ass-kicking over my Greek god ass, so I might be getting back to ya ass soon ass I can."

And the number one ICQ Status Message That I just Made Up and am Going to Say Has Been Used By The Following TF Player IS:

1. Gibkeeg: "Hi, you've reached the Keeg office cubicle at Silicon Graphics, aka The Reason Why My Webpage Deserves To Go The Way of Brimstone.org. Leave me a message at the sound of Cartman screaming the word "dildo."

FINIS

SCENE: A cheap, white Plymouth minivan streaking northward on I-80 approximately one week ago. A dark-skinned, balding, grey-haired man in the driver's seat, knuckles a bright white and gas pedal firmly anchored to the floor. His wife and daughter are in the middle seat doing algebra exercises, and a strikingly debonair young man reclining in the rear seat, humming loudly and out of tune to the swingin' harmonies on his headphones.

MOTHER: ...so, add five to this side of the equation, and then you get --

SON: Hey, anybody got a piece of paper?

MOTHER: Good Lord, boy, could you leave us alone for two minutes at a time so we could get some work done?

SON: Well, I need something to write on. I have this really great idea for my webpage.

MOTHER: A pox on your webpage. Get back to your knitting.

SON: But ma, we've been on the road for days! I've got bedsores from this seat, my sunglasses have deviated my septum, my bladder is distended to six times its normal size, and I'm reduced to licking the red sticky stuff off the armrest (courtesy of the small children of the previous renter) for sustenance! At least let me pass the time by staring glassy-eyed out the car window at mile after unending mile of corn and hayfields, and taking note of every single possibility for ideas to satisfy my readers upon my return, finally tearing the notes up in a fit of critical passion.

DAUGHTER: Why are you such a total and all-encompassing feeb?

SON: Can it, sweetie. While you're in such a good mood why don't you try prying that maniac's hands off the steering wheel, 'cause if I don't get to the little boy's room real quick, this car's gonna smell like Rover finally got his sprinkler attachment installed.

FATHER: NO! MUST KEEP MILEAGE UP! CAN'T SLOW DOWN, I'VE FINALLY FOUND A TRUCKER GOING FAST ENOUGH TO DRAFT FOR ME!

MOTHER: Hush, now. Here's a Tootsie Pop for each of you.

SON: Mmmmm.

So went my vacation. All in all, it was a hectic and stressful break from my otherwise tranquil and relaxing life. At this point I am catching up on everything I missed while I was gone. I was in a time-warp for a week; there is a LOT of stuff that goes on around here and it's quite an undertaking to get back in the loop. However, my ISP account was disconnected while we were out of town, and (I think) all email and counter hits were not received during that time, so the email load was drastically reduced. That would be the only reasonable explanation as to why this site got only 2,000 hits while I was gone. Come on, if Blue gives me the thumbs up, they should've been ROLLING in, right?!

As far as the counter goes, I'm past caring ... kind of thinking about taking it down. Rather embarassing to get only 20 grand in over nine months of service.

Anyway, I'm glad Fluffy didn't let this place fall apart a week into the move. Even managed to squeeze one out of Janice!

PF digs are quite nice, so we ain't moving for a long time. It's nice to be back, and we'll be back to our regularly scheduled lunacy shortly.