A Three-Donut Vacation: XXXV: Diva's Last Stand

Jabbersporky

(Sometimes published with the title Sporkerwocky)

Beware the plastic spork, my av!
The tines so blunt, the scoop that leaks!
Avoid the breaking handle and
Eat with your hands at KFC

(Once again, apologies to Lewis Carroll)

------

Written 14 July, 2008

A Three-Donut Vacation

XXXV: Diva’s Last Stand

When I reached the back of the plane, the bathroom door was bulging ominously. Sweetie was trying to force the lock with the blade of her katana.

“Look out!” I cried. “She has a Copybot in there! It’s gonna blow!” And just then the door did blow out, spilling dozens of Diva Bartletts across the seats and into the aisle. Each was armed with that deadliest of plastic table utensils, a spork.

Sweetie is nothing if not quick of wit. “It’s ImSoNotADiva!” she screamed. “My arch-enemy! Attack her, loyal fans! Attack! Show her no mercy!”

And the melée began.

-----

For ten minutes the tourist compartment was a mass of writhing, seething fans and Divas. The Divas were vicious with their sporks, but the fans were ferocious, improvising weapons from materials at-hand (Whimsy hard hats and rolled up flight magazines, mostly). Sweetie’s blade was everywhere, decapitating Divas by the dozen.

I was knocked to and fro, in mortal combat with a particularly deadly Diva. She had two sporks and wasn’t afraid to use them. I was avoiding the deadly sort-of tines, but she was wearing me down. I had to find some way to outwit her.

Furiously, I rifled through my inventory. Watermelon gun. No. Too messy for this confined space. Falling anvil attachment. No. Too risky. The anvil might strike a bystander. Linden attack bear. Nope. The damn thing had a habit of turning on me.

Ding! I had it! Now if only it were still there!

I found it, tucked way down in inventory in Chey’s Items of Adornment> Jewelry> Silver> Necklaces> Necklaces with No Matching Earrings> Tacky, But Not Too> Blingy> Blingy Beyond Belief. I shut my eyes tight and attached the necklace.

“The light! The light!" screamed Diva. She dropped her sporks and threw her hands to her eyes. This freed me to reach behind me and snag the English throwing scone Sweetie mistakenly autographed in our last thrilling episode. I grabbed it from its owner’s hand and began to slash at Diva’s neck.

“Hey, you be careful with that!” screamed the woman who owned it. “That autograph is valuable! That blood might not wash off!”

The fighting was bitter, but Diva had had time to make only about thirty clones. The odds were with the fanboys, and soon all the Divas, including mine of the double sporks, were dead or subdued.

Just then the teleplane went into a steep dive.

“Sweetie!” I said. “Here we go!”

There was no answer.

Where was my Sweetie? Where could she be? There! Toward the front of the plane! And she was battling furiously with the last remaining ImSoNotADiva Bartlett.

“I’m coming, my love!” I cried, and allowed gravity to carry me downward toward the nose through the now almost vertical compartment.

I had nearly reached them when I saw three chilling lines of Chat.

Terra E-Chute 2.2: Say E HELP for instructions.
Terra E-Chute 2.2: Ready.
Terra E-Chute 2.2: Deployed.

“It’s that damn Camper,” Sweetie gasped. “He deserted. You have to take the wheel.”

“But— Diva!” I cried.

“I can handle Diva,” Sweetie said. “Now go!”

And so I swung my feet over and dropped to the Captain’s chair and grabbed the yoke. The chair said:

Boeing Flight Pilot’s Camping Chair, Deluxe Model: “You will earn five Lindens for every ten minutes you sit in this chair! You have been sitting for 0 minutes. You have earned $0L."

“Keep the nose pointed directly at the wormhole,” gasped Sweetie. “And for god’s sake tweak the textures in that cabin. They’re reprehensible!”

Around me, cups and papers began swirling around the cabin, and I was nearly pulled from my seat. It had suddenly became hard to breathe. We had been depressurized!

Looking over my shoulder, I saw Diva had managed to get the craft’s door open. She and Sweetie were in the opening and in danger of being sucked out of the teleplane. Then, to my horror, a hurtling carry-on huge prim struck Sweetie and knocked her through the doorway.

“Sweetieeeee!” I cried.

But Sweetie had managed to wind her fingers through Diva’s hair. She was dangling, spinning and turning with the wind. Diva was nearly pulled from the plane too, but she managed to spread her arms and legs and brace herself in the doorway.

In mere seconds, I knew, Diva would detach her hair and Sweetie would fall away into nothingness. But before I could even begin to react, Sweetie’s katana flashed and Diva’s head was separated from her body.

The last time I saw my Sweetie, the very last time I saw her, she was falling away from the plane, her katana in one hand and the head of ImSoNotADiva Bartlett in the other. And I swear, I swear to you, she winked at me.

I did the only thing I could. I kept the teleplane headed straight into the wormhole. But while I held the course, I sent Sweetie every last Linden in my possession.

A Three-Donut Vacation: XXXIV. Into the Maelstrom

Written 14 July, 2008

A Three-Donut Vacation

XXXIV: Into the Maelstrom

I was feeling so sorry for myself that I didn’t at first hear the commotion in Tourist. Finally, I came to myself.

“Come out of there!” someone cried.

“Won’t!” said a muffled voice that could only be Diva’s.

I made my way to the back of the telecraft. “What is it?” I asked. “What’s happening?”

“The flight attendant has locked herself in the bathroom,” someone said, “and she won’t come out. And some of us gotta go!”

“You can use the head in First Class,” I said, and there was a minor stampede.

“She’s up to something in there,” Sweetie said. Her ear was to the lavatory door. “I’ll stay here and keep an eye on her. You go tell Captain Camper we won’t be actually landing at Black Swan. He has to take the plane through the wormhole. And let’s pray to the heavens the portal is still there and operational.”

“Wilco,” I said, and hurried forward.

------

“You want me to do WHAT?” said an incredulous Captain Camper.

“I want you to dive the plane straight into that vortex down there,” I said, pointing to the swirling mass of plasma at the center of the Black Swan sim.

“Let me get this straight,” he said. “I’m supposed to risk my virtual life for a measly 60 Lindens an hour?”

“That pretty much sums it up,” I said.

“Hold on a second,” said the captain. “I’m getting a transmission.”

“This is the Black Swan. We have in our infinite wisdom instituted a $200L charge to enter the Black Swan and pay homage to our sculpties. You must remit immediately upon entry or you’ll be hunted down by our killer robots.”

“That’s horrible!” I said. “Charging to enter a sim! And letting ‘bots do the dirty work. Those damnable Rezzables!”

“I don’t see we have a choice,” said Captain Camper. “We’re low on fuel. We’d never make it to another sim.”

“Ordinarily I’d refuse to pay on principle,” I said, “but under the circumstances, I guess you're right; we’ve no choice. At least we have the money. I had 56 Lindens and Sweetie had 48. There are 150 screaming Sweetie fans in back, and they tipped generously. We took in, uh, let’s see, carry the one, 93 Lindens. Ninety-three Lindens! Can that be right? Those cheapskates!”

“That’s $197,” said the captain. “You’re three Lindens short.”

“Will you—“

“I suppose you’re good for it,” he sighed, and paid me three Lindens.

“Tell Black Swan we’ll pay,” I said.

“Uh-oh,” he said.

“Uh-oh what?” I said.

“They’re not talking about $200L for all of us. They want $200L for each avatar. With 187 people on board this telecraft, we’re talking big money.” He scribbled furiously on a scratch pad and then looked up, aghast. “That’s nearly a whole month in this chair!

“I hate to tell you this,” I said, “but it's two months in the chair. You’re not accumulating money nearly as fast as you think you are. Five Lindens every ten minutes isn’t sixty Lindens an hour.”

“It isn’t?”

“No. Do the math.”

He scribbled furiously. “So, uh, darn, gosh, I’m only making thirty Lindens an hour! And all this while I thought I was making sixty!

I shrugged. “Use that pencil and multiply 187 by 200. What does that equal?”

He told me: $L37400.

“Oh my god,” I said. “We don’t have that kind of money!”

A Three-Donut Vacation: XXXIII. Trouble in Tourist

Bad Blogger isn't accepting bold or italic today and isn't allowing me to embed URLs, so here are four I would ordinarly have pasted as links:

(Late note: I fixed it on a revisit!)

High Flight

http://cheyennepal.blogspot.com/2006/12/high-flight.html

Sweetie’s Odyssey

http://cheyennepal.blogspot.com/2007/02/sweetie-odyssey.html

Dakota Goes to Oxford

http://cheyennepal.blogspot.com/2007/04/boyfriend-ii-oxford.html

Harsh Conditions in Dreamland

http://cheyennepal.blogspot.com/2007/01/late-unpleasantness-i-news-breaks.html

-----

Written 14 July, 2008

A Three-Donut Vacation

XXXIII: Trouble in Tourist

Telairlines don’t really have Tourist sections any more, it seems—only First Class and Business—but our telecraft was V. 1.0, and so we were stuck with the old names.

Anyway, Tourist was jam-packed with frenzied Sweetie & Chey fans. They were wearing freebie Whimsy hard hats and t-shirts and drunkenly singing sections of Sweetie’s recaptioned songs from real life. When they saw us, there was a stampede.

“Sign this! Sign this!”

“OMG, I can’t believe it’s really YOU!”

“Will you please take this demo? My name and e-mail address are on it so you can IM me to tell me it’s wonderful and you can make me the big star I know I really am.”

“Could I have another for my, uh, uh, my son? And oh, yeah, my daughters! I have seven of them, all adopted prim babies. Could I have photos for them, too? I promise not to sell them!”

“What in the world is this? It’s sharp!”

“Oh, said Sweetie. “Sorry. That’s an English throwing scone. I guess I signed it by mistake."

Sweetie continued. “It seems we’ve run out of publicity stills. We will, however, be happy to sign your clothing, plaster casts, and PG-rated body parts. Please notice our tip jar in the aisle. We’re grateful for all gratuities, which will be used to beautify Whimsy and bail us out of jail if the worst should come to pass. Please remember also to keep your group membership current. We need the income.”

By regaling the fans with tales of our sims and our second lives, Sweetie and I were able to charm them back to their seats. They sat in thrall as we spoke about flying to 50,000,000 meters, of Sweetie’s abduction (sort of) by the dragon BreathOfG8d Onmura, of having to pack my alt Dakota Burns off to Oxford, of the harsh conditions in Dreamland, where we had made our first home.

Finally I said, “How coincidental it is to hijack by sheer chance a teleplane that happens to be filled with our fans!”

The spokesperson laughed. “It’s not really a coincidence. Every teleplane that leaves the port today will be chock-full with your fans.”

“It’s because of Sweetie-Con,” someone said.

“Sweetie-Con?” I asked.

“Yeah, in fact the SECOND annual Sweetie-Con. It was HUGE! We crashed the sim seven times!

“Uh,” I said, “you mean Sweetie-and-Chey-Con?”

“No,” came the reply. “Just Sweetie-Con. Who’s Chey?”

“Damn it,” I said. “I knew I should have insisted my name go first!”

Someone handed me a program and I scanned it, reading the names of the sessions:

Where Does Sweetie Get Her Shoes, and Why Do They Look So Fabulous?

Whimsy: Sweetie’s Virtual Home

Zaftig Doesn’t Begin to Describe It: Sweetie’s Shape

Sweetie-Talk: Reproducing Sweetie’s Typos in Your Own Chat

Not So Chey: Sweetie’s Fictitious Lover

“Not so Chey?” I roared. “Sweetie’s Fictitious Lover?”

“Uh, yeah,” said a fan. “Sweetie has always been oblique when referencing her girlfriend. Most of us don’t think she’s real. Even virtually. Would you tell us again who you are?”

Stunned, I did an about-face and stumbled back to First Class. I fell heavily into my seat and drained my Cosmopolitan.

Over the loudspeaker, Captain Camper said, “We are now approaching Black Swan.”
And his chair said:

Boeing Flight Pilot’s Camping Chair, Deluxe Model: “You have just earned five Lindens for sitting in this chair for ten minutes. You have earned a total of 5018 Lindens.”

And the troubles began in the Tourist section.

A Three-Donut Vacation: XXXII. The Sweetie and Chey Fan Club

The Whimsy Hard Hat is a Rare and Valuable Collectible.

This One Recently Sold at the In-World Sotheby’s for $135,000L

Written 12-14 July, 2008

A Three-Donut Vacation

XXXII: The Sweetie and Chey Fan Club

“You there,” said Sweetie. “In the cockpit. There’s been a change of plans.”

The captain turned in his chair and peered through the open cockpit door. “Sweetie?” he said. “Cheyenne? SWEETIE! CHEYENNE!”

“Judge Camper!” we cried.

“That’s Captain Camper to you,” he said proudly.

It was our old friend, the chair-camping judge from the trial Sweetie vs. The United States of America!

“You’re a pilot now!”

He puffed up his chest. “I took the 178 Lindens I made for sitting in that judge chair during your trial and bought a blue uniform with lots of brass buttons,” he said. “Then I just hung out at the regional teleport hub until someone got finally got up from a flight captain’s camping chair, and here I am!”

“You’re CAMPING?” I asked incredulously. “Right Now?”

“Sure, but the rate! I’m making five Lindens every ten minutes! That’s sixty Lindens an hour. SIXTY LINDENS AN HOUR! Say,” he said, “I’d better not be talking to you gals. It seems some meanies have hijacked this plane and are demanding they be landed some place called Whimsy.”

“That would be us,” I said, “and our plans have changed. We’re not going to Whimsy any more.”

“Okay, then,” said Captain Camper cheerfully. “Where to?”

And his chair said:

Boeing Flight Pilot’s Camping Chair, Deluxe Model: “You have just earned five Lindens for sitting in this chair for ten minutes. You have earned a total of 5012 Lindens.”

-----

“This is your captain speaking. We’re now passing over Paris 1900. If you look to your left, you’ll see one of the many virtual Eiffel Towers in Second Life.

“Folks, you’ll notice we’re making a turn to the left as we pass the tower. That’s because we’re coming to a new heading. It seems our hijackers will be diverting us to a Second Life landmark sim, the infamous Black Swan. This will add perhaps 30 minutes to our teleport time, which means 15 lindens earned for me in this captain’s chair, woo hoo!. To make up for the inconvenience, the flight attendant will be handing out double donuts today. Enjoy.”

Diva gave him a dirty look, then dutifully pushed a stainless steel cart into the passenger section. Seconds later she returned in a run amidst a hail of donuts.

“Captain,” she said, “Steerage is revolving! I, uh, mean the passengers in Tourist are rioting!”

A thin, nervous-looking man wandered out of the Tourist section. “I’ve been elected spokesperson,” he said. “We were promised peanuts. We want peanuts. There are some very unhappy people back there, and there’s going to be trouble if they don’t get their peanuts.”

“Attendant, do we have any peanuts on board?” asked the Captain.

“Yes sir. We keep them for cases of donut allergy, but there aren’t nearly enough to go around.”

“Distribute them. And look on SL Exchange for some sort of free, copyable non-pastry snack.”

She looked away for a second. “Uh, all I could find were some Lucky Charms,” she said. “I ordered them. and I already have a blue box telling me they’re here.”

“They’ll have to do,” said the Captain.

“Mmmm, Lucky Charms!” I said.

“They are,” said Sweetie, “magically delicious. Like me!”

Diva gave her a dirty look, then went back to pass out the cereal.

I said, “Did you notice that guy was wearing a Whimsy hard hat?”

“I did,” said Sweetie. “and a Sweetie & Chey t-shirt.”

“What a nice coincidence!” I said. “to have a member of our fan club on board. Let’s go back and say hello to him and maybe give him a publicity photo.”

I parted the curtains separating First Class from Tourist and Sweetie stepped through. I followed, bumping into her, for she had stopped abruptly in the aisle.

“Oh, my god,” said Sweetie.

“Oh, my god,” I said.

Tourist was awash with yellow Whimsy hard hats and gaily-colored Sweetie & Chey t-shirts.

A Three-Donut Vacation: XXXI. Stargate

The Wormhole at Black Swan

Written 12 July, 2008

A Three-Donut Vacation

XXXI: Stargate

“We have to find the portal,” said Sweetie. “The Stargate. The place where they jump between worlds. The wormhole.”

“I read the Linden’s blog about it,” I said. “They didn’t give the location of a wormhole.”

“Jeez, it could be anywhere,” Sweetie lamented.

“Let’s look at it rationally, I said. “Maybe we can figure it out.”

“It could be on any of the forty or so IBM sims,” said Sweetie, “but perhaps the name of the sim will help us narrow it down. It’s unlikely to be, for instance, at IBM Healthcare Island or IBM Learning Center.”

“Yeah, I said. “IBM Collaborative would be a better bet, or IBM Telco Solutions.”

“A lot of those sims are closed to traffic,” said Sweetie. “:( :( :(”

“It might be in a Linden area,” I said. “What do you think? Maybe on one of the very first sims. Zoe, or Freelon, or Stillman, or Natoma.”

“That’s a possibility,” said Sweetie, “but you know, I think wherever it is, they’ll have to disguise it. It might be in a big building, like a hangar, but more likely they’ll use some sort of natural feature for camouflage.”

“How big are wormholes, anyway?” I asked.

“No clue,” said Sweetie, “but this is Second Life. You know it’s gotta be big and splashy and overstated and probably made of sculpted prims just to show building prowess.”

“You know, I said, “that rather sounds like—”

Our eyes met. “Black Swan!” we both cried.

A Three-Donut Vacation: XXX: Donut Death Star

The Earth After Being Glazed By the Deadly Donut Death Star (Artist’s Impression)

Written 10 July, 2008

A Three-Donut Vacation

XXX: Donut Death Star

So once again, dear readers, we are back again in the first class section of the plane we hijacked, our feet up, imbibing Cosmopolitans and keeping a wary eye on the stewardess, who, we were morally certain, was another of ImSoNotADiva’s clones.

“The time has come, said Sweetie, “to talk of many things. Of TSA and Krispy Kreme, and Linden Lab and bling.”

“Huh?” I said.

“Virtual Lewis Carroll,” said Sweetie. “I’m going to fill you in on the mission.”

“Finally!” I said. “But is it safe to talk here?” I cut my eyes toward Diva, who was in the jump seat, leaning conspicuously toward us.

“Oh, she never makes it off the plane,” chuckled Sweetie. “Or most of her doesn’t.” She smiled disarmingly. “I know because I read through to the end of the blog.”

“I hate it when you do that!” I said. “I don’t even know the ending myself! I’m grievously concerned I’ve written myself into a hole I’ll never find my way out of.”

“Did you read the Lindens’ recent blog about their experiment with IBM?”

“Oh, yeah!” I said. “It’s a major big deal. They were able to successfully transport an avatar between Second Life and Open Sim.”

“Right. It’s a milestone in intergrid compatibility.”

“Do we get to take our clothes with us?” I asked. “And our hair and our skins and our shoes?”

“With luck, teleporting with mesh and attachments will soon be operational,” Sweetie said, “but only, at first, for platinum card fashionistas.”

“Thank god I got my ticket punched,” I said. “I would soooo not go to another grid as a newbie.”

“But what’s important is this WASN’T the first intergrid teleport.”

“It wasn’t?”

“No. Two years go—even before Linden Lab open sourced the software for their servers—Krispy Kreme opened its own grid, using information fed to them by Phyllodough Linden, their spy in the Lab. For six months now they’ve been passing avatars and objects back and forth between Second Life and the Donut Grid.

“Phyllo did a lot of damage,” continued Sweetie. “He was undercover for years. Because of him we have the insidious torus.”

“Oh, that’s right!” I exclaimed. “I never thought about it, but the donut has its own primitive type!”

“It’s the only food product that does, beside the cone. The Ice Cream marketing people paid the Lab millions to develop the cone, but Phyllo snuck the torus right past them.”

“Did they catch him?”

“You know how is in the espionage business. When he was found out he just made an alt. Word is he’s now a sex worker in virtual Amsterdam.”

Sweetie took a big drink from her Cosmo and said, “Fearless Leader--"

"You mean Torley?" I said brightly.

"Shhh! He's known for a while now about the TSA’s dismantling of the network of ballistic missile doneutron bombs. At first he couldn’t figure out why, but he had an in with disgruntled members of Krispy Kreme’s pink-and-green worker support group. They told him about a secret weapon. An ultimate weapon.”

I had a thought. “It’s on the donut grid, isn’t it?” I asked. “The secret weapon.”

“Yes,” said Sweetie. “And it’s called the Donut Death Star. It’s almost completed, and as soon as it’s operational, they’re going to jump it between grids and use it annihilate the earth.”

"The real earth?"

"The real earth."

“By why?” I asked, aghast.

“For publicity, of course. “They plan to cover the planet with glaze and advertise it as the world’s largest donut hole.”

“That’s terrible,” I said. “And stupid besides. Who’s going to be left to see the ad? Martians?”

“What’s really frightening,” said Sweetie, “is the 20 tons of Leona Helmsley Shade 502 lipstick buried in Yucca Mountain. If the Death Star glaze comes into contact with it, the Earth will go up like a supernova.”

“We have to take that Donut Death Star out!” I exclaimed.

“That’s my Chey,” smiled Sweetie. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

A Three-Donut Vacation: XXIX. Trouble at the Screening Station

Written 11 July, 2008

A Three-Donut Vacation

XXIX: Trouble at the Screening Station

“The bracelets are here,” said Sweetie. “We have to create a disruption.” Immediately she began making a whistling, bomb-falling sound. Considering the avatar she was wearing, it was quite effective. Passengers, yeastmen, and TSA agents alike dropped to the floor.

“Boom!” cried Sweetie, and stepped up to the metal gate.

“See here, miss,” said a TSA official from his hiding place behind the x-ray machine (the very one whose textures Sweetie tweaked oh, so long ago; click here ). “I’m not at all sure we can allow a bomb avatar through security.”

“I don’t see why not,” Sweetie whined. “I’m not a real bomb, am I?”

“You don’t appear to be ma’am,” he said, “but you have to admit, you look suspicious.”

“I’ll make a deal with you,” she said. “I’ll stop whistling if you won’t make me take my shoes off.”

“I’m not authorized to do that,” he said, then dropped to the floor as Sweetie made a spectacular explosive sound.

“See here, miss…”

Meanwhile I was making my own diversion.

-----

For a recap of our experience at the security gate (readers of a certain longevity may recall the first post of this politically incorrect, illegally derisive, and far too long story arc [it ended with Sweetie cutting off the hand of a TSA agent]), click here.

A Three-Donut Vacation: XXVIII: Tom Panics

Written 10 July, 2008

A Three-Donut Vacation

XXVIII: Tom Panics

CNN was showing video of the grid map. “This spot of ocean was the former location of the Krispy Kreme private island,” said the announcer. “It disappeared ninety minutes ago and hasn’t reappeared, despite frantic attempts to reboot the sim.”

We were in queue for security. “Look!” I said. “It’s Neelix Nesselrode! That reporter from your trial!”

“We take you now to reporter Sleezy Spinoza, who is on assignment on the nearby nonprofit Donuts for World Peace sim.”

“Sleezy!” I cried.

“Sleezy Spinoza here.s I'm in the normally peaceful Donuts for World Peace region—but there’s no peace here today! We’re on the western edge of the sim, where trees are down and structures flattened, presumably by whatever happened on the adjoining Krispy Kreme region. And there are donuts—hundreds of them—and not sugar glaze covering everything. Officials from the Krispy Kreme Empire haven’t returned our calls and police haven’t yet released information, but the Street is saying there was an explosion.

(Cut to a noobish-looking avatar with a porkpie hat and overalls).

“Me and the chums was at the Calleta hobo yard when I looks up and sees this big mushroom cloud up toward the north. A mushroom cloud. I says to my pal Joey, I says, ‘Ain’t that that donut place?’ and Joey, he says, ‘So what if it is? Bastards could never spare me a cruller. Let ‘em blow up and to hell wid ‘em.’ And then donuts started fallin’ all around and it was like we was in hobo heaven! ‘Glory be!’ says Joey, ‘Dip me in sugar and call me a donut!’ And then he ate hisself sick.”

(Fade to Sleezy Spinoza.)

“So there you have it, Neelix. We don’t yet have official word of what has happened over at Krispy Kreme, but things aren’t looking good. Perhaps—”

(Abrupt Cut to Neelix Nesslerode)

“Sorry to cut you off, Sleezy. This just in: sources at the Teleportation Security Administration have just announced an increase in the level of national security from Condition Tom is Overwhelmed to Condition Tom is Panicking. This is the highest alert in the history of this country. Security at teleport hubs is being tightened and many flights have been delayed.”

(Cut to an apoplectic Teleport Tom).

“We’re rushing to deploy our new security bracelets,” he said .* He sounded like Speedy Alka-Seltzer (who, readers might remember, was one of his fathers [Click here  for the shocking story of Tom’s paternity]). “We’ll be asking teleport passengers to wear them on their right wrist. This elegant and functional armwear will be a signal to TSA agents that the passenger is Condition A-OK with Teleport Tom. There is no—repeat, no—truth to the rumor that the bracelets contain circuitry that will allow TSA personnel to send painful prim-twisting shocks to unruly or suspicious-looking avatars.

“Our design teams have made the bracelets as inoffensive as possible,” Tom continued. “They are, in fact, quite beautiful.”

(Cut to full-screen shot of glazed donut.)

“Horrors!” exclaimed Sweetie. “That’s the ugliest damn pastry I’ve ever seen.”

“God don't make ugly donuts,” I said. “All donuts are perfect. Some donuts are just less perfect than others.” But in truth, it was one damn ugly donut.

“Look at those sprinkles!” cried Sweetie. “They have bling in them!”

“Yep,” I said. “That donut reminds me of those avatars with skin oil.”

“Yuck!” Sweetie said. “You’re right!”

“That’s one donut even I wouldn’t eat,” I said

Someone changed the channel to Fox News. A talking head was claiming Barack Obama was responsible for the disaster. “Or if not Barack HUSSEIN Obama, then Bill BLUE DRESS or Hillary BALLBUSTER Clinton. Or pick any Democrat. Thank god for the bracelets. Any American who doesn’t give up his Constitutional rights and clamp one on is no true American. We all know America isn’t about freedom! It’s about hype and the APPEARANCE of freedom. And doing the bidding of the Dark Lord Rupert Murdoch? That’s the best!” He raised his arm, showing its encircling bracelet. Suddenly he began to twitch and jerk.

“It works, bigod,” said Bill O’Reilly’s voice from somewhere off screen. “I’m going to make all my guests
were them!”

“Sweet Jesus!" I said. "I hate Bill O'Reilly."

"No kidding," Sweetie said. "We should write a book."

"We're too late," I said.

"Speaking of time, we’ve none to lose,” said Sweetie. “We have to get through security before they deploy those bracelets. You know what ‘voluntary’ means to those TSA bastards!”

By signing autographs and handing out publicity stills to the people in line ahead of us, we worked our way to the head of the queue. Just as I was taking off my shoes, a cart carrying a load of boxes marked “Non-Shocking (LOL) Security Bracelets” screeched to a stop beside the conveyor belt.

-----

* We're not kidding. According to a July 1, 2008 article in that bastion of conservativism The Washington Times, those bastards at the real TSA are considering requiring airline passengers to wear bracelets that would let TSA and airline personnel torture and torment airline customers at will. The TSA denies this. Of course they deny it. But they are looking into it.

If the Washington Times article doesn't come up, try here. Or just Google TSA Shock Bracelet.

-----

"The greatest tyrannies are always perpetrated in the name of the noblest causes." -- Thomas Paine

A Three-Donut Vacation: XXVII. Condition Tom is Overwhelmed

Yeastmen at the Regional Teleport Hub. Note Their Deadly Hot Donuts Now Guns

Written 10-11 July, 2008

A Three-Donut Vacation

XXVII: Condition Tom Is Overwhelmed

The teleport hub was in chaos. Claxons were sounding and role-playing Star Trek storm troopers were everywhere. Teleport Tom was on every monitor.

“Your attention, please!” boomed a hundred loudspeakers. “The office of Teleport Tom has declared a state of national emergency. We are in Condition Tom is Overwhelmed. Repeat: Condition Tom is Overwhelmed. Travelers carrying nail files, clippers, bottle openers, or other known Weapons of Virtual Terror are advised to surrender to the nearest TSA agent, who will shoot you on the spot.”

“OMG! I asked. “Is this because of what we did?”

“What do you think?” said Sweetie brightly. “Say, do you notice anything peculiar about those storm troopers?”

“Uh-uh,” I said, “except they’re carrying hot donuts now guns. And what’s up with that insignia?”

“Those aren’t storm troopers at all,” said Sweetie. “Those are Krispy Kreme Yeastmen.”

“I read about them!” I said. “In Second Life Herald. Their motto is ‘We Rise to the Occasion.’”

“They do the Korporation’s dirty work,” Sweetie said. “They’ll be searching for anyone matching our description.”

“Be on the lookout for this pair of exquisitely dressed, elegantly coiffed, sublimely shod, cleverly textured fifth columnists,” I said. “wanted for breaking and entering, wanton decapitation, donut room desecration, and oh, yes, deployment of improvised explosive devices.”

“Ha ha,” said Sweetie. “This is no time for jokes.”

“I’m not joking, I said. “I’m reading the flyer that nice yeastman just handed me.”

Sweetie snatched the flyer from my hand and looked at it. “Thank goodness the lenses of the cameras in the donut room were smeary with dried sugar,” she said, “or they would have nabbed us as we came through the doors. We’ll never make it through pre-flight screening. I don’t think we’ll even make it TO pre-flight screening.”

“Probably not,” I said, “unless…”

And that’s how Sweetie came to be wearing a bomb avatar. I put her on one of those rolling carts and raced down the terminal, shouting “TSA Bomb Unit! Out of the way! Live munitions!” and flashing my platinum fashionista lapel pin. TSA agents and yeastmen helped clear the way.