I remain addicted to AstroEmpires (MMOG), although it usually doesn’t keep me up all night. I’m planning a strike on a world in an adjoining galaxy (Ceti 24), and I’d love to pull all the elements of it off in a way that I can hit the astro, recycle the debris, and retreat my fleet before my opponent realizes what has happened. In the slang of the game, this is known as a “farm hit” (in the way that farmers plow their fields to earn a living, players “farm” other players in order to earn additional income). Unfortunatly, most of my Mobile Battle Fleet is still returning to my home galaxies from guild-coordinated combat Friday night (a limited “police action” against another guild), so my available force is limited to Carriers (weak), Battleships (good!), and a handful of Cruisers. I plan a fighter-drop to eliminate my enemy’s unshielded fleet units and weaken his base defenses, then bring in my Battleships and Cruisers to finish the job. From there, I will pillage his planet, rape his cows, tip his women, and leave his Trade Routes unplundered (‘cuz I’m not a fucking pirate — I’m a Farmer!) Fortunatly, my Recycler Defense Force (recyclers convert debris into economy): 2600 Recyclers with a ton of stellar units: Destroyers, Corvettes, fighter-carrying Ion Frigates, arrived home faster than the bulk of my fleet.
I assume this is why I’m not tired: that I’m worried about the outcome.
Then again, today was hectic at both pizza shops, so maybe I’m just overly wired.
I had a weird experience on one of my deliveries today. I keep saying “today”, but I’m writing this just after 2:30am, so, really, when I say “today”, I mean “yesterday”: Saturday.
There’s this McMansion, up north of the County Line, that I’ve been delivering to ever since I started work at the Franchise. The customer’s name is similar in spelling to “fuck”, and is quite frequently changed to more closely resemble that whenever someone delivers to her. The first time I dropped off pizzas — and we’re talking a woman with two teenage kids — she handed me a check, and I had to go back three times — “Do you know you just gave me a blank check?” “You need to make this out to The Franchise.” “You need to sign, date, and write out the amount.” Her handwriting resembles a two year-old’s (my point exactly).
Today — yesterday — had to be the worst experience I’ve ever had delivering there. Greg had, for some reason, decided to accept an order out of our delivery area. It wasn’t too far out, and they tipped really well, but I got stuck behind a hay-ride, and it was much longer than I anticipated from when I pulled onto the property to when I pulled out of the property. So I got up to the Fuckers’ House much later than I’d thought.
I knock on the door. And I hear screaming. Not screaming at me, just screaming: like a fucking temper-tantrum. “GET THE DOOR! OMG GET THE FUCKING DOOR! WHAT ARE YOU DOING GET THE DOOR THE FUCKING PIZZA GUY IS HERE GET THE DOOR WHO IS IT? GET UP HERE AND GET THE DOOR WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?” On and on and on. High-pitched, voice cracking, etcetra, etcetra. Meanwhile, I’m standing at the door — for several minutes, as this tirade continues (I’m surprised the neighbors couldn’t hear) — wondering how long I have to wait before I can just fucking leave.
I’d assumed it was the daughter screaming for her mom to write a check. Er. No. It was the mom, screaming for her daughter and her daughter’s friend to get the door. I mean, “GET THE FUCKING DOOR YOU CUNTS!” just made me wonder how any decent parent could possibly drop their kid off at this woman’s door.
Even when the daughter and her friend came to the door, did the tirade stop? Did Mrs FUCKER think that her door was sound proofed and I wasn’t listening to everything she said? Nope. The door opened, the daughter and her friend both gave me the “We’re going to off-the-continent colleges, thank you very much” looks, plus a check, and I gave them their pizzas, and then I beat hell to get out of there. Meantime, while the door was open, “OH MY GOD YOU’RE SUCH A BAD INFLUENCE ON MY KID YOU BITCH CALL YOUR DAD TO COME PICK YOU UP”, was going on in the background.
I do not, for the life of me, understand what this woman’s problem is, was, will be, or whatever. I don’t mind drawing some conclusions: she was raised with a silver spoon in her mouth, and she didn’t marry money — she was married for her money. It’s the only possible way I could imagine anyone putting up with her for any amount of time without punching her in the face, ripping out her tongue, and stapling her lips shut.