These works of art has been reorganized by "scobe+" in order to
help keep the history of WarBirds alive.
Book of Dweeb (c) 2003
Copied and mirrored to Finnish Virtual Pilots Association web site by Grendel.
Many thanks to Scobe for saving this priceless article about the history of our dear hobby.
How shalt readith the Book of Dweeb and when thow hast, thow wilt know Dweebishness and forthwith endeavor to escapith Dweebdom forever. How not to be a Dweeb.
The Book of Dweeb is an historical document. It is part of the history of online simulators. And it shows how little has yet changed during all the past years. Be it a Dweeb, Dweebfire, Altmonkey, whatever - they all remain still. This is not just about WarBirds history, but it related fully to all the online pilots out there - IL-2, Forgotten Battles, Aces High, World War II Online, Fighter Ace, European Air War - it has something for everyone. And is soddin' fun reading. Enjoy it all - this is piece of the history of our hobby.
- Grendel / VLeLv Icebreakers
What is The Book of Dweeb?
Expnalation quoted from "WarBirds - The Story so far..." book, published by Burbank Books 1999.
By Mark "Jedi" Taub
The original Chapter 1 of The Book of Dweeb came about after reading a thread on Argo's about "What is a Dweeb?" Docdoom posted the first reply and is was a reasonable denitition, but I felt it didn't go far enough, and missed the essential Dweebishness in all Warbirders. So I thought of all the different sorts of Dweebs I had encountered, and all the Dweebish things (well, maybe not ALL) that I myself had done. I felt that Dweebishness is an almost mythical, legendary phenomenon in online air combat, so I thought I'd frame the post in a sort of Biblican, ancient style.
The original post was well-received, so I followed up with Chapter 2, which focused on specific types of "uberplane dweebs." This chapter spawned a number of submissions by other players, tagging on to the post with their own "chapters". At that point there were enough parts to create a collection, so I started saving them. In general, the rest of the chapters I wrote were in response to a thread in Argo's newsgroup which generated significant Dweebish controversy, or demonstrated a lesson applicable to all Dweebs.
DX5 was written in response to a thread where someone had trashed his sstem by installing an early version of DirectX 5.0. I had some instructions for eradicating DX5 and restoring DX3 given to me by Spinny, so I posted it up, Book-style. Appendix F was written in response ot the "Great P-38 Flipturn Debate", when some Dweeb, rather than learn real ACM, wanted to know just how to perform the magic trick. I posted a sort of scolding expnalation, suggesting that, while possible in WarBirds, a real plane would not be well-served by the maneuver. Revelations was written when Microsoft Fighter Ace came out, in response to the discussion of its relative "merits" and the, er, good intentions of Billgatezebub.
The Dweebs of Christmas was written a day or two before Christmas 1997 and coincided with a number of discussions and whines regarding hoped-for improvements to be seen in future versions. It was a "Christmas present" to the newsgroup... Sorta. University of Dweeb was written in response to a thread on the different "new" kinds of Dweeb, like those cretins who would dare to use altitude to their advantage, instead of being manly and getting killed in the endless furball.
Finally, CON-flagration and CON-alot were recaps of the Famous Saturday Night Con Missions of 1997 and 1998, one written from the standpoint of a non-Convention Warbirder, and one written as a Con participant.
The Book of Dweeb
[ The Mythic Flipturn of Antioch |
Gods of War |
Book of Xmas |
Book of HA |
Land of CON-fusion |
Days of RPS |
Firefox bomber |
Prophecy of Krod |
Stig - New Guineans |
Dora Dweeb |
Historical Icons |
Kergan Uberhog Dweeb |
Legend of the Great Brewster |
Pslam of Bino |
New Generation ]
The Mythic Flipturn of Antioch
For many art they who wouldst be Vets...
And like all who are dweebish, questeth they for the forbidden tricks of the aces. Nontheless wilt I pass unto thee the knowledge of the "Gods," knowing full well that thou art too dweebish to fully understandeth.
First wilt thou flyest that most foul sorceress, the P-38L. Take thou if thou wilst thy J-model or F-model, but perisheth wilt thou in fiery conflagration.
Useth thou thy WEP to climbest to untold heights. Thou shouldst use thy "little +" in thy attitude ladder to determine thy "straight up" direction. Much rudder wilst thou requireth, and yea, verrily even a modicum of skill, if thou wouldst master the vile flip-turn. Fear not, o dweebs, thy Lightning rudder shalt functioneth even at zero airspeed, for thy Godsteed is anointeth with yon holy "blown flight surfaces" and becometh a whirling dervish below stall speed, yet will it not plummeteth, neither shall it departeth from controlled flight.
Zero shall be the number of thine airspeed, and the number of thine airspeed shall be zero. Fly thou not 20 knots; neither fly thou 50, excepting that thou then proceedeth to zero. 100 knots is right out.
When thou reachest zero, if skill thou havest, straight up shalt thou yet pointeth. Thence heavest thou upon thine holy control column with all of thy feeble dweebish strength, and cryest thou out thy magic word "Shazam!"
Fearest thou not, thy mythical beast Lightning shalt stalleth not; neither wilt it spin, like yon base Corsair or hapless Dweebfire, or all manner of real aircraft. Verrily wilt thy magic Godsteed flippeth instantly and pointeth back upon thy unsuspecting attacker. Then wilt thee rend yon unbelievers asunder and streweth the Rolling TerrainTM with base aircraft parts and pulpy dweeb matter.
Of course, thou must also "mastereth" thy foul headon attack technique. Fear not, for as with all things dweebish, who better to attempt it than dweebs.
Mark well these words, and forsaketh them not: try not yon foul manuever if thou spyest the Messerschmidt of the Apocalypse upon thy tail. For large planform wilt thou exposeth whenst thou flippeth, and huge cannon hath he, and few are the Messerschmidt visigoths who wilst not feed on newby flipturn harp seals.
And thus were MORE 38L Flipturn Dweebs begat. And it was good.
The Book of Jedisis
In the beginning, there was Air Warrior, and it was good, And many partook thereof, and became Dweebs, and were smiteth repeatedly from on high by the Gods, and were vulcheth by other Dweebs, and were feared by the C-lander Runstangs. But after a time, the Dweebs learned to take flight from the uncapped field, and to ignoreth the false books of wisdom which sayeth "Thou shouldst fly the P-38, thou newbies," for all who have tried knoweth that the Air Warrior Godsteed named Lightning is not the province of the mere Dweeb. So the Dweebs learned the mythic Spitfire, and went round and round, and thus was born Loop Warrior, andthere was much killing and rejoicing, for the Dweebs believed that now they were not Dweebish any longer, but were now Vets. But yet the voice of DoK was heard from on high...and it sayeth, "Nay, Dweebs art thou still." And thus was the Dweebfire born.
So the Dweebs toiled on, and many learneth the mysteries of the treacherous Hog, and the dreaded Wurger, and verrily did they Boometh and Zoometh, and vulcheth many Dweebs from lo their very takeoff fields, and driveth they their vaunted K/D into the heavenly realms above 1.0. "And now," they said. "Now art we not vets? Art we Dweebs no longer?" But yet the voice of the most wretched vulched newby Dweebs rang forth from the ashes of their burning Zekes below. "Nay!" they cried. "Thou art but Dweebs with cannon!" And thus was born the Vulch Dweeb.
And then did the Air Warrior Gods become enraged, and in their endless quest for tribute and fresh multitudes of sheeplike Dweebs and harp seals to smite did they embrace the vile Windows 95. And the heavens were swept into turmoil. And yea the Air Warrior Dweebs did magically become Vets! At least in their own minds. For there were many base Dweebs to be vulched. And there was much bubble gum, and killing, and rejoicing, and crying "Mommy!" And from the ashes of the great civilization now plunged into the eternal gloom of Relaxed Realism emerged the Golden Child. And it was Warbirds. And it was good.
And yea many Air Warrior Gods, and Vets, and Dweebs were reborn in the conflagration that was version 0.99. And lo, though they cried out for respect and tribute, they learned that alas, their beloved Holy Hit Bubble had been smiteth verrily, and behold, they were all Dweebs again. And the Dweebs believeth the Holy Online Helpfile and "mastereth" they the dreaded Fork-Tailed Devil which had so beguiled them in Air Warrior, and with this flying Ark of the Covenant swept they all before them into fiery death, and driveth they their Econ Ratios to untold heights. "And NOW," proclaimeth they. "NOW art we Vets! Indeed, Demigods we may be!" But their voices were drowned out by laughter. And all the other Dweebs did proclaim, "Nay! Thou art STILL Dweebs. For as all know, the Godsteed named Lightning is but a sorceress, and it doth fly only by magic! Thou art inconsequential to its trail of death." And thus was born the 38L Dweeb.
So they hung their heads in shame, and learneth they to fly the most vile defiler of the Consecrated Air Combat ... Dora the Beguiler. And quickly did they fly, and many did they slay. And never did they turn from their paths, but kill didst they from in front at many leagues distance, and sneaketh from behind at great velocity did they, and delivereth their 20mm enemas and showereth the countryside with airplane parts. And when in their ignorance they were pounceth upon from on high by yon circling blue Hogs, runneth did they at great speed to their own fields and impaleth they their offenders on the great Spike of Otto, and then gleefully didst they turneth and feast on the entrails of now wounded and pitiful Hog-flesh.
"And NOW!" they shrieked. "FINALLY art we Vets! Scourges of the Sky are WE!" Yet again, from the smoldering blue wreckage came the icy cry, "Nay, foul ack-runner. Thou art but headon Dweebs." And thus was born the Headon Dweeb, the Dora Dweeb, and the Ack-running Dweebs. And as the pitiful Dweebs began their long quest through the Promised Land of Rolling TerrainTM, and were blinded by the Sun GlareTM in search of their Holy Hurricane and the Zerstorer, did the voice of Doc rain down from on high and sweepeth them in a sandstorm of despair: "For all who play at Warbirds shalt always be Dweebish. Dweebs wert thou born. Dweebs thou art. Dweebs shalt thou be." And it was good.
Gods of War
Long wandereth the Dweebs in the wilderness, searching in despair for the lost runway of HTField. Many were the souls which droppeth as dust when first the visigoth Pentium and then the kraken of Windows 95 were made manifest and mandatory. There was much wringing of hands and gnashing of serial cables, for lo though they were masters of the headon and denizens of the dragless flip-turn, yet were they Dweebs.
"Doc!" they cried. "Hast thou forsaken us in our Dweebishness? We will fly Warhawks, but please, givest us thine Sharkmouth artwork." Yet still Doc speaketh not. But yay, as they gathered wood with which to burn their craven Doras, speaketh another from on high, and it was Flet. And Flet sayeth, "Let there be scenarios." And they were good.
And there was much rejoicing as the Dweebs clambered aboard their hapless Zeros and went forth to smite the Pagan Wildcats. And there was much furballing and torpedoing and accusations of cheating, and DoK in his hate-heaven squealed with glee, for this was The Vision. And it was evil. Yet it was also good.
And though the Dweebs were defeated by the blue hordes, yet were they unbowed, for appeareth on the horizon more scenarios, and again taketh they to the air on the wings of Saint Frank, and bindeth they their joysticks in the fully aft position, and lowereth they their flaps, and outturneth they all who came before them, and slayeth they the blue host with their pitifully few yet fearsome cannon shells. And though they were again vanquished by the vile blue Whistling Death which swept over them and carved off their origami wings with 50-caliber spears of cold steel, yet did they arise again and again, never forsaking Saint Frank, and remaining faithful to him to this day. And thus was born the Ki-dweeb.
And though many now believed that they were Dweebs no longer, none wouldst thus speak, for remembereth they the wrath of Doc. And the Gods were pleased, and spake they all as in one voice, and sayeth, "Let there be Weekend Warrior." And it was good. And the Dweebs clambered into their Dweebfires, knowing full well that none would call the name of Dweeb to the only British plane enableth by the Gods, and smote they mightily the slothful Messerschmidts, and drove they the Luftwaffe Dweebs from the sky. And though they knew that humility was rewardeth by the Gods, yet was their joy so great that as one they proclaimed "Dweebs are we no longer, for we are scenario Vets!" But they were wrong, for the scenario was not over, and the Gods were angered. For yay did the sky darken, and split open and spew forth fire, and through the smoke rode the Four Wurgers of the Apocalypse. And on their canopies was tattooed the number of the Beast, and the number was 190.
And lo were the Spit-dweebs swept from the sky, and raineth British aircraft parts onto the Euro terrain for forty days and forty nights, and long could the vile scream of BMW engines be heard over the still flat and lifeless scenario terrain. And as the Spit-dweebs floateth silently to earth, yearning yet again for their .45s, did Doc finally speaketh.
"Do not despair, oh Dweebs, for no scenario can there be, without targets. Soon willst thou true Vets be. Perhaps in two weeks." And the Dweebs looked skyward, and dreameth they of Sun GlareTM, and smileth, for flyeth again would they. And it was good.
In honor of the return of Argo, yet another installment...
The Great CON-flagration
For a time, peace and happiness and death and carnage and destruction and group-hugging and much kissing of IMOL's nether regions were upon the land. For much-beloved was the sacred golden child of version 1.11. But alas, as with all things Dweebish, it came to pass that MORE was requireth. "Yea," cryeth the Dweebs, "tho it is exceedingly good our many friends to killeth, yet may we only via modem rend them into little flaming aluminum bits, and rain their most beloved entrails upon the Solomons terrain. Verrily do we wish to see our many conquests with our own eyes, and witnesseth their unseemly wailing and heareth their cries of despair and vile curses with our own ears."
And the Gods listened, and considereth long on this, and, with many visions of renewed hate and holy new subscribers and drunken binges in their minds formeth they a plan. And Pyro sayeth, "Let there be a CON!" And there was a CON. And it was good.
And lo did the many Dweebs convergeth upon a strange place, much like a wasteland, yet possessing many wonders like sporting venues with holes in their roofs and groups of men who proclaimeth to be "America's Team" while yet being universally hateth throughout yon America, and marvelous elixirs with mystical names such as "Shiner Bock" and "Lone Star" and bizarre armored animals whose mission in life is to throweth themselves under yon careening eighteen-wheeled leviathans, and sacred patches of earth whereupon the mythic steeds known as Warbirds yet abideth and yea even take wing from time to time. And the Dweebs nameth this place Texas. And it was a good place.
And in this place were many and manifold computers, with which to smiteth their enemies and driveth them from the skies. And lo, finally could the Dweebs seeeth the downcast faces of their vanquished foes, and cackleth directly upon their visage, and slammeth them in person. And yea could they set up all manner of mystical big-screen extravaganzas, and showeth off did they multitudinous technological terrors, and argueth much did they upon "whose was bigger," and other weighty matters. And consumeth much golden elixirs of the Gods did they, and burpeth greatly thereon, only to returneth said elixirs from whence they came shortly thereafter but by alternate orifice, and also in the middle of yon night. And learneth they little of such elixirs, for though keepeth them they could not, yet more did they purchaseth on the next night, and the next.
And lo, verrily didst the Gods bestoweth many gifts upon the Dweebs, and raiseth they up tournaments of skill whereupon the "Best of the Dweebs" might be crowned. And though yon silly Dweebs realizeth not that "Best Dweeb" an oxymoron is, yet didst they battle, and many were the Champion Dweebs that were hoisteth on high, and many were they who were laid low and battered by Crud table impact, and shameth with vile and vicious cries of "Balls!" and reduceth by headon dweebishness to mere spectator status in the many contests that followeth. And yea didst the Gods the mythical v2.0 unveil, and much was the adulation that followed, and much tribute and elixir did flow when lo the magical 3DFX was displayeth. And greatful were they when the Gods bestoweth not only their own advance copies of the sacred New World, but the blessed Komet and Schwalbe as well. And though tired were the Dweebs, yet were they clever, in a Dweebish manner, and hatcheth they a vile and diabolical plot with which to "entertain" their less fortunate brethren, the Non-CON Dweebs.
For sad were the Non-CON Dweebs, and curious were they. For having real jobs and real lives could they not to the enchanted Texas traveleth, but yet did they envy the CON Dweebs and badgereth them didst they with incessant requests for more and better screenshots, and descriptions, and digital photographs, and virtual beers, and all manner of silly nonsense. And preyeth upon the CON Dweebs in their weakest and most elixirized moments did they, and attempteth they to sweep the Con Dweebs from the skies and littereth the terrain with their aircraft bits.
But lo, tho outnumbereth were the CON Dweebs, fortified by mystical elixir and in the presence of the Gods were they. And yea, didst the heavens open, and mighty thunderbolts rain forth, and did scarlet streaks of Heavenly Force in the skies appear, and quaketh did the Non-CON Dweebs, and calleth out for "Mommy!" for this apparition never before did they seeeth. But some amongst them had hacketh the Holy Front End, and readeth the sacred texts had they, and useth they the vile "Forbidden Patch," and guesseth they at the nature of the new warrior, and kneweth they the name of the Avatar of Death. And his name was CAPICI.
Swift was CAPICI, as if the mythic Komet were he, and abideth he no Holy Flight Model, but flieth he as if by P-38L, unencumbereth by earthly concerns of physics or gravity, and maketh he Dweebish Flip TurnsTM in yon horizontal as well as yon vertical. And flappeth his sacred cape in the wind, and striketh terror into the hearts of yon pitiful Non-CON Dweebs did he. For wieldeth he the Holy Cannon of Schwarzenegger, and parketh he upon the six of yon hapless Non-CON Dweebs and blasteth them into Kingdom Come he didst, and giveth he them a unique chance to speaketh to the Gods face-to-face. And tho no Armor of Antioch had he, and poppeth as a grape he wouldst under accurate fire, yet couldst the Non-CON Dweebs not trappeth him, nor couldst they BnZ, nor even Headon, for like the Holy Hummingbird didst he manuever.
And yea, verrily didst the Non-CON Dweebs tremble and shrieketh, and fleeeth did they as if all in Runstangs they were. For not ONE CAPICI was there, but in Mongol HORDES didst they come, spewing forth in such number that never was there hope of escape. And driveth they the Non-CON Dweebs before them did they, and chop up their pitiful earthly aircraft as if by giant heavenly scythe they didst. And turneth then did the CAPICIs upon lo their very countrymen, and swat them from the skies in great bunches, and confuseth they the Non-CON Dweebs, for realizeth they too late that yon Holy Killshooter functioneth no longer. And thus did the CON Dweebs revengeth themselves upon yon pitiful Non-CONs. And yea, great was the bloodlust amongst the CON Dweebs, for presently did they falleth upon themselves, as if in heavenly shark feeding frenzy, and furballeth they in an orgy of death and destruction and cackling laughter on channel 100.
And lo, when at last the carnage did end, came the piteous wailing of the Non-CON Dweebs, and great was the recrimination, and humorous was the reading. "No fair!" cryeth the Non-CONs. "Yea didst thou verrily thine own countrymen shooteth, and never didst thou warneth us! Thou art foul Dweebs, and fit only for the feeding and sport of sheep!" And tho the prospect of sporting with sheep appealeth to the Con Dweebs, yet did they scoff and tittereth, for now were they Con VETS, and none could deny this. And in their most superior and snootish voice spake they as one: "O base Non-CONS, why squeaketh thee such? Playeth thou never Air Warrior? Knoweth thou not of CONs and the holy Rules? Fear not, for enlighteneth thee we shalt." And retrieveth they yon dusty book, and bloweth the dust from its cover, and readeth: "The Book of Convention. Chapter One. The Holy Rules. And it is written that three shall be the number of the rules, and the number of the rules shall be three. Four rules shalt thou not read, and neither readeth thou two, excepting that thou then proceedeth to three."
"Rule Number One: All manner of chivalrous behavior and fair play be hearby suspendeth until such time as the Holy Convention endeth."
"Rule Number Two: All Non-CON Dweebs shalt flyeth on Demon Saturday of the convention at thine own considerable risk."
"Rule Number Four...No, Three: No exceptions to Rules One and Two shalt there be."
And lo did the Non-CONs hang their heads in Dweebish shame, for truly had they been out-flameth and showeth verrily their base Dweebishness and loseth they their collective cool.
Yet at last endeth the Holy CON, and wearily maketh the CON Vets their stumbling and hungover way back to yon mega-airport-with-two-names and subjecteth themselves to coach class yet again, and sleepeth they briefly and fitfully and then returneth they to their so-called lives and jobs with their eyes yet the color of CAPICI's tights.
And returneth they to yon virtual 1.11 sky of eternal battle, for though keepers of the holy 2.0 were they, yet was there no arena, and hungrily did the Non-CONS eye the haggard CON Vets. And tho the CON Vets thrusteth out their many rippling chins and clamoreth for the respect due to true Vets, scoffeth the Non-CONs in return. "Hoho!" they cryeth, "Vets thou may be, but there is no CON here! Where is thy holy Crutch of CAPICI now?" And the Non-CONS fell upon them, and much carnage doth ensue. And the CON Vets and the Non-CONS looketh upon one another with renewed hatred, and spake with one voice, and cryeth, "Wait'll next year!" And the Gods looketh down and smileth, for in truth, all were yet Dweebish, and nought was there which could this changeth.
And it was good.
The Dweebs of Christmas
For lo, did it come to pass, that many were they who yet again confirmeth their dweebishness in the Year of Our Bird 1997. And yea didst they flutter and headon and Boometh and Zoometh. And thus, in the fullness of time, didst they again maketh their annual pilgrimage.
And hoppeth they into their speedy Doras and slothful Hurricanes and hapless Oscars and verrily didst they hie unto the fabled Mecca of Christmas past; yes, flyeth they all in a great lemming-like swarm unto ....the Mall.
And queue-eth up didst they for hours on endeth. And eateth they many corn dogs and rideth they upon carousels and buyeth they many sweaters and ugly ties. But patient were they. For no mere Turbo-Man quest was this. Yea, verrily wouldst they visit HIM. And ploppeth down upon lo his very lap wouldst they, and filleth his ears with their wishes, and yes, by force of will and the virtue of their many good deeds...er, by force of will alone, wouldst they changeth the very face of Warbirds.
And lo didst they shoveth many small children from their path, and many were the soccer moms that were vanquished that day, and great was the conflagration wreaketh by the belching and cursing Dweebs of Flying Death as they scourged elf and tot alike, leaving a vile trail of candy canes and tiny mittens in their wake. And at last didst they reacheth the front of the line, and putteth they their most angelic smiles upon their unshaven faces. For here was the Deliverer of Promises. Yea, verrily didst the Great One at last turn his smiling visage upon the quivering dweebish mass. And lo didst he weareth a shining red leather A2 jacket, and fur-lined and electric were his boots, and noticeth they a battered flying helmet beneath his chair. For though 2000 horsepower had he not, reindeer power had he aplenty, and, like themselves, a pilot was he. They had reacheth Col. NICIlaus, North Pole Air Force.
And lo, it came to pass that the first to leapeth upon Santa's lap was the Runstang Dweeb. "Ah, young Mustang," sayeth Santa. Very good hath thou been. Little have thee complaineth, and flyeth thee always in thy historic manner. What shall I bringeth thee?" And the Dweeb didst reply. "Little do I wisheth Santa. Please, giveth me back my true vertical stabilizer, for it doth now look silly." And Santa smileth and sayeth "Done! And as a bonus, I wilt giveth thee also a realistic headrest as well, that thou may, er, resteth thy head more accurately."
And happy was the Runstang Dweeb. And it was good.
And yea, didst the Hellcat Dweeb jumpeth upon the lap of the Red One. "Greetings, Navy," didst Santa call out. "Little of thee have I seen in yon arena, but acquitteth thee thyself always well. What wilt thou havest this year?" "Oh, dear Santa," the Catdweeb didst reply. "Canst thou not giveth me a true rearward view?" And at this didst the jolly cherub chuckle. "Hohoho. I cannot bringeth thee what thou already havest! Nontheless, perhaps a rear view mirror or two?" "Oh, yes, Santa!" cryeth the Dweeb, and lo didst a little tear rolleth down his pitiful cheek. "In fact," sayeth the Rotund Aviator, "I shalt bring realistic rear views to ALL the Dweebs!" And verrily didst a great commotion arise from the Dweebs, and much crying and gnashing of teeth did ensue. "No, no," calleth Santa. "No need to thanketh me. No trouble is it. My chief elf Pyro worketh upon this as we speaketh. My pleasure it is to do this for my favorite flying Dweebs!" And yea didst the Dora Dweebs waileth and the Hog Dweebs chuckle. And it was good.
And next didst the Lightning Dweeb climbeth up and flipturneth upon the lap of Santa. "Well?" sayeth Santa. "Everything havest thou already. What else couldst thou wisheth?" "Well, Pops," cackle-eth the Dweeb, "I really think the roll rate on the F-model is a bit skoshe. How bout a little boost for the early war FTD?" And again, tittereth did Santa. "Hehehe. No, for it is well known that the flight model is accurate, so I shall not interfere. But I SHALL bringeth thee a rolling plane set, that thou may flyest the F-type more frequently. And as a bonus wilt I fixeth thy flap drag, so thy turnfights shalt more accurate be. If thee wisheth, shalt I also fix thy rolling inertia and wing drag as well?" And graciously didst the Lightning Dweeb reply, "Oh, er, no, no Santa, um, er...save something for the other Dweebs. I'm er, ah, quite happy with your gifts as they are." And muttereth did he under his breath as he climbeth down from the Red Lap.
And then didst the Buff Dweeb climbeth upon the Great Red Expanse. And thence didst an elf approacheth, and whispereth in the frostbitten ear didst he, and handeth he to Santa a long and tattered parchment. And lo didst Santa checketh The List, and peereth did he at the Buff Dweeb. "Hmmm," he sayeth. "Many are they who flyeth the big rigs, and legion are the number who have strayeth from the path, but I see that thy name ist not among them, so...what'll it be-eth?" "Well, um, Santa sir, I wonder if we mighteth haveth...um...some strat-eth?" And yet again didst Santa quaketh with mirth. "Hohoho! Of course I wilt bringeth thee strat! Now, um, let me see...hmmm. 3DFX...Russian planes...C-47s...ah, yes, here it is. Strat! Right after the Freezing Over of Hell and the Mac 2.0 version. Haveth thee patience like thy Macintosh brethren, for only another 'two weeks' shalt it requireth."
"Oh, thank thee Santa," didst the Dweeb groveleth. "Um, while you're at it, couldst thou not tougheneth up my Buffs? For cannon fodder are we." "Pusheth thou not thy luck, Buffarillo," tittereth the cherub. "Thy Otto-buffs are quite tough enough if thou bringeth along thy Little Friends, and flyeth in yon Holy Buffbox. But feareth not, for thou art a buff dweeb, and never wilt my elves cease to tinker with thy Bufftuff and Otto settings, for an excellent test of character doth it make, and provideth it much input to my sacred List." And the Buff Dweeb didst get whilst the getting was good. And this also was good.
And thence didst the Dora Dweeb climbeth onto the Great One, and casteth he down his eyes, and sniffle-eth. "Now, now, young one," calleth out Santa. "For tho it is true that thou have many times attempted the foul headon, and runneth thee always to the ack whence thee thine altitude advantage have squandereth, yet have thou also flyeth sometimes the A4 and A8, and lo even the devilish 109 have thou tryeth, so, with all things considereth, have thou not my List made, at least for THIS YEAR." And the Dora Dweeb didst wipe his eyes, and smileth a bit. "Well, Santa, after all, thou hast been very good to me already; with huge engine and huge guns have thou blesseth me. Only one thing do I wish. Please, canst thou not make Otto more like a Dweeb? Most demonic is he, and much like something from X-wing or TIE Fighter." And Santa didst reply, "No, for ALL knoweth that Warbirds gunnery is well-nigh perfect, and that includeth Otto. But fear not, for I wilt make Otto much like a Dweeb...I shalt maketh him barfeth whene'er yon Deathstar Dweeb pulleth G and maketh yon bizarre stallfighting moves, and speweth forth chunks wilt he, and much sticky nastiness wilt thus be depositeth on yon Dorkstar pilot, and much concentration wilt he loseth, and flyeth not so well wilt he, and rendeth he his wings asunder wilt thou, and streweth his parts upon flat and rolling terrain alike wilt thou, and happy wilt thou be." And smileth did the Doradweeb, and runneth he off to polish his Wuerger of the Apocalypse didst he.
And lo was the Ki-dweeb the next to fight his way to the Sacred Lap. "Well, thou Frankdweeb," intoned Santa, "surely there is little I can bring to thee? Perhaps a Kamikaze scarf?" "No Santa, I have much to ask of thee. I want self-sealing fuel tanks, and 500 more horsepower, and 4 20mm cannon instead of two, and..." "Now, now," said Santa. "Perhaps I can bring thee cannon next Christmas, but North Pole Aviation is only tooleth up for Russian planes this year. Fear not tho, for I have something much better. I wilt bring thee engine and structural limits. Now wilt thou never be called the name Dweeb again, for thy aircraft wilt have all the...er, glory and realism of thy historical mount, and always wilt thou hold thy head up high, and proud wilt thou be of every kill. Oh, and I'll fixeth THY flaps when I do the P-38 as well!" And confused did the Ki-dweeb become, and scratcheth he his head. But since all the other dweebs laugheth, believeth he that all was as it should be, and smileth did he. And this was, of course, good.
And few were there left in the line, for vile was the aroma of the assembled Dweebs, and battered were the soccer moms, but lo did the Corsair Dweeb, turning in a big circle to check his six, as Corsair Dweebs do, make his way to Santa. "Ah, the Hog Dweeb! I think I know what thou wantest, but as I told the Frankdweeb, the elves are only building Yaks and MiGs this year, so I'm afraid the F4U-4 will have to wait a bit. Perhaps when the Mac version arriveth..." And verrily didst the Hogdweeb shuffle his feet, and sticketh his hands in his pockets didst he, and pouteth a bit. "But be of good cheer, little buddy!" sayeth Santa. "I wilt bringeth the Ki-dweeb structure and engine limits, and I wilt fixeth the Lightnings flaps, and lo, even the rear view of the Wuerger wilt my attention receiveth. Surely these art gifts for thee as well? Hehe, perhaps I can findeth thee a rear view mirror or two!" And yet didst the Hogdweeb still speaketh not, but appeareth upon his unshaven visage a curious half smile, and pulleth he from beneath his Mae West a frosty bottle of LoneStar, and handeth he the bottle to Santa, and patteth he Santa's hand. And yea, uttereth he not a word, but turneth he again to check his six, twitching as Hog Drivers do, and wandereth he off into the depths of the Mall.
And lo, the last in the line was the Deathstar Dweeb, and hesitant was he at first, but verrily didst he believeth himself righteous and hoppeth he proudly upon the Lap of most Holy St NICIlaus. And furroweth did Santa's brow, and checketh he his List, and checketh it twice. And holdeth he his finger up to his wind-chapped lips. "Speaketh thou not," he sayeth. "For tho thou appeareth MANY times upon my 'naughty' list, yet have I many gifts for thee. First, so that thou mayest not be attacked whilst thou takeoff, wilt I disable bombers at fields under attack, and then mayest thou takeoff in safety from a quiet field away from the battle. Next wilt I give thee realistic G-limits on thy wings, that thou may more accurately plan thy defensive furball manuevers. Then wilt I give thee radar, that thou may see the defenders approacheth thee from afar, and thus wilt thou much time have, to ready thy Ottos (and thy parachutes). Finally, wilt I disable killshooter for bombers, that thee may defend thyself from the less enlightened among thy bomber brethren and countrymen, who foolishly oppose thy chosen 'flying style.' All these 'gifts' wilt I give thee, despite the fact that thou art a pox on the rolling terrain(TM) and better suited art thee to manning the ack or perhaps painting the cargo ships in the harbor. In fact, mannable ack wilt I give thee, that thou mayest shoot attackers without having to display thy pitiful flying skills for all to see. Now...kindly removeth thee thyself from my lap." And verrily didst the Deathstar Dweeb slinketh away, and licketh his wounds didst he. And yes, this too was good.
And lo, didst the heavens openeth, and speweth forth fire (as thou knewest they wouldst) and appeareth in the skies a huge, black, cubelike ship, and verrily didst Bilgatezebub the Betrayer rideth forth on a texture-mapped, bilinear-filtered Mustang. And strange didst he appear, and many were the mechanical appendages which did protrudeth from his body, and foul didst he smelleth. And laugheth didst he, and calleth out, "Hey, Santa baby, only one thing I haven't got, and that's what I want: a first-rate, realistic flight simulation with which to assimilate all these online dweebs. Whattya say? I been good. I even assimi..er, helped out those Apple guys." And yea, didst the Red Cherub roar with laughter, and rippeth he up his List into tiny bits, and throweth it into the air, whereupon it didst raineth down like confetti. "One gift only have I for thee, Betrayer. Tho many of them thou already have, may thou addest this one to thy collection. It is, of course, another Anti-Trust Suit! May thou wearest it well." And lo, didst Rudolph trot from out of the crowd, and shineth red didst his nose, and lifteth he his very leg he didst, and piddle-eth upon Bilgatezebub's flightsuit. And curse didst the Betrayer, and spitteth didst he, and verrily didst his Mustang sputtereth, and lo did gaps appeareth in its artwork, and beameth up to the black ship didst he, and sealeth up did the heavens. And tho this was especially good, all knew that lasteth would it not.
And lo, with a mighty sigh, didst Santa heaveth up his ample bulk and brusheth off the confetti from his flight jacket. And he reacheth for his goggles and sayeth, "Well, Dweebs and Valkyries, Santa is tired, and much work and a long trip haveth I before me. Playeth thou not Warbirds too late tonight, for thy strength shouldst thou conserve for much Christmas carnage to come." And with a final "Hohoho hehehe!" sweepeth out didst Santa, and reindeer, and elves, and all.
And happy were the Dweebs, and well-lubricated with eggnog were they, and tho they started to leave, did they stoppeth in their tracks when the night splitteth with the roar of twin Wright Cyclones. And rusheth forth didst they, and spyeth they Rudolph, cigar clencheth between his teeth, smoke glowing red in the light from his nose, as he pulleth tight the door of the shiny red C-47. And in awe were they as the pilot's window slideth back, and much cigar smoke didst drift into the propellor slipstream. And once again didst the cheery voice ring forth: "Thou expecteth maybe a sleigh? Hohoho! Verrily is the sleigh now a Classic Warbird! Flyeth it only ONCE a year! For malls we take the Gooney! Now hie thee to bed! Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good FIGHT!"
And as the twin props bloweth snow upon them, all of the Dweebs didst agree (for a change) that it was indeed good.
The Book of HA
In the elder days of WB, when the code was young, and the planeset was yet small, there arose out of the Main Arena a thing called the Historical Arena, and although it was good, it was also bad.
Yea, although a historical map was used, and no more did Spitfire fight Spitfire and 109 shoot down 190, very close icon settings were used, and this was good, and also yet bad.
For although the fighters drew nigh, and yet nearer, before unleashing the cannons of Wuerger and the firestorm of Browning, and sneakily did they approacheth each other, lo the abilities of an ordinary man to identify a plane were lost, and oft-times a pilot would come diving down only to find a friendly. And thus the pilots were quick to dive and thus was spawned the Calais Furball, and also the F19-F20 Furball.
And also the dread Warp of Confusion caused the demise of many a pilot, and there was much gnashing of teeth.
And yea, there was also great wrath among the Historical Squadrons. "What use is a Historical Arena," said these, "if all that results is an enormous furball!" And many others, yea even also other Historical Squadrons, spake forth and said "Yea, but it is Difficult, and the element of Surprise is here, and there is little Neon." And thus the debate ended.
Thus although there was great numbers in the Historical Arena at first, soon the numbers became fewer, and fewer, and then there were none. And this was bad.
Much later did the dread being Pyro speak from above, rending the ground with his words, and lo there was Rolling Terrain (tm), and yea there was a Historical Arena much like the other, but without the Historical Terrain. And there was great excitement as before, and then great debate as before, and then there was silence, as the numbers dwindled, and nothing. And yea tho the Historical Arena was good, in this same fashion as before, it was bad.
And still Zero shot Frank and Hellcat tore the wings off of Mitchell in the Generic Arena, and for the Historical Squadron there was no respite, save for an occasional Scenario Lite.
In a June, lo there was Pointblank, and yea though some made great clamor for Scenario Lite icons the Generic Arena icons were used instead, and nonetheless many were the voices who praised the realism.
Later still, a younger being, MO by name, raised his mighty voice and said "let there be HA once again on the land, where Spitfires and Hurricanes will battle with Emils and Zerstorers." And greatly pleased were the people, but yea the Ancient Argument arose anew, for there were short Icon ranges again, and the same words were spoken, but less civil was the discourse, for new and rude were many of the speakers, who mindeth neither their manners nor their elders.
And although the Rolling Plane Set (tm) was used, the numbers dwindleth, and yea the Calais Furball was the rule of the land. And the Debden Gangsters and the 305th flew in the year 1944, bombing distant targets, and taunting over open radio the Luftwaffles as the baby milk factories and first-aid sub pens became even as dust; but the Calais Furball continued, and only a few Zerstorers piloted by brave Deutchlanders with beanie caps rose from the mist to challenge the Historical Strategic Bombing Raid (patent pending).
Then the Rolling Plane Set (tm) began anew in the Historical Arena, and yea other Historical Pacific Theatre Squadrons also made clamor, saying "Fie upon Focke-Wulfs and Spitfires, upon Fortresses, Franzes and even upon Mustangs. Give us Zeros and Wildcats, Slow but Slows and Kates and Vals."
Yea, and mightig Mo didst listen to all, and in his mind he pondered, and likely it is that he consulteth with Pyro and Killer and HiTech, and probably also the Jagermeisters as well, and also the Con-goers, and various other pilots of divers type.
And he spake: "Three shall be the number of the range; thou shalt see not the range of four, nor that of two, excepting if thou has seen the range of three. One is likewise; and five is right out. Yet three times ten shall be the number of the identification, yet that is not yet two, if thou countest in miles."
"And yea, there shalt be combat over Britain, and also over China, and nigh draweth the time when the subtle Yak will wend its way against the Luftwaffles. Also there will be fighting over the Pacific, and pieces of planes shall rain down on all regions of the land."
And although this was not the blazing Neon of the Generic Arena, nor was it the void of the No-Icons set, it was good, for it was yet closest to what those who fly birds of war for a living say. But yet there was wailing and gnashing of teeth, mostly among the young and rude, but even yea among some Historical Squadrons. And so those that said "Nay, changeth not the Icons yet, give this a chance" before are first to say "Nay, giveth this not a chance, changeth the Icons back."
And thus it is as it ever was, but yea, Mo and Pyro and Killer and HiTech are subtle beings, and little of their long-range thinking do they disclose to the people, unless ye asketh, and many times not even then.
The Land of CONfusion
For a time, all was well in the land of 2.01. There was much virtual carnage upon the land and verrily didst aircraft parts littereth the 3-D Terrain (tm). And tho many were the rantings about SuperOtto and the vile Point Blank Ack of the Apocalypse and the latest demon-seed of Billgatezebub the Betrayer, yon foul DX-6, the Dweebs were by and large a happy lot (excepteth perhaps yon hapless 3-D-less Mac Dweebs, but another tale of woe ist that!)
But lo, didst the weather becometh hot, and the carnage becometh routine, and so, as is their wont, in short order didst the Dweebs begin to grumbleth, and restless didst they becometh, and sayeth they, as in one voice, "Yea, let us hie to yon CON-alot, for tho it is a silly place, much revelry and debauchery may we there partaketh of, and verrily wilt we CON-vets becometh!" And the Gods were well pleased, and winketh at each other didst they, for well knew they of things CON-ish, and so prepareth didst they the way of the CON-Dweeb.
And so, the Dweebs didst trekketh to CON-alot, and, as Dweebs will, becometh lost in the wilderness didst they, and much wailing and gnashing of teeth did ensueth. But lo, just when all seemeth lost, looketh down from yon Holy Window Seat they didst, and spyeth they the Hole-y Stadium of Antioch, and seeth didst they that the giants did tilt against one another therein, and verrily wert the giants with the blue stars on their heads vanquished yet again by another non-playoff team, and knoweth the Dweebs that they had arriveth in the Promised Land of CON-alot. And there was much rejoicing, and consumption of exotic and vile elixirs from exotic and vile places and dallying with sheep. And then returneth didst they their tray tables and flight attendants to yon upright positions, and verrily didst the Dweeb Ark landeth.
And yea, proceedeth to the Holy Halls of CON-alot didst they, and marveleth they didst at all manner of Dweebish wonders. Meeteth they didst the God Pyro and the Goddess LadyHawke, and cavort with the angel Doc and the Bringers of Death Tone and Drex. And the angel Jedi didst appear and scribeth didst he much of the silliness, that future Dweebs might at least have a chance not to repeateth the buffoonery of their brethren...or perhaps not. And verrily didst they flock to yon Holy ACM Lectures, and enraptureth were they by the wizards Worr and Vila, and hangeth they didst on every syllable (tho understandeth little didst they), and recordeth they each morsel of wisdom these sages didst dispenseth, and sweareth they didst to fly only according to the Commandments of the Trainers. And yea didst they runneth to yon CON hall, and ploppeth down at yon joystick didst they, and immediately didst they forsaketh the lessons of Vila and Worr, and plungeth they didst into the nearest furball, and their holy flaps did flappeth in the breeze, and verrily wert their entrails rended asunder by Wurger and Uberhog alike. And thus learneth the Dweebs CON lesson #1: Tho thou hideth at yon Holy CON, thou art still recognizable as Dweebs, and thy CON-Dweebish rumps repelleth not Holy Cannon Shells of Antioch. And it was good.
And lo, sleepeth didst the Dweebs not, but drinketh didst they in abundance, and thus fortified didst they battleth with yon vile dungeon vampires for control of the Holy CON grounds. For lo, didst the vile innkeeper giveth the very Holy Cathedral of Crud to yon cretinous undead role-playing makeup-wearing androgynous herd of aerodynamically-challenged catacomb-dwelling flightless rodent wannabees. And verrily didst the angel Doc planneth and executeth the "Great Crud Raid," and lo didst the Dweebs carry out most undweebishly a precision operation to retrieveth yon Holy Crud Table from the cross-armed flightless wish-they-were-invisible-but-weren't rats. And wresteth back from the undead didst they the most holy Crud Table, and verrily forceth they the flying weasels to mill around aimlessly, until only by telling their mommies and whining to the innkeeper didst they retrieveth yon table from the Dweebs. And thus learneth the Dweebs CON lessons #2 and #3: Renteth the pool room thou mayest, but even an invisible vampire requireth a Crud Table to playeth pool. And one blind Killer is worth a thousand diversions.
And much revelry and merriment didst occurreth. And many were the non-CON-Dweebs who wert layeth low and streweth about the 3-D Terrain (tm). And lo, didst the CON-Dweebs suckereth the non-CON-Dweebs into a reenactment of the ill-fated Holy Schweinfurt Raid, and verrily didst the skies raineth Boeing parts for forty minutes and forty seconds. And yea, didst the CON-dweebs commenceth to patteth themselves on lo their very backsides, and some didst even seeketh to drink foul ale concoctions from lo their very backsides, and still others were accuseth of drinking foul ale from lo the very backsides of others. And many wert they who questeth for the Holy Grail of "Stimpy Beer," but few wert they who findeth it, and supine wert they, and in much cranial distress. And many wert the CON-Dweebs who proclaimeth that now, at last, wert they truly CON-Vets. And indeed, it WAS good. But alas, it wast only Friday.
And on the following eve, when at last Wild Bill didst finally becometh silent, didst the heavens split asunder (as thou knewest they wouldst), and the CON-Dweebs didst cowereth in terror, for surely Billgatezebub had returneth to deceive them with DX7. But lo, the Betrayer rideth not forth, but instead the angel Snail, and he holdeth on high a small and wondrous device. And as one, cryeth the Dweebs, "Oh, mighty Snail, what manner of sorcery bringeth thou upon us?" And the angel chuckleth, and sayeth "Fear not, o foolish Dweebs, it is but the Holy Threeandahalfinchdisk of Antioch! Knoweth thee nothing of thy computer pasts?" And the Dweebs didst commenceth to mumble and scratcheth their heads, for few wert they who hadst seen such an apparition, for round wast it not, as yon Holy CD-ROM, but square, yet nameth it "disk" hadst the angel. But the TRUE CON-Vets didst winketh at each other, for knoweth they what approacheth. "Fear not, young Dweeblings," sayeth Snail, "for yon Holy disk wilt make thee terrible and fearsome in the eyes of yon loathsome non-CON-Dweebs, and rendeth them asunder wilt thou, and much havoc wilt thou wreaketh, and maketh them to cry Mommy and whineth upon the Holy Board of Argo for weeks wilt thou!" And surgeth forth didst the Dweebs, and stampedeth to the CON room, and waiteth patiently and politely...er...squawketh like baby birds didst they until they couldst installeth the Demon Disk. And thus it beginneth.
And a tremor was upon the earth, and a howling shriek didst split the air asunder, an unworldly noise never heard in either default sound or even those of the angel Corn. And the earth didst shaketh, and the Map View didst revealeth the beginnings of The Apocalypse, and a multitudinous horde of Golden Death didst appear, and marcheth upon F11. And the voices on the radio didst quavereth, and CON-fusion and CON-sternation didst reigneth. At first wert ground troops reporteth, but foolish wast this for all knew that ground forces had Warbirds not. Then cryeth the Reds, "MONSTERS attacketh F11! Bringeth thee thy Holy Rockets of Antioch!" But tho close this was, all knew that the monsters wert playing pool across the hall upon yon Holy Crud Table, and casteth spells upon each other, but spitteth fire couldst they not! And soon knoweth all that the Beast had cometh, and tho some nameth him Babyzilla, and some calleth the name Godzuki, none couldst deny that indeed walketh the Son of Gojira upon the earth.
For yea, foolish was Matthew Broderick not to keepeth a Hornet and Mavericks in reserve, but runneth he off with the girl before the end credits, and truly had ONE surviveth. And verrily didst one beget thousands, and all didst descend upon F11. And terrible wast his roar, and from his mouth spitteth Rockets of the Apocalypse, and blasteth twin .50s from his eyes. And tho falleth he sometimes upon his terrible posterior, scurryeth across the ground at great haste he didst. And as the horde of Thunder Lizards beareth down upon F11, attacketh in force didst the non-CON-Dweebs. But alas, knoweth they not that mere aircraft cannon pierceth not Babyzilla armor, and yea, five HUNDRED Rockets of the Apocalypse and five HUNDRED rounds of .50-cal didst EACH Godzuki mounteth. And lo, didst the Thundering Herd layeth waste to all in their path, and dense with rocketfire didst the atmosphere becometh, and indeed even the very text buffer wast consumeth, so that the Lizards wert enjoineth from firing any more rockets until they sitteth upon the holy ground of F11. And much wailing and gnashing of teeth didst ensue from the non-CON-Dweebs, for well remembereth they the vile Night of Captain ICI, and the carnage that didst then ensue. And quivereth didst they, and many wert the Wurgers that wert impaleth on the jaws of the Beast.
But alas, Godzuki is but an infant, and tho impervious to non-CON-Dweeb fire, invincible wast he not. For lo, as the first of the Mighty Iguanas approacheth F11, learneth the CON-Dweebs the cruelest lesson of all: Even the Son of Gojira is no match for SuperOtto. And yea, wave upon wave of Beast unleasheth his terrible rocket breath upon the F11 defenses, but verrily art ack emplacements hard to findeth at ground level, and Otto careth not whether thou flyest or crawleth upon thy lizard belly--he seeketh and destroyeth all. And yea, terrible indeed wast the destruction when the cretinous non-CON-Dweebs discovereth that tho machinegun and cannon wert as pinpricks to Godzuki, blockbuster bombs wert as sledgehammers. And as the gore and entrails pileth thickly upon the ground, lo didst the treacherous angel Snail enableth Godzuki at both F12 AND F11, and a horrible feeding frenzy of brother upon brother didst ensue, and many wert they who wouldst claim that indeed, this must be the End Times.
And it was good.
And when at last the dust settleth, and the sun peeketh through the hot Texas haze, didst the Dweebs untangleth lo their many cables, and putteth on their least dirty shirt, or perhaps weareth their CON T-shirt for the fifth straight day, and donneth they their propellor-beanies, and draggeth they Doc from under the furniture back to yon Holy Worldsbiggestairport, and saluteth they each other through their smudged canopies, and trudgeth they wearily and warily back to their real lives, with arms crossed that they might becometh invisible to their vengeful wifeys. And tho few couldst remembereth what hath transpired, all didst agree-eth that at least wert they now CON-Vets, and it must indeed have been good.
And it was.
The University of Dweeb
Many were they who milleth around in yon crowded Warbird skies, and vile was the heav'nly conflagration and great was the destruction and name-calling which layeth upon the Rolling (but not so Rolling as it once was) TerrainTM.
And in the fullness of time did yon newbie pilot Dweebly venture upon the scene, and readeth he yon holy Helpfile, and marketh he well the mystical newsgroup and yon sacred Scroll of Argo, and thus didst he yon Godsteed chooseth, and calleth he it by its legendary name Lightning.
And spinneth upon the runway didst he, and trumpeteth didst yon stallhorn, but yea, verrily didst he finally ariseth and taketh wing. But knoweth not of Flaps didst young Dweebly, and crasheth he to earth in fiery death, and picketh he many cannon shells from lo his very buttocks, and screecheth he, "A pox on thee, vile Zeke dweebs, for two canst that foul stallfight game playeth!"
And ariseth again didst he, in yon whirling dervish Oscar, and many Zekes didst he reapeth and send flaming to earth. But soon learneth he that tho yon flying matchbox was the ambrosia of his mighty Oscar, little else couldst he dent with his Holy Popguns of Antioch, and lo didst he return once again to the Godsteed.
And learneth he many magical incantations, and riseth he up on high, and spinneth and flippeth, and sweepeth he down on yon pitiful Hogflesh and Fiery Spit, and rendeth he much dweebish entrail onto the bloody airfields below. And yea, drag worryeth him not, and chaseth he down many a Mustang, and runneth he swiftly from yon vile FM-2 and Hurricane, and learneth he the magic of the nose-mounted convergenceless headon cannon. And soon didst the cries of "P-38 Dweeb!" ringeth in his ears, and though loveth he dearly his mighty Godsteed, yet didst he tire of magic, and yea, more didst he tireth of exploding into pieces with only a fleeting glance of a gray blur in his 90-degree field of view. And thus beginneth his courtship of Dora.
For lo, swift was Dora, and powerful her mighty thunderbolts, and quickly falleth he under the spell of the Wurger of the Apocalypse. And yea didst he WEPpeth back and forth through yon endless furball, and master of headon and collision code didst he becometh, and like wheat from the scythe didst the dweebs falleth. And never couldst they catch him (except for yon occasional elfin Lightning on pixie-dust) and rolleth he endlessly and lureth them onward didst he, even unto their very doom in his mighty fields of ack. And lo didst the calls of "Doradweeb!" and "Ack-runner!" ring in his ears, but heedeth them not didst he, for Dora had beguileth him, as she didst with all those who are dweebish.
But lo, one day didst cannon shells raketh his beloved Dora, and yea didst critical pieces departeth from his holy airframe, and as he looketh up, verrily was the SunglareTM eclipseth by yet another Rising Sun, and though tryeth mightily to follow he didst, yon green phantom couldst he not catcheth, and flyeth up didst St. Frank on his heavenly wings of Nakajima, and swoopeth back down upon young Dweebly it didst, and splattereth him upon yon countryside, and realizeth he, as he transporteth to his tower, than lo, had he been verrily Boometh and Zoometh.
And so didst young Dweebly biddeth fairwell to the temptress Dora, and for a time travelleth he with St Frank. And clever was St Frank, for climbeth he without peer, and speedeth he back down upon yon unsuspecting Mustang dweebs and separateth them from lo their very wings didst he. And verrily didst Dweebly learn of the mystical Dogfight Flaps, and turneth he even with yon Godsteed, and blasteth it from the sky. And lo, climbeth he even up to yon vile hammerhead turn Messerschmidt dweebs, and applyeth he the Holy 20mm Enema of Antioch to their nether regions, and laugheth didst he at their pitiful Walther P-38 fire from beneath their hapless parachutes. But lo, tiny was the ammo load of St Frank, and many were the sorties in which he creepeth cretinously away at high speed, unarmed, with cries of "Ki Dweeb!" ringing in his ears. And lo, on occasion when he didst checketh his back-and-up, seeth he dots high above, and wondereth he what manner of battle couldst there be so far from earth .
So one day, climbeth young Dweebly high above the mongrel carnage of the endless Dance of the Dweebs, yea, high above the magical "10" on his sacred Altimeter, and spyeth he many blue and silver planes, and creepeth he closer, and watcheth he their hunt, as they swoopeth down upon yon floundering Stallfish like mighty eagles of the sea, and feedeth upon yon Spitfire and Zeke. And so, followeth the Blue Planes didst he, and tryeth to catch them and sweep these high altitude scavengers from the sky. But LO! Tho catch them he couldst, flicketh and rolleth away didst they, and never couldst he bring his Holy Cannon to bear at such great speed. So speedeth he UP again, and avoideth he the Blue Planes, and swoopeth he down upon yon hapless Spits....and misseth! And again streaketh he back UP, and swoopeth down upon yon matchbox Zekes...and misseth again! And thinketh he "What manner of sorcery mayest this be? For never hath St Frank forsaken me." But alas, St Frank compresseth, and walloweth like yon Holy Hippo above 400 knots. And lo, verrily didst yon "ping-ping-ping" sound in Dweebly's ears, and explodeth didst he, for forgetteth he didst about yon Blue Scavengers.
And thus resolveth he to fly the Blue Planes, and worryeth not about cannon ammo, for armeth was he with many multitudes of shiny brass Bullets of Antioch, and much couldst he Sprayeth and Prayeth. And lo didst he climb, ... er, hi didst he climb into yon heavens, and even didst he the mythical "20" of sacred heights reacheth. And swoopeth down didst he, and misseth often at first, but grinneth with delight as yon "500" on the Holy Indicator of Haste was surpasseth. And swoopeth he again and again, and speweth he out Holy Hailstorms of 50-caliber, and rendeth he finally the wings of many hapless Zekes and Spits, and lo, even the unwary Dora and St Frank were powerless to avoid the Blue Roller Coaster of Death. And as his aim improveth, and he learneth to set his Holy Convergence not to 200, as the Wisedweebs of the Stallfight counseleth, nay, but to 400 or yea verrily, even 500, lo didst his score and killstreaks grow. For learneth he the secret: thou mayest kill at 450 kts, or thou mayest run at 450 kts, but thou mayest only die at 150 kts.
And yea, though the tiny voices of the dweebish herd below proclaimeth that he was indeed an "alt monkey" and an "alt dweeb," verrily was he a LIVE dweeb, and verrily were they about to be dead ones. And Dweebly smileth, for he knew it was good to be a dweeb. And it WAS good.
Long must thou read, but DirectX 5 wilt thou vanquish...
For a time, all was peaceful in the promised land of Warbirds 2.0. Much killing and colliding with rolling terrain and squinting in the sun came to pass. And verrily did the dweebs gnash at each other and concoct foul schemes to bounce each other from scenario lites and ruin each other's duels. And again did DoK and Doc gaze down from their hate heavens and cackle with glee. For greatly were they pleased with the hate level. For it was good.
But then didst the heavens open, and a foul stench of dead fish-flesh did issue forth, and burned and scorched CPU chips did rain upon the rolling terrain, and fearsome thunderbolts did scourge the earth, leaving gargantuan figures of "95" gouged upon the land. And in the midst of this conflagration, lo the vile demon Billgatezebub rode forth on a texture-mapped Focke Wulf of the Apocalypse, and cunningly did he smile. And when his voice rang out, sweet it was, and seductive. And the dweebs ceased their cowering in the tower of F1, and strode they boldly onto the runway, for they were beguiled.
And thus spake Billgatezebub the betrayer: "Come, mighty dweebs. Come unto me, for I bring thee a gift of great worth. I bring thee the mystical DX5." And the dweebs did rise up as one and sayeth, "Oh Billgatezebub, where hideth thou this magical gift?" And again spake the betrayer: "Hie thee with great haste to www.microsoft.com, and downloadeth thee thy gift." And thus did the dweebs reply: "We shall, oh mighty one, but what will this gift provideth?" And Billgatezebub answereth: "It will give thee FRAMERATE, my children! Thou wilt smite thine enemies and drive them from the virtual skies. Thou wilt become demons in thine own right, yea, verrily wilt thou VETS become, for none who rides the shining steed of DX5 wilt fall to a lesser release."
And a great stampede of dweebs did ensue, and many were they who were crushed and trampled by the lemming-like rush to the website of hell itself. And lo did the dweebs sit breathlessly waiting hour after hour as the 6 meg demon gift trickled through their choking modems. But alas, when the dweebs installeth the magical gift, work properly did it not. And thus did many stampede back to the betrayer, who waited patiently smiling his crocodile smile. "Ah, my children," he spaketh. "Have thou learneth nothing in thy dweebishness? For it is written that never wilt a Microsoft product functioneth on the first try. Yet in my benificence wilt I charge thee nothing for this lesson THIS TIME. Hie thee back to yon website, for I have repaireth the gift, and wilt it now function magically, as I have told thee.
And AGAIN rusheth the dweebs to the very Gates of hell, and endureth they another endless download. And gleeful were they when they found that the gift of DX5 functioneth as Billgatezebub promiseth. And many were the claims of increased framerate, and happy were they who could now flyeth in 1024 res in 2.0. And thus were the DX5 dweebs born.
For again did the heavens open up, and like rabid dogs did the Focke Wulfs of the Apocalypse stream forth, and rippeth they the entrails of the DX5 dweebs, and streweth they the pieces of dweebish aircraft about the Rolling TerrainTM.
For lo did the DX5 gift from hell verrily porketh the joystick routine, and fouleth it the very rudder with which the dweebs could have avoideth the vile headon slime dogs.
And in the midst of the carnage, in the midst of the rending and gnashing of the DX5 dweebs, did the voice of Billgatezebub ring forth, and long did he laugh. "Foolish dweebs!" cryeth the betrayer. "Learneth thou nothing in thy years of windows dweebishness? For never wilt thou fly Warbirds with DX5. Functioneth it ONLY with FIGHTER ACE! Removeth it canst thou not, for it is entwineth with thine Windows 95 structure. Wisheth thou a full re-install? Soon wilt thou FIGHTER ACE dweebs be!" And with a cackle of laughter and a tremendous thunderclap, disappeareth the betrayer.
And now doth the DX5 dweebs shrieketh, for none were they who wouldst enter the nether-regions of Fighter Ace, for tho dweebs might they be, yet were they Realism Dweebs, and many were they who now cursed the betrayer. And call out did they for salvation, but DoK and Doc remaineth silent, for oft times must dweebs learneth harsh lessons. But then suddenly didst the heavenly conflagration subsideth, and didst the sun breaketh through. And lo, it was a good sun, and no longer blindeth the full view, but now hideth the cons of thine enemies. And it was good. And from out of the 2.01 sun rideth the angel Jedi, and sputtereth did his rickety Hurricane, yet turn in tiny circles did it, and speweth forth flame from its holy cannon of Antioch, but only for a short time. And thus didst the angel speaketh: "Fear not, poor dweebs, for the answer to thy sins lies far in thy future, but yet is it upon thee even now." And many were they who furrowed their brows and sayeth "Huh?" And didst the angel speak again. "Thou must look far ahead, to the promised land of Back to Baghdad, for Nuketh much must we, and no nukes have we here." But yet were the dweebs still befuddled, and the angel didst sigh. "Very well. Understandeth thee may not, but followeth these steps, and thine old computers wilt thou recovereth."
"First must thee clicketh on Start-Run, and typeth thee REGEDIT. If it worketh not, seeketh thee in thine windows folder for the holy Regedit.exe file, and double-clicketh thee upon it."
"Now must thee thine current registry exporteth, to some easily remembereth file such as Regedit.bak. Heed thee this step carefully, for if thee thy windows setup porketh, must thee the registry restoreth, and must thee therefore thy old registry saveth."
"Then wilt thee commenceth to nuke. Much wilt we nuketh, and much fun wilt thou have, for thou wilt nuketh many Microsoft directories, and tho this is fearsome, it is also good."
"First must thou openeth the directory HKEY_LOCAL_MACHINE\Software\Microsoft.
Thence: Nuketh thee thy Direct3D directory. Nuketh thee thy DirectDraw directory. Nuketh thee thy DirectPlay directory. And verrily wilt thee thy foul DirectX directory nuketh."
"Next wilt thou thine C:\Program Files\directx directory happily nuketh, and then wilt thou shutteth down and restarteth in DOS mode thine now dangerously modified computer, for foul Windows 95 wilt not let thee thy windows files nuketh."
"From DOS mode must thee thy following files nuketh:
•C:\win95\system\ddhelp.exe wilt thou nuketh. •C:\win95\system\ddraw*.* wilt thou nuketh. •C:\win95\system\dsound*.* wilt thou nuketh. •C:\win95\system\dinput*.* wilt thou nuketh. •C:\win95\system\d3d*.* wilt thou nuketh. •C:\win95\system\dplayx.dll wilt thou also nuketh. •C:\win95\system\dpmodemx.dll wilt thou nuketh. •C:\win95\system\dpwsockx.dll must thou nuketh tooeth. •C:\win95\system|vjoyd.vxd wilt thou nuketh. •And verrily wilt thou C:\win95\system\joy.cpl also nuketh as well."
"And lo, now may thee restart thine Windows95 and reinstalleth thee thine DirectX 3, for the betrayer's gift hath been exorcised from thy holy hard drive, and troubleth thee never more will it."
And many were the dweebs who threw themselves down and thanketh the Gods for sending the angel, but many also were they who quaked in fear, and cowered, saying "Deleteth we Windows files? Restarteth in DOS mode? Art thou crazy, oh angel Jedi?"
And the angel did answereth, as his "swift" Hurricane bore him off into the now-lovely sunset. "Tryeth this at thine own risk, and blameth me not if thine Windows 95 is reduceth to ashes, for many are they for whom this hath worked, and even I in my dweebishness have partaken of the betrayer's gift, yet have I healed myself, by the gift of Saint Spinny. And lo I say unto thee, if thee screweth this up, thine own fault will it be, for thou art still dweebs, and shall always be."
"And it is good."
Days of RPS
And the plea went out across the rolling landscape that the dweebs doth
live in. Oh Lord sayeth the dweebs, Although thou art good to us in our
dweebishness, we need variety so the foul runstangs and butcherbirds
will be not the only avengers in the air. And the lord IEN saw that
this was indeed a worthy request from the dweebs below. Forty days (and
two weeks) did the gods toil and then the heavens parted (yet again).
Know this oh you dweebs below, I have come forth to give thee what thy
asketh for. It shall be called a "Rolling Planeset" that thy can no
longer use the mighty runstang the entire war. In order to aspire to
the lofty height thou wantest, you must first master the earlier
models. Then did the lord IEN givest the dweebs the sacred list into
which was inscribed the sacred periods of Testing called a "Tour". And
lo, the list prescribed whatest the dweebs could use and when. And the
list was long and detailed. No longer could the mighty prevail the
entire war. Many steeds must a dweeb use and many various airplane
parts would be strewn across the land before the dweebs ever set eyes
on Dora the Beguiler. First thy had to survive in the dangerous, yet
fragile Zeke. And perhaps yet court the dangers of the Iron Dog for
mighty is his bite, yet not the most agile is he. For a time, the dweeb
must first master the Gnat, yes the fast and mighty turner. But only
those who do not stress thy wings and test thy structual limits will
survive this test. And then thou movest to the newcomer from the East,
the Yak whose engine dost revolve in the wrong direction and many will
a dweeb fall that forgets the torqueth goes the other way too! And
perhaps the dweeb will test the Lawndart, yea the proud Kittyhawk that
falleth at a mighty pace. And perhaps if they wantest, they may partake
of the trial of "no six view", the Peril of the Dweeb-cat whose
all-around performance is among the mighty, yet treacherous is it.
And no longer should thy mighty fortress thunder endlessly across the
sky, for though must explore the mysteries of the micro-bombers of
Antioch. The tiny Val and Kate must you learn and explore the mysteries
of the plummeting Stuka and Dauntless. For with these craft can you no
longer smite thine enemies from lofty heights. And if you persevere the
test of the speedy yet fragile trials of the Mitchell and the G4M2
"Matchbox", then will you be worthy to ride the Fort, for IEN in their
infinite wisdom, has doth given you two versions. Then, if worthy of
the gift you be, you may find comfort in the steed with the "Cannon of
the Artillery" that can carry the "Holy Hand Grenades of Antioch".
And if thy survives the first tests, then may he proceed to higher
levels of dweebish-ness. To the lofty spires of the Runstang and the
Hog, fly with St. Frank and court Dora the beguiler. Or if thy prefer,
fly secure in the confines of the mighty Fortress protected by the
Sword of "Otto". And if thy waits until the last day, yes verily shall
they feast eyes on the coming of the Stormbird. Fast as lightning is he
and armed with mighty Hammers of Airframe Pounding, yet small is his
ammo loadout and wide is his turns, yes, leagues worth to circle takes
he. For although thou art by far the fastest in the air above, and can
boomest and zoomest even the mighty runstang, thou hast a very high
landing speed and thou must use thy largest fields through great peril.
And if thy survive these, the period of testing, then thy shall begin
anew with another tour of duty.
And the dweebs recognized this as very gift they had requested and were
happy for it was good....
The Epistle of Tos--x
OK, for you sickos who are actually collecting this stuff, the first in a (potentially never-ending) series...
Verrily hath my faithful apprentice tos--x submitteth to me his own offering for the Book. Some slight translation into Dweebish Olde Englishe hath I attempted, and perhaps a line or two of my own hath been added. Thus depositeth we this on thine Holy Newsgroup.
Verse 1: The Holy Bomber of Antioch
Yea, verrily did the Gods of ICI laboreth for 6 days and nights. They hath created the sky, and the seas and the land. They hath created runways and buildings that doth house the mighty creatures of the sky. And on the 7th day did they rest and sayeth that it was good. But the hordes of Dweebs did cry out to the Gods of ICI. "Yea, but we must destroyeth yon buildings and runways that our enemies may not rise up and smite us mightily. We needeth thy most heavenly Holy Bomber of Antioch! A mighty sword that flieth high above with which to rain high explosives upon our vile foes and smite lo his very homeland with many bombs of thunder." And now was much heavenly rumbling and mumbling to occur and speaketh The Gods of ICI amongst themselves and thus did they decree: "For even though base Dweebs art thou, yet art thou also righteous in thy plea, and so a bomber shalt we create. But not just 1 nor 2 nor 3 shall we constructeth. Many shalt we buildeth."
And so it was spaketh throughout the still flat and lifeless 1.0 terrain that parts, and pieces, and bits of many planes shall be brought to ICI. And yea did the Dweebs verrily work overtime and sacrifice many many lambs to the slaughter and consorteth no longer with sheeplike creatures and render unto ICI the parts and pieces. And when a multitudinous host of pieces possesseth they, thence did ICI taketh pieces and parts and createth the ponderous yet mighty B17, and equippeth it with yon Hal-9000 computerized infallible Norden bombsight, and soon followeth it with the swift yet fragile B25, and equippeth it with yon fearsome monstrous Cannon of the Artillery, and filleth it yon cockpit with smoke and shaketh it the entire airframe when it fireth, yet sweepeth it all before it into fiery destruction. And resteth did the Gods not, but knoweth they well that soon wouldst yon Luftwaffe Dweebs commenceth again their incessant whining. And lo it came to pass that after much much clamoring from the Dweebish masses that a German bomber was needed. Thus didst the Gods createth the versatile Ju-88, and equippeth they yon Teutonic knight with the Holy Lance of Neptune, the aerial torpedo, and giveth it not one but TWO such shipkillers, and powereth they the torpedoes with magical hamsters from a mysterious and faraway land. And at first it was good. But alas, it was not ALL good.
For many were the cretinous Dweebs who took the B25's and B17's and the many bombers and useth them not as the Gods of ICI had intendeth. The vile tricksters looketh upon the sacred bombers in wicked and vile ways. They would use them not in a mighty formation at heavenly heights to raineth silent death upon their hapless foe, but singly as a dastardly and despicable DEATHSTAR. Laugheth they their evil laugh and sayeth, "Bring thy Dweeb Doras, thy Runstangs, and thy looping Dweebfire; bring me thy Franks, and Zekes and Dweebish Hogs!" For wieldeth we a sword most powerful and deadly and it shalt smite thee from the earth. We shalt protecteth forever our fields and ships and sheep and thou shalt no more landeth upon our homes and officers' clubs and bordellos and taketh them."
But the Dweeb and Vet alike doth scoff at the "Deathstar Dweebs" and sayeth, "Yet shall ye die in thy dweebish and bloated gunships for we are DORAS and RUNSTANGS and HOGS, and we shall smite thee verily unto the earth and your plane parts shall litter the land." And the HOGS and DORAS and RUNSTANGS doth attack the Deathstar Dweebs and much carnage was upon the land. For the Gods of ICI had given their demon apprentice Otto the speed and accuracy of a Radar Guided Missle system and Otto did smiteth the Runstangs, and Doras and Hogs from the sky as if they be mosquitos swatteth from thine arm.
And the Dweebish masses cried "Yea verrily and woe unto us, the gods of ICI hath forsaken us for Dweebs have we been! They have given men of the land Deathstars to prey upon us and to bring us much woe. For we cannot kill the Deathstars for they have the mighty demon Otto. WOE WOE WOE is US who have had much fun in the land of Warbirds. But the land is fun no more for the Deathstars preyeth upon the lambs and doth slaughter them as if by foul plague." And a pall layeth upon the land. And lo tho much hate did the Deathstar Dweebs generateth, and thereby maketh it good, yet was it also bad.
Verse 2: The Spike of Otto
For even while much carnage was being wrought upon the land by the Evil and Vile Deathstar Dweebs, yet were there still a few truehearted Buff Dweebs. Dweebs of courage and holiness did smileth upon the bomber and sayeth that it was in truth good. They doth rise far on their aluminum wings above 5000ft, above all the Dweebish masses, above all the base furballers and doth use the mighty sword of the holy bomber to lay waste to the enemy fields. Discovereth they the Book of Armaments, and learneth they that it doth contain many mysteries. And learneth they the verse that foretold of the mythic number of 3, and that three shall be the number of the bombing. Pondereth they many nights upon what this meaneth. And then soon discovereth they that the number was the holy host of bombers that was requireth to smite thine enemies main base. The number shall not be 2 nor shall it be 4 nor 5 nor 6 would it be. 3 shall be the number of the bombing, and the number of the bombing shall be 3.
And thus did a group of Dweebs a squadron formeth, to lay waste upon the land. Bold, brave, and courageous they were. And foolish. And useth they the bombers for good carnage and destruction, and not evil, and speaketh they vilely upon the Deathstar Dweebs, and permitteth them not entrance unto their sacred mission. For they shall bring the wrath of man and god down upon the good and just Bomber Dweebs of Honor, and for their wickedess shunneth the Deathstar Dweebs did they.
But soon the ICI gods discovereth and proclaimeth that magical was Otto, and useth he technology unknown even to Wing Commander, and thus shall he be fixeth, and castrateth, and yea rendered almost Dweeblike in his accuracy. And all the Bomber Dweebs doth cry out in despair: "WOE WOE WOE is me, for I shall die without my super Otto," and forgetteth they that it is the province of the Warbirds Bomber Dweeb to die almost invariably. But still they waileth: "The bomber does not take hits like the holy bombers of Olden Times and Beta Test. Taketh not our holy bomber protection away!"
And a cry went out amongst the land to protecteth the pitiful and fragile eunuch bombers, who now spake only with the voice of Ottina. But the masses speaketh with a louder voice. "Otto is not Human, but a vile and magical demon is he. We cannot smite yon dragon for the Otto doth protect him like a lioness to her cubs." And so the Gods of ICI doth fix the Otto and the bombers were protecteth by his mighty particle beam no more. And much carnage doth happen. But lo, learneth the Buff Dweebs that truly mayest the bombers surviveth as a group and yet could they lay waste to the land. But all that was needed was 3.
But soon didst the Bomber Dweebs grow weary of the same endless destruction of F3 and again commenceth the Dweebs to whineth, and a cry went out to the gods of ICI. "We needeth targets and much land to destroy with our mighty Sword of Gelignite. We need buildings and structures with which to fatten our Holy .scores. And needeth we protection from the Dweebish hordes of vile Wurgers and 109s." And another cry rang forth from the Furball Dweebs and the Buffhunt Dweebs. And they cryeth "O Gods, ye must also maketh the fields more difficult to destroyeth, for yon Buff Dweebs wilt surely launch their foul missiles upon us with thine Godlike Eye of Norden, and sweep us verrily from lo our very main fields, and drive us into the shame of a country defeat, and then gloateth on Channel 100."
And so ICI begat IMOL, and then IMOL createth version 2.0 and doth give much strength to the bombers so that 1 vile attacker doth not killeth the dragon with such ease. And much land did they create with many BIG Airfields and many buildings and thus high must the Dweebish bomber pilots climbeth, and many bombers must they taketh, as in the days of old. And the Bomber pilots doth cry that they are again HAPPY. And the Dweebish masses cryeth that they can now slay the dragon and fight them on high and pounce on the escorting protectors that are needed.
And for a time all the Dweebs were again happy. Well, excepting perhaps yon vile Deathstar Dweebs, who fighteth now with pitiful popguns, and must be content to attempt to convinceth their wives of the "true" length of 1/3 cubit. Yet even Deathstar Dweebs need fear not, for IMOL watcheth always. And soon shalt they have cause to rejoiceth, for the Mutant Beast approacheth from the nether regions of 2.01. And he is the Destroyer. But alas, another tale is that.
And the Gods of IMOL doth smileth and say that it is good.
--Firefox (tos--x) and jedi
The Epistle of Doc
Many ages of the dweeb have passed, in thine dweebish online life have passed many ages. Throughout thine pathetic
virtual life, thou hast held strong the lust of VETness, to riseth above the lowly mantle of dweeb, and in so doing has
seen the passing of the 38 dweeb, smote down by the holy model of flap drag and the mighty hand of airflow, which
dost prevent the dropping of gear too early and wouldst blow thy flaps back up if thou wouldst try to employ their
dweebish manner in combat rather than in landing.
Amidst the clamour of the uber-week dweebs, flocking they into thine online quakefield of battle in the main arena to
mount their -4B uber-hogs and 14th mark of uber-spits, to flyeth they the straight line pass, to maketh they the head-on
collision of the uber-week dweeb, amidst this uber-trash exchange of channel-dweeb radio 100, the cry of YAK! that rings
aloud "whereth is thine ammo to smite thee?" and "why dost the gods of iMOL forsake me mine 262 uber-jet?".
Yeay verily, throughout the early ages of thine holy RPS, wherein the lustful of VETness wouldst thou circle in pop-gun
equipped planes for the period of 3 days, maketh those lustful of VETness thine "bbvvvvfff" engine noises in lustful
desire of the ACE, in recognition of the ACM and the rewards of mortal combat and the victory of the razor blade over
the broadsword, lest the blacknight bite your kneecaps.
I say unto thee, oh dweebs, are we not VETs now, having surpassed the need of icons and of training, and flyeth we the holy kites of the .303 pop-guns ?"
"You are not VETs, nor shall you ever be" I declare to thee, "for always shall you be, the flaming dweebs of
usenet, from whose ill begotten womb of user forums you were cast".
And so it was, is, and ever shall be.
The Prophecy of Krod
In the latter days, it came to pass that the prophet Krod didst gird his loins with sackcloth and ashes, and didst remove himself from amongst the Dweebs of WarBirds, and journeyed through the Rolling Terrain (tm) and tarried in a small cave upon the side of Mount Godzilla.
Forty days and nights he humbled himself (no flushing loos were there), and sustained himself on heavenly pizza that didst fall to the ground (from the back entrance of a nearby Pizza Hut).
The Dweebs of WarBirds didst give him up as lost, and great sorrow was upon them. They mourned and beat their breasts (well, the guys anyway), and prepared a fea... fast to show their sorrow.
And on that day, the prophet Krod came down from the mountain, bearing with him a prophecy - great and glad tidings for the Dweebs of WarBirds.
And the Dweebs rejoiced and sayeth, "Let there be feasting, and beer - no, not Shiner, for it tasteth like urine".
And the prophet Krod didst stand on the wing of a Dweebfire, and didst say in a loud voice, "Dweebs of WarBirds, hearken to my words".
"I have received glad tidings, and good news that all Dweebs may be joyful".
"And no more shalt thou land, and have to press the G key to stoppeth thyself hastily, so that thou may see the chant of "WTFG" in the Buffer of iMOL."
"St. Pyro (in his wisdom) hath created the ground forces of the Philistines to capture, yea even the airfields of WarBirds. And they shall fly on wings as eagles, and they shall fall from the sky, but they will not die, neither shall they be hurt. And they shall run faster than horses to the Temple of the Tower, and verily capture it from the evil forces".
"For this purpose, St. Pyro will gird us with the Holy Weapons of Ground Attack."
"To the tribe of the Luftwaffe, he awardeth the Weapon of 190F, to be used wisely with the Trumpet of Stuka, which he didst give thee already."
"To the Royal tribe of the Islands, who hast already received the great Holy Insect, he dost give the Heavenly Wind - the terrible Typhoon. And he mayest also throw in the Beaufighter if LadyHawke will let him work late a couple more nights."
"To the tribe of Billandhilary, he dost give the Shining Invader, and for the first part of the Battle of RPS, he will give thee the Havoc."
"To the tribe of the Red Star, to thee, o neglected tribe of WarBirds, he dost give the Flying Bathtub, the Stormovik."
"And to the tribe of the Rising Sun, to thee the Nick to join the Flying Zippo Bomber."
"He dost desire also to give further great gifts to thee, o Dweebs. But only if thou've been good boys and girls."
"A gift to all tribes, except those of the Romans and the Luftwaffe - the Gooney Bird. And the tribe of the Rising Sun shall bestow the name of Showa L2D on it, and the tribe of the Red Star shall call it the Li-2."
"He wisheth (ptah, ptah) to answer the prayer of that forgotten tribe of the Romans, and will give thee the gift of the Greyhound and the Lightning of Rome."
"And from the clay of the tripled-headed beast of Junkers, he will fashion with great care, the Holy Hunchback of Not a Damn."
"And to the tribe of the Red Star, the two beasts of Lavochkin. They will rain fire and ruin from the sky upon thine enemies."
"The constant prayers of the tribe of the Rising Sun shalt be answered. No longer wilt thou suffer the First Part of the Battle of RPS under the "protection" of St. Oscar with his pair of sharp sticks, and St. Zeke, the One-Shot Tinder Box, whilst the great St. Frank is girding his loins with great swords to smite the enemy. St. Tony shalt be thy new protector and the cause of great sorrow and gnashing of teeth for thine enemies.
"And St. Pyro, as he is wont to do, will give us even more varients. Methinks the Great Well of Varients will runneth dry. You think he's got an F2G in there somewhere?"
And the Dweebs were filled with joy, and didst sing, and the women didst sing and play the tambourine, and the drums (and fetch beer for the men), and all rejoiced.
And it was good.
And then the prophet Krod didst awake from a deep sleep, and curse, for his back was sore from sleeping in caves...
1:1 St. Stigler, unto the New Guineans, who art now attached to the iLZ, which is sacred and holy: Greetings unto thee that fly in yon historical terrain, which is built upon the hoary hosts of the past and yea, e'en the future; for wbngs1.trn on actual New Guinea terrain baseth be.
1:2 It is always wise to reflecteth upon the past; for a glimpse into the past, like a well-timed checking of six, a glimmering into the future, and the greatness it may be, is.
1:3 Alloweth me to bend thine ear to the tale of a time of woe. This time is well marked in the annals of Warbirds, for this time hath also a version attached to it; and this version doth, like so many before it, have a number. And the number was a decimal number. And there was a decimal point
(.) that separated one part of the number from the other. And that number wert two-point-six. And the two wert to the left of the decimal point. And the six wert to the right. And the decimal point wert smack dab in the middle. And two-point-six will that number ever be.
1:4 For, upon that time when, once again, the skies did roil and the clouds did part, and lightning reminiscent of that agile steed Hyate the sky did rendeth, 2.6 didst belch forth from the Gods that were iMOL. And all who thirsteth for this release did think at, lo, that very time, that it was good.
1:5 For, 2.6 did a brand new gunnery system featureth. The unfathomable and the undiscipherable phantoms known to ballistic engineers as dispersion and drop-off importeth into the Holy Code of Antioch wert. And the dweebs, as one, chanted, "This is good".
1:6 And new and sinister weapons wert made available to the dweebs. The first of these fell denizens of destruction, known as skip bombs, wert made known to the dweebs. These weapons would walk gaily upon the seas as like holy deities, and take root in the hulls of ships, where
explodeth they might, and terrible damage wreaketh. And much wailing and gnashing of teeth upon that vessell would ensueth. And the dweebs, as one, chanted, "This is good".
1:7 The second of these fell denizens of destruction, known as parafrags, wert made known to the dweebs. These weapons would float down, lo, almost vertically, on gossamer silken threads, only to leave death and punctured airframes in their wake. And the dweebs, as one, chanted, "This is good".
1:8 And these terrible devices could be cast downward upon the enemies of dweebs by the dragon of the skies called Mitchell B-25. And many dweebs of the holy sect of the church of John Wayne rejoiced. And the dweebs of the church of the Red Meatball reconsidereth and said, yea, only unto themselves, "Maybe this is not quite so good."
1:9 And, to serve as prey for these new weapons, the Gods that were iMOL brought forth upon the sea transport ships. These ships full to the brim with soldiers wert, that might, upon yon distant shore of embarcation, an island overwhelm and controlleth, saying, "This island I claim for the Emperor"
1:10 And 2.6 didst introduce to the dweebs cities upon yon hallowed ground that shaped like croissants wert. And 2.6 didst many ports contain. And each of these ports would spew forth 40mm and 80mm fire. Fire that would issue forth as a red ball of fire, and travel far, far into the air, and explodeth.
1:11 And that explosion would appear as a dirty brown cloud of destruction that an aircraft destroyeth would. Or that would cause the voice of corn, or of Bradburger or any of the gods of sound to issue forth in the cockpits of such an unlucky dweeb, with a noise. And this noise might be, "plink". Or this noise might be "boomp". But this noise seldom a good tiding was, for it might herald the removal of a stab or wing. And the dweebs, as one, chanted, "This is good".
1:12 And finally, 2.6 didst bring into the world of woe a plane called Tony. And many dweebs wondered at Tony. Many dweebs whispered that Tony would climb as did Franz. Some dweebs opined that, when right the conditions wert, Tony would turn with the Zero. And many dweebs whispered that Tony would fly with the Corsair and the Hellcat, and not behind falleth, as wouldst yon aforementioned purveyor of the twisted path, the Zero.
1:13 Yea, few would dream that Tony would also share much the same anemic bite his brethren of the Red Meatball, the Oscar. For, in their utmost wisdom, the Gods that were iMOL didst model only the weakest and most anemic version of the Tony, that scarely one-third of the total Tony production representeth.
1:14 And, as the gods proud and vain wert, they would not such a mistake admitteth. Nay, they waved their hand in a fashion most dismissive, saying: "This Tony only for a narrow period of the battle for New Guinea designeth wert; thus, the twin-cannoned, more competitive Tony we needeth not." And, secretly, the scions of the church of John Wayne wailed and cried many tears of relief, and much beer did they consume and many sheep did they ravage. For, the ears of the Gods of iMOL had they, and blessed wert they among the collected dweebs of Warbirds.
2:1 When, once again, the skies did roil and the clouds did part, and lightning reminiscent of that agile steed Hyate the sky did rendeth, 2.6 didst belch forth from the Gods that were iMOL, many dweebs conferred and thought, that it would be good. And it was good. But, not all dweebs for optimal performance of 2.6 prepareth wert.
2:2 After the annointed server for three days and nights did burn, and the dweebs did download this version 2.6 unto their systems, they did, as a plague of locusts, descend upon the new, hallowed ground that was wbngs1.trn. For this hallowed ground wert selected for a Historical Scenario of New Guinea in 1942. And this scenario would commenceth within days. And the dweebs thirsted for knowledge of Port Moreseby. And the dweebs yearned to learn the secrets of Lae and Buna. And many dweebs of the Red Meatball ached to make the pilgrimage to the shrines of Rabaul, under the smoking volcano that one day all of Rabaul covereth would.
2:3 And the dweebs of the church of John Wayne into their Mitchells did climbeth. And the dweebs of the Red Meatball into their new Tonys did climbeth. And these dweebs did marvel at the new cockpit art. And they didst discover another small gift that was of the Gods: the dweebs could lean out of their very cockpits and wag their tongues in the breeze, yea, like dogs, and watch the proceedings from the very nose of their mount. But, lo, I doth digress....
2:4 And the dweebs of the church of John Wane did meet the dweebs of the church of the Red Meatball, and in combat of the mortal variety didst they intend to embark. But then, did it to many dweebs clear becometh: 2.6 a cruel joke from the Gods of iMOL wert.
2:5 For when the dweebs flew over the cities of the croissant shape; and when the dweebs over the many ports did pass, and when the guns of 40mm and 88mm did begin to fire; and when the new ships, which containeth many soldiers that upon islands their hegomony spreadeth wouldeth, did sail within view;
2:20 And when many dweebs an enemy dweeb in their sights would findeth, and attempteth they would to wrestle with the demons of dispersion and the devils of the drop-off, they would fire, and lo! A successful solution wouldeth they find. For the sparks and the Holy Hit Sprites (tm) from the target would fly. But, also would fly the target....away from yon disbelieving dweeb of 20% remaining ammo.
2:21 And as many dweebs gnashed their teeth and waileth with the passing of the d10 laser removal of the wing, didst many veterans of the Hartman solution toil with the d1.8 "gunnery pass of the Christmas tree". And many dweebs who terribly smitten were, flew on, smug in their evasive capabilities; until the time would come when they would watch another dweeb from thier guns flyeth.
2:22 And many dweebs of the church of the Red Meatball flew and frolicked in their Tonys. But when they dove or turned as a whirling dervish, didst they litter the new, jungle terrain with parts and airframes, for lo, thier very wings like the mythical wings of Lazarus, flying too close to the sun, wert. The wings would not stay on, but would part with the fuselage as would the wing of a butterfly from its host. And there was much gnashing and wailing of teeth.
2:23 And for every dweeb that marvelled at the croissant cities; and for every dweeb that cast down skip bombs upon the new fleets; and for every dweeb that strove to master yon Tony of the detachable wing; there wert 2 other dweebs who their very Warbirds account feareth.
3:1 For these dweebs not of the true tribe of dweebs wert; many of these dweebs a partial claim to the mantle of vet could maketh; and, many of these dweebs much of dispersion and deflection shooting kneweth; and many of these dweebs gunnery percentages well into the teens had enjoyeth, as sage of the ways of Hartman wert they.
3:2 And, brethren, I say unto thee: I was among this class of dweeb. I gnashed my teeth as target planes
3:7 ....and through a perfectly timed burst unharmed wouldst fly. And, I say unto thee, verily: it was not good. And I watched as my gunnery percentage from 20% to 2% didst drop. And based on the same d1.8 distance were these shots taken, as before version 2.6. And I was vain. And I was proud. And I could not accept a 90% drop in gunnery, new gunnery code or no. And I wailed, and cast at the air. And upon the floor did I cast mine joystick on many occasions.
3:8 And to alt.games.warbirds did I go to complain, and gnash publicly my very teeth. And I found that there wert two classes of veteran dweebs: those who shared my problems and those that did not.
3:9 And for many days and nights did the debates range. And the purveyors of the new system that was 2.6 mightily didst proclaim: "Bitch thou not, o dweebs, yea, verily learn to shoot; for the time of d8 kills on a regular basis the way of the dodo art gone; ye must get in close, within d3 at the furthest, to smite thine enemies from the skies."
3:10 And, yea, as mightily as they, didst I proclaim, as a cornered feral cat: "Explain thou not to ME of the Hartmann solution; for this is my bread and my butter; my rod and my staff. Few lessons on gunnery from the likes of thou do I require."
3:11 And many dweebs didst agree with me; and many dweebs didst agree with mine enemies. But, at a safe distance from the fray did sage, wise and hoary dweebs confer. And many numbers didst they compare, and many statistics didst they compile.
3:12 And these dweebs had handles. And these handles were St. =avin= and St. -deft-. St. Ndrtaker and St. Doom. And much experience had they. And wise in the ways of servers and lag wert they. And above the din of the Debate of the Neo-Gunnery didst they proclaim, saying, "AHA! I believe we have found yon problem!" And the dweebs halted their bickering (I among them), and turned their heads and listened to the hoary, sage dweebs.
3:12 And the new saints said unto the dweebs: "Thine problem is not thine gunnery solution. Thine problem is not thine chosen mount. Thine problem ist thine CPU!"
3:13 And the new saints said also unto the dweebs assembled: "Many numbers hath we cruncheth, and many PCs hath we testeth in our holy workshops, and many dweebs hath we questioneth, and we hath discovereth a new testament: new minimum system requirements!!"
3:14 And a rumble issued forth on alt.games.warbirds from the dweebs assembled. And it was loud. And it said, "OH! GRMMMRMRMRMRMRMRMRMRMRM!" And then the rumble subsided so that the new saints, chief among them St. =avin= and St. ndrktaker, could finish.
3:15 And the new saints said, "Unfurl the metal covers of thine PCs and look thou upon the face of your CPU. Yea, we predicteth that if the number of the megahertz containeth therein does not exceed 250, lost art thou. E’en at 275 wilt version 2.6 test thine very patience.
3:16 And the new saints continued: "When thine CPU at the rate of at least 300 – 350 MHz runneth, preferably 400, then wouldst these demons of frame rate madness be cast out of your Warbirds sessions. This is the gospel of the System Requirements. So let it be written. So let it be upgraded."
3:17 And the dweebs that spake forth, "Learn to shoot, ye dweebs for all is fine with 2.6" checked their CPUs. And ye, invariably wert the number of the megaherz at or in excess of 400. And the dweebs that still whined and gnashed teeth and watched as target planes
3:22 ....and through a perfectly timed burst unharmed wouldst fly
3:23 didst check their CPUs. And ye, invariably wert the number of the megaherz below 300. And mine wert among them, with a speed most lacking of but 200 MHz.
3:24 So, off to the hardware store did I hither, and a new tower did I build, blessed with a CPU of 400 MHz, without resorting to overclocking.
3:25 And I will not bore thee with the story of the arduous task of building this beast, and the trials I endureth with the worst case of Windows 95 corruption known to man or God. Speak thee with St. Ndrtaker for the details, if knowest thou must.
3:26 But I, like many other Dweebs of the Plague of Low Megaherz CPUs, returned to the skies of Warbirds 2.6 and found that the ways of the low gunnery and planes that stoppeth in midair (and cause many unnecessary verses in this Gospel) had come to an end.
3:27 And I could anew appreciate the version that was Warbirds 2.6. And I could finally see, despite the cannon-less Tony; despite the lack of CV groups in yon New Guinea terrain; despite the missing rivets on yon Tony’s wings; that it was good.
Doradweeb; The Gospel of Fop1
Fie upon thee all...for, in answer to thy cries for the Gospel of the Dora dweeb, did once more speak the Gods to me of things Warbirds, that I might presenteth to thee....
The Dora Dweeb
Many were the Dweebs that flew, and yea, even more plentiful were the Dweebs that died. And many were the reasons why they died.
For there were dweebs that did not turn. And they flew into the shells of pursuers and died. And there were dweebs that did turn, but lo turned too long, failing in their dweebishness to preserve the precious E, that elixer that doth mean life. They lost all energy, and were unable to evade or beguile their pursuers. And they died. And there were dweebs that pursued the wicked path of the Boom n Zoom. Verily didst these dweebs hurl themselves from on high upon their foes, and at a great pace. But many were the number of these dweebs who did not once more strain for the heights after targeting their foes. Verily didst these dweebs also give into vile temptation and turn, without the benefit of low wing-loading. And they died.
But even more plentiful were the dweebs that could not run fast, and they died. And died and died. And voices cried out among them, saying, "If only I could run as fast as that swiftest of all steeds, the Mustang." But they continued to fly the Zero, or the Hog, or the Spit for they felt that they were good.
Yea, verily did the gods that dwell at iMOL hear their cries. And once more did the sky open up and the clouds roil. (Verily didst this phenomenon of the skies happen every other month, it didst seem....)
And the gods spoke, and said, "I giveth thee, thou dweebs, another steed of speed. It is in the shape of a woman most fair, and she is called, Dora." And she was good.
For Dora was lo, another plane of the variety the dweebs called, "Late War". And Dora was like the vilest of beguilers, for she could run even faster than the legendary Mustang. And she had a fell firepower, tho not so heavy and so fell as her brethren, the FW190A4.
And the dweebs, in particular the Luftwaffe dweebs, looked upon the visage of Dora. And they climbed into the virtual cockpit of Dora. And they flew Dora. They flew Dora at speeds well over 500 IAS. And maintaineth control at these dire speeds did they. And they saw that Dora was good.
Soon, the dweebs that hath made of their mount the Mustang, looketh behind them, and spieth theys planes that did not fall behind them in a dive. Lo, these planes gained, and spat out fell quantities of shells, and these shells did find their mark in wings, and stabs, and cockpits and engines. And the Mustang dweebs died. And many Mustang parts did rain down upon the flat, lifeless terrain.
Also many were the host of Spits, and Zekes, and Hogs and heavies that also did encounter the mighty Dora. And many times, they died. But also many were the times when they did fend off Dora. But, when trieth did they to finish off Dora, mostly slip through their grasp did she, diving to safety at a speed most unworldly, as if by magic. And the dweebs shook their fists, crying bitterly, "Run, thou Hunstang...for thou art more craven and cowardly than thy brethren the Runstang!"
And the skies did ring out with the boasts of many dweebs beguiled by Dora. "Art we not now vets??" they cried. "For we swoop low, and fast, and we smite the slower dweebs, e'en tho turn we do not. And many, many missions do we land, for none can catch us, nay, not even the mighty Mustang! I say thee again, Art we now Vets??"
And the chorus rose up from the land: "Nay, thou art but dweebs with fast late war planes that oft doth run. Mere Hunstang, Dora dweebs art thou!"
Lo, at the same time, the Mustang pilots did cry unto the heavens, and bitterly. "O iMOL Gods!" they did cry. "Thou hast forsaken us Mustang dweebs, as no longer the fastest in the sky are we!" And the iMOL Gods did check their calculators. And the iMOL Gods did re-calculate their flight models. And the iMOL Gods did check historical data on Dora the Beguiler. And once more (as if by clockwork) did the skies open up. And the Gods that were iMOL did again speak. And the Gods uttered forth: "Oops!"
For the Gods that were iMOL did falsely calculate the weight of the mighty Dora, such that it were more than 40 stone too light. And, though omnipotent and all-knowing were they, they didst admit this dweebish of all errors. And many holy shoulders did shrug.
Lo, when the Gods that were iMOL didst offer upon the dweebs WB 1.11, they did heap the burden of 40 stone upon the Dora. For it was in keeping with the history of Man, and it was good.
Yet many were the dweebs that still did fly Dora, for they were visited by spirits that foretold of this Burden of 40 Stone. And, lo, did the wiliest of these Dweebs always load 100% fuel into thier mount. And much practice with the added weight had they, when the Burden of 40 Stone came to pass.
And when Dora was encumbered with the Burden of 40 Stone, smug and complascent were the dweebs enamored of the Mustang. And they swore this oath: "Fastest of the fast once again are we. Never shall Dora find me in her sights again." Only seconds passed until once again, Dora had pursued and placed the Mustang dweebs in her sights. And once more the mustang dweebs died.
And once more did the voices of the dweebs rise to the heavens, and bitterly did they cry to the Dora dweebs. And many and fell were the taunts. For still fast and fell was mighty Dora. And many were the dweebs that did fly her. Because she was good.
The Epistle of Fop1
An Historical Tale of Icons
For a time, the Warbirds flock flew, and killed, and taunted, and stole bases from their brethren, only to have them stolen in turn. And the flat hills were alive with ack, and fiery crashes, and crafty ditches. And the seas roiled with exploding destroyers and cruisers. And, lo, did the mighty CVs also heave to, tossed about by an endless rain of 1000lb bombs. And the flocks became divided by color and hardened in heart. There arose the Kermits, so annointed for their jade icon. And there came the Red Santas, scorned by many, for among their ranks could be found the lowest, yea rankest, yea newest of Dweebs. And there came forth the Barneys, tho none among them could truly decide if this be the name they would accept as their own. For lo, together they could rarely decide on anything. And there remained the Golds, those to whom a derisive nickname would not stick, much like the teflon coating attached to the wings of their favored P-38Ls. And the Dweebs flew. And the Dweebs fell. And it was good. But then, a cry issued forth from the dweebs in the Wilderness...
"iMOL, hear our cry! Couldst there not be even more??" And the clouds shook, and eternal night crashed the computers of many. And lo, the daylight once again dawned. The clouds parted, and a voice rang out from on high. And it was loud. And it said, "I give you...... 1.11! In it you will find all you need for maximum enjoyment. For behold: mannable guns! And behold: the Jug and the Warhawk and the Val and the Kate and the Oscar! And behold: torpedos thou canst fling against the mighty flak bearing CVs. And behold: crosshairs ye can make in thine own favorite shape. And behold: observer postitions, that thou might learn from thy non-dweebish brethren. And behold: I give you a voice like mine (though nay, never as loud) thou canst transmit to thy dweebish brethren. This I give unto you, o dweebs, that thy thirst might be quenched."
And an annointed server burned day and night for two days, as the dweebs downloaded this 1.11. And it was good, but lo, was it...... buggy. 1.11 crashed as dweebs trod upon the hallowed ground of the server. 1.11 crashed as dweebs attempted to flee the chaos of the server. 1.11 crashed as multiple dweebs attempted to crowd onto bombers, and into the back seats of single-dweebed fighters. And 1.11 crashed the Macintoshes of dweebs for seemingly no good reason. And chaos reigned for a time. And the bugs were cast into the flames of the v2 and the v3, and, finally, at long last, 1.11 was good again.
And the flat hills were alive with ack, and fiery crashes, and crafty ditches. And the seas roiled with exploding destroyers and cruisers. And, lo, did the mighty CVs also heave to, tossed about by an endless rain of 1000lb bombs... and torpedos. And historical Solomons scenarios raged. But once again, certain dweebs were not satisfied. They craved something more. And it was not the false icons of other games. Nay it was something far more blasphemous. It was.... no icons at all.
Thus was begat....the HA Dweeb. The HA dweeb left the flocks of the orthodox dweeb for a icon-forsaken land known as the Historical Arena. Ye may also know it as the HA. And there the dweebs fought many fewer dweebs like themselves. And the dweebs flew above 5K feet. And the dweebs executed historical bounces, as their dweebish victims failed to divine their approach. And the dweebs did tempt the dweebs of the Main Arena, that they might join the HA dweebs. And, lo, the HA grew. And bombers did begin to appear. And Dortmund and Essen and Frankfurt did once again cower under an umbrella of dweebs: hard-turning Spits and slashing Focke Wulfs. Agile P-38s and crafty 109s. And the dweebs partook of flight without the holy icon of iMOL and saw that it was good.
The Epistle of -ik-
A Tale of Great Woe
...And it was good.
But back in the land of 1.11, all was not well. For thy lowly dweeb macintosh users had not yet been led to the promised land of 2.0. Fleweth they in a flat arena with just a few of their beloved brethen, and many days and nights did they toil to find a fight. And heareth they lessons of joy that graced the promised land of 2.0, and repined they for that place, and for the humble hurricane, and the infamous dweeb 110 that was graced by magical otto to protect their 6 from greedy p38s, but for the lethargic avenger they hast not given a damn, for no dweeb relishes a plane that does not cast fellow dweebs down to the earth with screams of dweebishness on channel 100.
And to heaven did the mac dweebs cry out! "iMOL, why hast thou forsaken us? Are we not worthy of the promised land of 2.0? Do we not smite the alien p38, speedy doras and mighty ki84s, like f4u, 109, and p51 drivers should? Dost thou not believe that we are vets who are worthy of the promised land?
And crashed open the heavens and the great Cal did speak: "Lo thou hast begotten me a headache, yea you will be lead to the promised land, but I have need of more hours, and better health insurance. AND NAY, thou art not vets at all!" and then rose the great chorus of 2.0 "Nay, thou art not vets, thou art WHINING DWEEBS!!! For thou hast beridden our usenets and discussion boards with your useless bitching. Do your 1.11 pc user brethen whine like you, nay but they are humble."
And so the lowly whining dweebs lowered their gazes in shame for they remembered that "avec le patience, on arrive a tout."
Continueth they the lowly whining dweebs to vultch other dweebs taking off with only .50 caliber ack to fear. For they hath realized that such dweebishness would not be tolerated by the great gods of 20mm, 40mm, and 88mm flak of the promised land of 2.0. And remembereth they their good fortune to have 1.11, and it was good.
The Epistle of Slyone
A Dweeb's Enlightenment
Recently, by yon Holy Carrier Pigeon of Antioch, hath I receiveth this missive from the Apostle Slyone. Upon reading of yon pitiful tales of Holy First Flights below, it occurreth to me that an opportune time this might be with which to regale thee yet again with another tale from the Book of Dweeb. A sad tale it ist, and most unseemly. For telleth it does of wasted youth, and the evils of pride. But yea, it ist also a tale of repentance, and perhaps, tho no further missive hath I receiveth, a tale of redemption. But read on, for not my words are these (though some few slight corrections to yon Dweebish Englishe hath I applied), but those of young Slyone...
A long time ago in a basement far, far away.....
Verse one: The Saga of Fighter Duel
And it came to pass in those days that beguileth was I by the lovely temptress beknownst as Fighter Duel. For beautiful wert her graphics, and lo, fast was her frame rate, yea, even on yon lowly 486. Many times doth I play.
And many times doth I perish. For hidden from mine eyes wert the sacred doctrines of E and E fighting. But behold, hidden wert they also from the mighty AI pilots. And thus didst I learneth. And I doth perish some more, and I studyeth and learneth the sacred doctrine of Boometh and Zoometh. And it came to pass that I tasteth of the sweet wine of victory, and yea, often doth I drink of it. And soon couldst I besteth even the mighty Ace, and lo, on rare occasions even two of them. And in my foolishness I spake unto myself, saying "Am I not now a Vet? Verily I am, for I canst defeat the mighty Ace." And behold, from the dreams of childhood didst delusions of grandeur springeth up. "Now canst I smite all mine enemies from the skies (in fiery conflagration, of course). For who is the sim pilot who can standeth against me? Verily, he doth not exist!"
And soon cometh it to pass that the blessing of Net Duel was bestoweth upon the temptress Fighter Duel. And lo, didst the eager masses rejoiceth. So I inviteth all my friends and their magic flight sim boxes to congregate in my basement. And a great many network cards didst we installeth. And yea, many more hours didst we wasteth in tempestuous battle with the vile beast called Win95. Time, times, and half a time fought we against the beast, and much cursing and blasphmy was heapeth upon the great deceiver Billgatezebub, but lo, finally didst we prevaileth. And behold, from this great labor was begat:
Verse two: "The Network Party."
With the great multitudes gathered in the (un)holy Basement of Gaming Bliss, the CD-ROM drives didst grind long and hard to bestow Net Duel upon all my friends' and followers' PCs. And many were the planes that flew, yea, and many were the planes that falleth blazing upon the Not-so-rolling Terrain (tm). They fell along with Doritos and canned pop and pop corn and corn dogs. Pizzas were devoureth and many crumbs didst falleth upon the carpeting of the most (un)holy Basement.. And behold, didst our demon Dog of the Apocalypse rejoiceth, for never hath he eaten so well. And lo, the crumbs and junk food wrappers didst continue to fall, and high didst our electric bill riseth, even up to yon heavens. For many were the 17-inch monitors in the Basement of Gaming Bliss, and the Infallible Meter of Electric Consumption didst spinneth up like a 24x CD-ROM drive. And our utility company was exceedingly blessed. But careth I not, for the master of Net Duel was I, and great multitudes of planes didst I smiteth mightily from yon holy Net Duel heavens. And I saw that it was good.
Now nine was the maximum number of Net Duel players, and the maximum number of Net Duel players was nine. And I delighted in my supremacy of the skies. And declareth I, "Am I not now a Vet, for who can standeth against me? Yea, I am a Vet, for all have fallen before my guns. I hath dashed them to pieces and sweepeth I them from the heavens." And lo, I was deceiveth, and in my deception I gloateth and maketh great boasts. "Verily, ’tis sad only nine canst play," I boasteth, "for verily, verily I say unto thee, I couldst vanquish the great multitudes!!!."
And when I gloateth too much (well, yea, only once), my friends and followers did forsaketh me, and spaketh they as one: "Let us play something FUN, like Quake or Duke Nukem or yea even PONG! For Fighter Duel is a difficult game, yea, who canst understand it?" And behold, the Network Party becometh a slugfest of rocket launchers and nail guns, grenades and pipe bombs! Carnage raineth upon the multitude of players in the Basement, and the most sacred doctrine of Boometh and Zoometh was perverteth and misinterpreteth as Duke Nukem with a rocket launcher whilst on steroids. And the doctrine of Turneth and Burneth was also perverteth and misinterpreteth as the frantic whirling of one trying to escape from yon fiery lava pits, of which many abideth in Quake. And the great multitudes were deceiveth. Even my lovely wife was among those deceiveth, for she spaketh: "Let us not partake in the folly of Net Duel, nay, let us instead drink deeply of the wine of shoot ’em up carnage, for thou shalt surely see that Nails art a girls best friend." And lo, never again was the gleaming beauty of Net Duel beheld at the Party.
Then a great darkness covereth all the land. For there was evening and there was morning, the Next Day. And I reeleth when I beheld the mess we hath made in the Basement, for I knew that the beautiful wife of my youth wouldst not be pleased. And lo, I hath judgeth correctly. Long and difficult was the ritual of the cleansing of the Basement. But what doth not kill me doth make me stronger. Yet behold, I shall be merciful to thee, and wilt spare thee the great torment of its revelations.
Humbled and weary from my sufferings, I returneth to smite the mighty AI pilots. And lo, Fighter Duel soon begat much boredom. And I spake unto myself, saying, "Verrily, this doth sucketh!" For lo, the mighty AI pilots art as predictable as the rising of the sun, and the stall and spin models art most vile and blasphemous. Again I spaketh and I sayeth unto myself and any who wouldst listen, "Woe, woe is us if this be yon WWII Flight Sim of Perfection." And lo (and high), didst my search continueth. And it came to pass that my patience was blessed, for on one quiet eve, I doth make a most righteous discovery......
Coming soon..... Book Two. The (probably endless) Saga of WarBirds
Verily, verily I say unto thee, Ye Olde Englishe doth make my head spinneth.
The Epistle of Wulf
A Tale of the Destroyer
...and now a great Tremor shook the earth, and a great wailing came down from the Heavens, and the dweebs and vets, yea, all who dwelt in the land of WB 1.11 were filled with terror.
And the Old Gods of IMOL did proclaim that all should be cast into that land known as WB 2.0. "But do not worry" they spoke, "it will be more detailed and better and faster". And though there were some dweebs who doubted this, it still remained true that all the inhabitants of the now seeming heaven of WB 1.11 were still nonetheless dweebs, and their worries were forgotten as always, when the most deceiving of the Old Gods, he known as PYRO, who dislikes speech, dislikes everything perhaps but his trusty demonic mount of the IJN Heavens - known by the mere dweebs as Hayate - did cloud their minds with promises of new aircraft. Among this host was the Zerstorer, and it hath 2 engines, and many large guns, and many small guns, and it was protected by an Angel of Otto sent down by PYRO himself - for PYRO sayeth "I have created this aircraft, and it is good, but how shall I protect it from the swarms of greedy P-38 dweebs, yea how shall I protect it from the swarms of greedy dweebs in general? Verily, I shall give it the sword of Otto, and it will be good".
Now he spoke not to the dweebs of this, wishing to see them destroyed by pride. For the dweebs were numerous, and their thoughts were blinded by the ancient stories of the Battle of Britain. And many dweebs did say to themselves "I shall devour these Zerstorers, for if they are made from the hand of the God PYRO, perhaps I shalt win his favor through my display of prowess" and they also did say to themselves "I have heard of this Zerstorer, it will be easy to kill, and I will like this" as dweebs are wont to do.
But the Zerstorers did cry out to PYRO, saying "save us! do not be blinded by the stories of old! we are a good aircraft, maligned by the hallucinations of dweebs from the past". Now the Zerstorer was good, his guns were large and numerous, and he was skilled in bringing them to bear.
And when this did happen, thunder screamed in the heavens of WB 2.0, and many dweebs were cast down, low into the earth, and they did scream "Wha-" as cannon tore them apart. And the Evil Old God PYRO did laugh with joy, for it was no regular sword of Otto that he gave to his sons the Zerstorers, but a sword of Otto many times greater than the dweebs had ever dreamed in their nightmares. And yea, the dweebs did fall from the skies no matter which angle they did attack the Zerstorers from. And it was good, said PYRO, for they were too proud, and know they have felt the wrath of the Zerstorer, and PYRO did laugh as the dweebs were devoured by his newest and most terrible twin engined children of the heavens.
But then, the dweebs who chose to side with the Zerstorer grew proud, and they said "are we not Vets? Are we not Great? Do we not slay all who come to us? Yea, we are VETS!" And so these dweebs did foolishly forget the blessings of the Great Old Evil PYRO when he gave them the Super Otto Demon to protect their 6, and they became proud, and PYRO did say "NOW I WILL LAY THE SMACK DOWN, AND ALL DWEEBS PROUD IN THE WAYS OF MY ZERSTORER SHALL GO VERILY TO THE HURT LOCKER" and the Zerstorer dweebs wailed and trembled, and they begged mercy, but it was of no avail, for DOOM had come to those dweebs who had let the toils of the Super Otto Demon do their labors for them.
But yea, some dweebs still fought with the Zerstorer, and they were terrible to behold even when the Otto Demon was made less evil by PYRO. But alas, they were still dweebs, and they died numerous times, as all dweebs do. And in the end, PYRO did still laugh, for he saw what the dweebs of WB 2.0 could not - that no matter what, they were all still dweebs, and they would all die many times, and they would all pay their tithes to the Gods of IMOL, and their wives would wail and gnash their teeth when the VISA bill did come, and because the dweebs were still dweebs, they could not see this, and the Gods of IMOL did laugh a horrible laughter from the Heavens. And when some dweebs were wont to ask "why do you cackle?", the reply would come..."2 weeks". And being dweebs, they were pacified...
The Looping Dweebfire
Yea, in the land of yon holy 2.0 Rolling Terrain (tm), did the Godsteed nameth Lightning reign supreme over the lowly dweebs. "Now art we vets! Slayeth we all lowly dweebs who doth dare oppose us! Yea for we are mighty! Out rolleth, out turneth, and diveth we at yon more rapid speed than even yon looping Dweebfire. Flip turn, dropeth flaps and beguile doth we thy sacred holy flight model. We dost needeth not your so called physics!"
And then didst the blue pastel sky crack open, yea ever more ferociously than whatst any dweeb hath spyed before! The Godz of iMOL then spoke: "Dweebs of yon holy Rolling Terrain (tm), many gifts hath we for thee. Yea, i give thee a new sacred holy flight model. When thou diveth at yon great speeds collapse wilt thou godsteed into a many dweebish pieces. And nay, no longer may thou dropeth thy flaps and turneth at yon un-holy vellocities. Fixeth hast we roll inertia, spins, and ever closer to calling thy dweebselves Vets shalt thou be. Giveth we unto ye dweebs the Rolling Planeset, and most holy be thy Rolling Planeset. And great confusion did sweep the land of yon holy Rolling Terrain (tm). Lastly, unto ye hapless Dweebfire, we grant thee gifts of greatness! Nay, no longer shalt thou toil under thy yoke of Induced Drag. Nay, out turneth ye, and runeth down ye all dweebs who defile thou Dweebfire, with great speed and cannons as yon Dora the Beguiler."
Thank the Godz of iMOL for these most holy gifts didst the dweebs, and gazeth did they upon most un-holy, alien-dweeb Lightnings, and viscous plans of vengeance didst the dweebs make. "Fear ye dost we not dweebs!" Shreeked the 38L dweebs, "for we are Lighnings! Mighty are we and smite all our foes and falleth their dweebish pieces down to yon holy Rolling Terrain (tm) in great number! Vets art we!"
And hence, didst the 38L dweebs cryeth in horror. Diveth down upon the hapless 38L dweebs didst the looping Dweebfires of the Apocalypse at un-holy speeds. And turneth they the looping Dweebfires at great vellocity, and sloweth didst they not, for yon elliptical wings hath been annointed with magical powers. And smiteth thee the Lightning dweebs with two 20mm cannon, obeyeth they not yon holy drag wich strangelith even their most dweebish brethen, yon "Yak From Hell." Spineth the 38L dweebs, dropeth alien flaps couldst they not. Nay, glacial epochs didst come and go whilst the Godsteed Nameth Lightning rolled completly. "RAF dweebs art we no longer! RAF Vets may thou now call us!!"
But nay, the dweebs hadst not completed their flaunting. Rolleth at great speed didst the Uber Hawg dweebs. And slayeth they even yon Runstang, for with great prowess were the Uber Hawg dweebs instilled. Wieldeth they cannon more dweebish than yon holy Whoricane. "Post-war though we may be, Nay, Vets art we now!!" Boasted the Uber Hawg
Lo did blue aircraft pieces fluttereth earthward to yon holy Rolling Terrain. And from the flaming wreckage cryeth the Uber Hawg dweebs. "Dweebfires! Thou art most unholy and posseseth skill dost thou not!"
"Speakest thou from thy flaming wreckage!" remarked the looping Dweebfires. "Nay, haveth we much skill, and smite all foes who oppose us! Vets art we now!" Nay, no other godsteed could opposeth the Looping Dweebfires of the Apocalypse.
And so didst every dweeb fly the Looping Dweebfire. And turneth they at great, unholy speeds and nay, loseth they not their momentum. Smiteth they other looping Dweebfires with cannons of Dora the Beguiler, and believeth they themselves all to be Vets.
Long hath I laboured, and much have I typed.
I hope that this is pleasing to the eyes of you, my brothers (and some few sisters) of Warbirds. Shouldst thou take offense to any part of this....my apologies on the wording, but piss off. ;-)
The Epistle of Kergan
The Tale of the Short-Lived Wonder Hawg
And in the elder days of 2.0, there were may that partook of Warbirds, and many who vultched and were vultched, and didst accuse others of dweebery and ackstarr-edness, and it was good - for the great rift that had divided The Disciples of The Fruit and The (Unwilling) Followers of Billgatezebub had been healed, and all were again united in glorious dweebery. Yet the dweebs were unsatisfied with that which they had (as all dweebs are), and they cried out to the heavens,
"Oh iMOL, we seek MORE planes, and MORE terrains, and BETTER graphics, and 3D!"
And the old God Pyro, who had forseen this omened in the entrails of a rabbit, didst say unto them: "Behold! I give unto thee......2.01! And it hast 3D support, and Russian planes! and new variants of elder planes so that you mayest know all parts of WWII, and not just 1945!"
And the dweebs, emboldened by the success of their demands, did continue unabated...."and controllable cvs, and mannable acks, and roads, and bridges, and tanks, and ground troops, and dams, and...."
And the old God Pyro didst say, "erm, in 2 weeks wilst thou have these things." and retreateth he to Grapevine, content that he hadst survived another announcement with no greater number of orifices that he had begun with.
And the dweebs turned to this new Warbirds 2.01 that had been given unto them, and those that had the power to see 3D didst see it, and call it good. And those that didst not have the power wailed and knashed their teeth, and didst plot for ways to obtain the necessary sacrifices to that pagan god, Hardware.
And as the RPS allowed them, they tooketh up their new rides and didst see that they were fell in the hands of a dweeb that didst respect them.
The pilots who didst use the backwards-R in their spelling were at last in a small way content, for they could at last fly the planes that had the Red Star upon them, rather than flying the planes of their (then) allies.
And the drinkers of warm beer wert given a plane with which to catch the speedy Dora at times, and even the craven Runstangs wert not safe from this, the fastest of the Dweebfires.
And the buffs wert given new drones......oops, ummm, planes... with which to haul their mighty loads of Gellatinite above the furballing masses, so that they might rain destruction upon the baby milk factories and orphanages of their enemies.
But there was one group that wert truly blessed by the new planes. And they didst gather in the towers of the cvs, and hearken unto the elders of their tribe. And they didst hear of the newest Hawg, the late war version that didst have the speed of the Dora and (wonder of wonders) the mighty Cannons of Antioch that had been solely the province of the Not-Too-Big-A-Hurri. And (liken unto its elder brother) this Hawg had the proverbial "Truckload o' Ammo" (tm). And the elders of the tribe didst stay unto them:
"Go forth, jarheads, and slay all who doth stand before you. But turnest not in yon Wonder Hawg, for thou shalt spin out like a small toy boat flushed down the loo by a curious 2 year old."
And with a mighty cry of "My Ass Rides In Navy Equipment, Sir!!" they didst troop out onto the decks of the cvs, and climb into their new rides. And they didst fly out unto the furballs of waterworld, and unto the furballs of the med., and there didst the mighty Cannons of Antioch snap-shots propel their K/Ds to soar up to the neither regions above 1.0, and they didst learn to watch for the 262, and superior E 'Stangs, Doras and XIV's, and they didst cry out "It is Good!! No longer can the speedy Dora out run me, and no longer do we need to climb for 20 minutes to reach altitude from which we mayest swoop down to feed amongst the furballing krill."
But as they didst so, they looked unto their countrymen and saw others flying the Wonder Hawg. Names that they knew from the JG and RAF squads, or worse, names that they knew not at all. And some amongst these unknown others did try to turneth the Mighty Hawg, and they didst tumble and fall and cry out "Mommy!" on channel 100. And with a frown-caused crease upon their sloped foreheads, didst they fly their Wonder Hawgs back to whence they had come, and upon 2-wire trapping, they didst return to the towers of the cvs to consult their elders. And they didst say unto them,
"Sir, we hath seen others flying the Wonder Hawg and we are uncertain, but we do believe them to be dweebs!"
And the elders didst stub out their cigars, and they didst climb into their own Wonder Hawgs, and they didst fly out to espy this themselves. And they didst see a sky thick with Wonder Hawgs that smelt of bubble gum, and Wonder Hawgs that were like unto feed for the waiting Doras, Stangs and Spits, and they didst return to the cvs and say unto their men,
"It is as we had feared, the Wonder Hawg is TOO good, it hath become the chosen ride of the Newbie Dweebs of the Apocalypse. Hie the hence to the Scroll of Argo, and prepare thee thy defenses. For soon shall all who do not fly the Wonder Hawg shall call all who DO fly the Blesséd Hawg dweebs."
And with many grumbles, frowns, and punched walls didst the troops goeth unto the venerable Scroll of Argo, with their defenses ready for the calls of "Dweeb" that would soon ring forth, for they were unused to this, having long flown planes that wert good in all things, but best in none.
And there at the Scroll of Argo, they didst find a thing that hadst not been forseen. They saw cries unto iMOL and the old Gods Pyro and HiTech that the Wonder Hawg be made less, for the criers didst say that the Wonder Hawg wast unhistoric, but none amongst the jarheads were fooled - they saw that these Whining Dweebs didst FEAR the Wonder Hawg. And scarce had the begun their defense of this, their newest ride, that the sky boiled (in a most improbable way) and the voice of Pyro rolled forth over the Rolling Terrain (tm).
"Thou speakest truth, the cannon armed Hawg wast little seen in Real Life War. In 2 weeks it shall be given .50 cal spears of lead to replace the Cannon of Antioch that we hath wrongfully given unto it." And the sky didst return to it's 3D rendered stillness, as the dweebs did digest this latest curve-ball that the Old Gods had chucked down the pipe.
And the jarheads didst sigh, and with faces of stone didst they return to the towers of the cvs and say unto their elders,
"Sirs, we hath failed. The old god Pyro hath said that the Wonder Hawg will be made less, the Newbie Dweebs of the Apocalypse hath taken our golden child from us."
And their higher ranking offices (for none amongst this proud tribe wouldst call them SUPERIOR officers), didst mull this latest tidbit, and drawing deeply upon their cigars they looked upon their charges. And they didst say unto them,
"Semper Fi, knowest not what this meaneth? Canst thou handle the truth? The -4 Hawg will be made LESS dweebish, and the Newbies shalt return to their Dweebfires, 'Stangs, and Doras - or perhaps a new plane that wilst come in 2 weeks. But they shall no longer fly amongst us in our Hawgs. Perhaps the Old God Pyro wilst even look upon the FM of the -4 and giveth it a better turn rate now that it doth carry less weight in its wings."
And the pilots did look to each the other, and they didst smile upon one another. And they didst walk out onto the deck of the cvs and turn their gaze South (or East, or West, or even North) in the direction of Grapevine, waiting for the new version to come forth from iMOL.
And it was good.
The Book of MacDweeb by Spitboy, Dog, and Dwarf
Verse 1: And it Was Good
In the beginning there was Macintosh, and it was good.
Verse 2: Form for the Masses
But, Macintosh was dark and formless, so, the Creator Jobs said,
"Let there be Quickdraw." And thus createth he and his minion
Atkinson Quickdraw. And, lo it was very good.
Verse 3: The Codeman Cometh
Therefore sayeth the creator Jobs, "Let there be programs to
useth the miracle Quickdraw and programmers to hack much
wondrous code." And thus it came to pass. And, this too was
Verse 4: Kelton's Gaze
Therefore came into being the Wizard Kelton. Kelton gazed upon
the wonder Quickdraw and sayeth, "Good this art, but fast it
aint." So, he set about creating custom rendering routines. Much
high speed scanning, transforming, translating with filling and
blitting did thereby ensue, and this too was good.
Verse 5: And it Will be Called Air Warrior
And Kelton didst come to see that a Master Edifice was needed
to enclose his wondrous, high-speed routines. Thus was born Air
Warrior. It too was good.
Verse 6: Singing and Great Joy
The multitudes began to hear tell of this Air Warrior and began a
clamor to partake thereof. Therefore didst Wizard Kelton return
to his labors. Soon didst he conceive Atari Air Warrior and Amiga
Air Warrior and DOS Air Warrior. These too were good, but
incomplete. Therefore didst the Wizard Kelton create upon the
Plain of Unix the Tower of Aries. And it was very good, for thus
couldst the flavors of Air Warrior communicate in a common
tongue. For a time all was well.
Verse 7: And it WAS Good
Therefore didst the Wizard Kelton bring forth a virtual entity
known affectionately as "DOSAW." Hosted first on GEnie, and
subsequently on an ISP put together with wire-wrap, bubble
gum, and hope (otherwise knownst to the dweebs as Concentric
net), DOSDweebs, AmigaDweebs, and MacDweebs could fly
together, fight together, die together, and haveth a wonderful
time. And it was good.
Verse 8: Doctrine and Dogma
And thus it came to pass that all manner of Veterans and
Demi-Ghods and Dweebs arose into the Air Warrior firmament.
These were disputatious and contentious folk. The Doctrine of
MoNanas contended with the Dogma of Deathstars. The Veteran
fed on the Dweeb and the Demi-Ghod fed on all. This begat the
Holy Principle of HATE.
And it was good.
Verse 1: Comes Beelzebub
But lo, onto the face of the firmament strideth the demon
Billgatesebub. And he didst whisper all manner of lies into the
gullible ears of the multitudes. And the Wizard Kelton, being
naive in the ways of demons, didst believe the sweet
blandishments of the demon Billgatesebub. Lies of
Standardization and market-share. Lies of DirectX and greater
speed. All manner of lies about the superiority of Windows over
MacOS. And it was bad.
Verse 2: The Exodus
And Amigadweebs, and Ataridweebs didst harken to the demon
Billgatesebub and abandon their faithful platforms. And
DOSdweebs, (having already sold their souls unto the foul
demon), didst also flock in numbers unprecedented; flinging
themselves, to their shame, wholely and completely into the
cesspool Windows. And it was very bad.
Verse 3: The Fall of Man
Thus didst DOSAW beget AW4W. But the demon Billgatesebub
was not satisfied and sent forth his ally AOL to further sunder
the ranks of the AW faithful. This begat the downfall of the Tower
Aries and caused the closing of DOSAW in all its glory and the
ignominious devolution of the faithful Ren and Stympy to serving
creatures for Carddweebs. This too was bad.
Verse 4: Behold the False Prophets
Thusly didst the DOSDweebs, in increasing numbers abandon the
faith for the false promises of AW4W, a creation of the Evil AOL
God. And after the DOSDweebs and the new breed of PCDweebs
didst all leave DOSAW for AW4W, the remaining AmigaDweebs,
and MacDweebs could flyeth together no more. For the
MacDweebs there was much consternation about the future, for
they kneweth not what layeth in store for them. And all was
Verse 5: Souls for Sale
But the Kesmai Gods didst have a plan, for they hadst already
secretly decided to selleth their souls to the devil himself; the
Lord of Darkness, the Satan of Satans: the AOL God (see below).
And lo, the net openbeta was born, and the Kesmai Gods threw
open the door, and sayeth, "Lo, yon MacDweebs, bringeth your
butts over here and play in these skies! 'Tis free!". And it
Verse 6: A Gathering of Nitwits
And thus didst the scroungiest pack of creatures that one would
ever want to meet trundle forward and into the netbeta. There
were all kinds of domesticated and undomesticated animals.
There were dwarves and tigers, along with the usual collection of
clueless bastages who hath proclaimethed themselves
"Maverick" or "Goose" or "Viper" and probably sayethed, "Drop
the brakes, he'll flyeth right by." For forty times forty days and
forty nights, didst the MacDweebs engageth in knifefighting and
furballs galore. And yea, there was much jousting and killing, and
macros didst filled the airwaves, and crashing and augering didst
streweth the ground, for these MacDweebs were new, and full of
enthusiasm and foolish ways, and netplay was free of monthly
offerings to the gods.
Verse 1: Come the Horsemen
And MacDweebs would slaughter fellow MacDweebs, and verily
didst they engageth in long, stalling knifefights in FR ETO arena
in the P51, and lo, even in FR PAC. And silly as they wereth, they
didst not even know about the arenas were realism was relaxed,
and were one couldst stand a Pony on its head, and where one
could yanketh 9Gs or more with nary a black spot to be seen.
And this was because the ruler of the netbeta, the Voss-Yoda,
had broken the relaxed realism arenas with his Mighty Bwana
Stick. And he laughed at the MacDweebs as they floundered, and
sayeth he to them, "Thanketh me later, you will, when you are
not RR Dweeblets, but FR Warriors."
And the MacDweebs took him at his word, for they were clueless
basteges anyhow, and knew not of what he even spake. And
they hath not the foggiest notion of situational awareness, nor
of the benefits and virtures of altitude, for they were true
dweebs. Yet they didst believe that they were dweebs no more,
but rather veterans, which is the true sign of the clueless dweeb.
And furballs begat furballs, and many a TM hat switch was
broken in the incredible conflagration that consituteth the arena.
But slowly the MacDweebs didst begin to take notice of the host
kill messages scrolling down their text buffer. Notice didst they
the ghostly ponies and FW's that swoopeth down from on high
and killeth the MacDweebs in a single pass, and which
disappeareth into the skies without a trace. "Why doth you
demons not turn thy planes on the deck?!" they queried of the
ghostly apparitions. "Why doth these ghostly demons not turn
right aroundeth after a merge?" asked others. "What is
happening to us?" they pondered, and "Surely there must be a
bug in the FE!" some cried. Others screamethed: "Hacker!
Hacker!" at the laughing ghostly apparitions.
Lo, but these kills werest not a product of hacked FE's or buggy
code (although face it we must-the Holy Orkin Man Himself could
not rid that FE of bugs). Nor was the carnage a result not of the
Supreme Commander Kelton Flynn, nay didst it result from his
Voss-Yoda, or even the often-misunderstood and less visible
Moggy-Yoda. For the killing and maiming was the work of AW
demi-gods from the kingdom of GEnie and DOSAW, who hath
infiltrated said netbeta, and were hell-bent on teaching the
MacDweebs the errors of their ways. And lo, a great rumbling
was heard in the skies, and verily didst the flat blue oceans
themselves churneth, and did the gradient skies tear open in a
mighty cloud of dark smoke and burning mists of engine oil, and
finally didst come the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse: Fogy,
Fool, Bull, and Columbo. Demi-Gods were they, and many an
hour in Air Warrior didst they fly in years past, and countless
were the dweebs they had rent asunder. "Thou art merely baby
seals," sayeth the Horsemen to the MacDweebs, "to be clubbed
mercilessly at our whim and pleasure".
And club they did.
Verse 2: A Time to Learn
And the blood of MacDweebs spillethed mightily unto the arena,
and the little bits and pieces of airplane wings and manifolds and
leather flying helmets rainethed down on the flat green lands of
Air Warrior, and the Horsemen laughed in booming voices that
rippled the very waters of the pond.
And lo, one day the arena didst rumble mightily, and all the
MacDweebs aimed their steeds at the ground in preparation of
augering to escape the Horsemen, when suddenly the great
Horsemen Fool speaketh, for he hath seldom spoke before, and
was known to chooseeth his words carefully, as if he had to give
up livestock with every word.
Sayeth Fool: "Fear not, young MacDweebs, for with your sacrifice
cometh wisdom, for with thy clubbing shall you learneth the
principles of Divine Energy Management, Sacred Squadron
Tactics, the Epiphany of Situational Awareness, and yes, possibly
even the Sacrament of the Rope-a-Dope."
And thus the MacDweebs were introduced to the arcane
principles of air combat, and verily did they begin to watch their
E, and to climb to great heights, and learneth they to swoop
down mightily from the sky onto unsuspecting dweeblets such as
they once were. And thus, it is written (here), that the
MacDweebs began to groweth as virtual pilots. And the
Voss-God smilethed down on them from the monitor where he
watched them flounder. And it was good.
Verse 3: Cometh the NakedClowndevil
Lo, amidst the carnage and general mayhem that constituteth
the netbeta arena cameth a newcomer who repeatedly fraggeth
his countrymen, disrupteth arena play, and elicitith much cursing
and ill will. "Why doth thou disrupteth arena play?" cried out the
MacDweebs. The newcomer laughed, and taunted: "I am the
Naked Clown" he proclaimeth, and to the masses didst he
become known as the Clowndevil.
And there was much wringing of hands, and tearing of hair, and
many a voice was heardeth crying, "Where art thou Air Warrior
Gods when we needeth them?" Hearing not from the Air Warrior
Gods, and sicketh of the fratricide from the Clowndevil, rogue
groups of MacDweebs grabbethed the bull by the horns (nay, not
the Horseman Bull discussed earlier, for verily, if some MacDweeb
were to grab THAT Bull by his horns the MacDweeb wouldst find
himself void of limbs, lying naked in a corner and full of bullet
holes), and formed Clownkiller squadrons, whose sole purpose
was to tracketh down thy Clowndevil and smite him from the
arena. And this they did, for many nights and many days. But lo,
the Clowndevil was clever indeed, and mockethed thy
MacDweebs, and rubbethed their noses in their shame, by
posting to the netbeta newsgroup, and promoting his evil ways
in a web page. "Voss-Yoda, surely thou willst cometh to our aid,
and smiteth the Clowndevil with thoust Holy Big Bwana Stick!"
(no you sick bastages -not THAT stick).
And thus, MacDweebs waited, and checketh the newsgroups
often for some harbinger of words from the Voss-Gods, and one
day, smoketh didst arise from the newsgroup, and the beloved
Voss-Yoda did say: "Henceforth, worryeth not about the
clowndevil, thy MacDweebs, for thy Air Warrior God's smile upon
you this day, and have nukethed the Clowdevil's account, for
once, and for all time". And the MacDweebs smileth, for they
knew that the Clowndevil had been smitten. And it WAS good.
Verse 4: The Face of Evil
And all was fine in the netbeta, for there were ample numbers in
the arena, and the seals were fresh and plentiful, and the
demi-Gods didst verily consumeth the MacDweebs with vigor.
Then, one day, smoke didst riseth from the openbeta
newsgroup, and a great rumbling could be heard throughout the
land. The Voss-Yoda, working on instructions from the nefarious
suited OverLords of Kesmai, in a fit of madness still not
completely undertoodeth by the MacDweebs to this day, did
invoketh the Master Plan and taketh away thy beloved netbeta
venue, and substituteth in its place a new home wheretofore
MacDweebs could congregate, and could slaughter their
brethren, and could wreaketh mayhem upon the Dweebs.
The Voss-God didst give to the MacDweebs a new God to
worship: the AOL God. And it was not good. For now the
Voss-Yoda told the MacDweebs they musteth pay homage and
sacrifice to thou AOL God, and give up farm animals to partaketh
of thy holy air warrior. The MacDweebs didst know that the
AOL-God's minion TOS-God was mighty and did striketh down
MacDweebs for the slghtest of trangressions. "Voss-Yoda," cried
the MacDweebs, "Why doth thou torture us in this way?" And the
Voss-Yoda was silent, for the AOL God had invoked an evil spell
called a nondisclosure agreement and slappethed it on the
Voss-Yodaas part of the Master Plan.
And the Voss-Yoda shrugged his shoulders in sadness, and he
readied the MacDweebs for The Day When the Plug Was Pulled
on the Netbeta (TDWTPWPOTN).
Verse 5: The Day When the Plug Was Pulled on the Netbeta
And lo, the Last Days of the netbeta were filled with Gloom and
Despair. The MacDweebs didst flounder around, and didst cry in
wail to one another, and didst generally curse the AOL God for
taking away what once had been.
And when the Final Day, The Day When the Plug Was Pulled on
the Netbeta, when the Hated Day arrived, the MacDweebs did
come out to express their gratitude, and to smiteth one another
one last time, and to fly together one last time away from the
penetrating gaze of the AOL God. And they were Legion, filling
the sky for miles to see, and making the Kerman God tremble at
the effort of tracking all those planes.
And the moment neared, and the Voss-God appeared. He
gathered his flock unto the center of the pond, and the sworn
enemies gathered together with nary a shot fired, and he began
to speak to them, dweebs and demi-gods alike, careful to not
breaketh the Evil AOL God's nondisclosure spell. "Verily," sayeth
the Voss-God, "Ye have been given the task of finding the bugs
in this world. Ye have been asked only to swat and smack these
bugs, and to helpeth the Gods of Kesmai ready this product for
final release, but hark! Ye have gone far beyond that minor
goal!" And the MacDweebs, circling the pond in their varied
steeds, glancing out their cockpit windows to see the
tremendous gathering of Warriors, listened to the Voss-Yoda as
he spaketh onward. "Yes," sayeth the Voss-Yoda, "Ye have gone
beyond being mere bug-finders. Somehow, ye all have created a
CommunityTM in this time together!"
And the cheers went up, and the MacDweebs rejoiced, and they
generally chased each other around the sky in glee. But the
Voss-Yoda was somber, and he didst looketh at his watch, and
he saw that the time dreweth near. And he told the MacDweebs
that the End was Nigh, and that the plug would soon be pulled.
And verily, atop the chatter and cursing and speaking in
toungues came one voice that didst rise above the fray.
And Padre, a Warrior with the Shadow Rider Clan, didst begin to
pray for the lost souls of the MacDweebs. And many an eye grew
damp as Padre prayed, and many a Warrior stared reflectively
through the gunsight and thanked the Kerman God for the time
he hath given to the MacDweebs. And after the prayer the
MacDweebs headed north, away from the sun, and flew onward
as the Plug was Pulled and silence fell across the netbeta
forever. And it was not good at all. In fact, it really kind of sucked
Verse 6: Cometh the Warbirds
Antichrist Whole squadrons did thumb their noses at AOL and
Kesmai Gods, and they didst screameth and whineth in protest
at the selling of the MacDweeb's souls. They posted messages in
the forums, and the newsgroups, and on the walls of local
urinals. They screamethed at the AOL God, who merely laughed
and chuckled and ignored the MacDweebs' pleas as he counted
his stacks and piles and wheelbarrows full of money.
And few were the MacDweebs who flew in the AOL God's
domain, especially after the AOL God decided to placeth a tax
upon the MacDweebs of per hour. And the MacDweebs didst
wail, and looketh did they for alternatives to the AOL God's land,
and many of them found a land where Warriors gathered. It was
called The Land of the IMOL God, and its minions were known as
Warbirders. "Lo!," cried the first MacDweebs to return from the
Warbirders Realm. "We have found a land of fruit and honey,
with many Warriors, and more planes and separate firing
The Four Horsemen bounded forth, and spaketh to the returning
MacDweebs. "But what about the nose bounce," they sayeth.
"Real steeds don't bounceth like that. And the spins, and the
blackouteth code. Ha!" the scoffed. "That is no subsitute for Air
Warrior." And many stayed in the AOL God's land to be mauled
by the Horsemen, and many left to the Realm of the Warbirders.
And the MacDweebs who left travelled lost in the darkness. The
IMOL Gods had decreed that the MacDweebs who wished to fly
in the Realm of the Warbirders must wait, for lo, the Divine 2.0
version of Warbirds was going to be late for the MacDweebs. For
two weekdays and for two weeknights and four score more
weeks the Macdweebs didst wander lost in the desert without
WB2.0 while the PCDweebs played and fought in their Demonic
Zerstoerer Me-110s and Hurricanes from Hell. And verily was
there much hand-wringing and calling of names, and the
Macdweebs floundered in the flat, non-moving and non-rolling
seas of Air Warrior.
And finally, when the Day of Judgement came, Macdweebs by the
drove scourethed forth to the Holy FTP Directory and
downloadeth WB2.0, and they were Legion. And it was Good.
Well...maybe not good, but it was a start.
Verse 7: And the Dweebs Played On....
And despite the Exodus of many to the Warbirders Realm, many
MacDweebs returnethed to their Native Land; to the AOL God's
Kingdom, and flew there they did, and smiteth one another they
did. And lo, the Horsemen still dove and rent dweebs asunder in
staggering numbers, and the demi-Gods did fight, and the
dweebs did auger and crash. And many new dweebs discovered
the relaxed realism world, and there they made a home. And
new dweebs would arrive almost daily, and sometimes the
dweebs would venture into the kingdom of the Horsemen, into
the full realism arena. And in some of those times, verily it would
seem like the days of yore; the Horsemen would swoop, the
dweebs would wail in despair, and you almost could heareth the
Voss-Yoda cackling at what he hath wrought.
And in those times, at least, it is good. Amen.
And then, of course, no Halloween would be complete without the story of the Great Brewster...
The Legend of the Great Brewster
Hie thee close, little ones, and pulleth thee thy very goggles down o'er thy eyes, for a frightening tale it ist...
Yea, long ago it was, when the arena wert yet formless and void. And mere double digits didst compriseth yon Holy Version Number. And many were the Dweebish who floundereth and nose bounceth about the not-yet-haunteth-by-Dora skies. And yea, even NIGHT didst falleth...from time to time, and wispy wraiths didst flit about, and knoweth thee thy foe only by ephemeral icon couldst thou, and from nowhere couldst thy very entrails be ripped asunder, and littereth the not-yet-Rolling-Terrain (tm) with thine aircraft bits wouldst thou.
And it wast on such a night that IT didst appear. No ordinary Warbird it wert, for nowhere on thy Holy List Of Selectable Rides didst it appear. Nay, even those who hadst deciphereth the Holy Dot Codes of Antioch couldst not make it appeareth, for ".fly 56" bringeth only foul error messages, but not the vile Plane of the Dark One.
And it wast blue...and ugly. And yea, tho it looketh like yon ale barrel with wings, and remindeth all of it's historical namesake, yet flyeth it like yon demons of Billgatezebub. For tho mere peashooters SHOULDST it have, HUGE fangs of 30mm DIDST it have. And streaketh it through yon darkened WB skies it didst, with the speed of yon Wurgers of the Apocalypse, and flip-turneth it couldst, and when yon Magical Flaps did it extendeth, turneth inside all manner of Spitdweeb it couldst, and rend asunder many dweebs it didst, and many were the Dweebish screams that splitteth the night.
And only when the vile Kill Messages didst scroll across Dweebish text buffers, did the nature of The Beast becometh evident to all. Yea, when the first "Kill of -wulf- awarded to Hitech" scrolleth across yon screen, knoweth didst the dweebs what had arriveth. For it was the vile Brewster of Gyre Banor, and all who see-eth it didst perish in fiery conflagration.
And yet, after one foul night of "online testing," didst the Brewster Beast vanish, like the Komet to follow it years later, never to return...or so THINKETH the Dweebs.
For but a year later, to the day, didst ANOTHER shadowy beast appear. And the countenance of a Zeke didst it possesseth, but the speed of the winged horse PegaMustang didst it wield, and the sword of Rheinmetall didst it wield, and catcheth it all before it, and sweepeth them into fiery destruction it didst. And yea, tho the dweebs hopeth that it would disappeareth like the vile Brewster before it, yet did it persist. And gathereth in legion didst the Dweebish masses. And petitioneth to the Godz they didst, and die-eth in drove didst they, until finally, the Demon-Zeke wert made mortal again. And, with yon dweebish sigh of relief, wast all back to normal. Or so the Dweebs thinketh...
For on another night, but a year hence, didst the Beast appeareth again. And tho cloaketh in the silvery tones of the Godsteed Lightning it wert, behaveth as the whirling dervish it didst. And stoppeth on a dime it didst. And switcheth from up-goingeth to down-comingeth it didst, in but the blinketh of lo thy very eyes, and poundeth thee upon they face and cylinder heads with its mighty Hammer of Hispano it wouldst. And yea, again didst the Dweebs formeth a mighty Crusade, and in supplication and dweebishness didst they "reasoneth" with the Godz. And tho LONG was the struggle, at last was the vile Magical Beast vanquisheth, and lo wast it afflicted with the dreaded "flap drag" and again wast the Lightning but another Warbird.
And so it was, that upon the Hallow's Eve, in the wee hours, when neither Euro nor Ami didst yet stir, and only whacky Aussies didst frolic in the Holy Arena, if thou watcheth carefully, wouldst thou see the Great Brewster flitting about, near pumpkin patches and vulchfests, and picketh he out one Warbird, and PORKETH it royally he wouldst. And thus, each year haveth we a Magical Beast with which to contendeth.
And if thou believest not, look thou only to yon magical Spitfire, steed of no drag and Genie missiles. And keepeth thou watch upon Hallow's Eve, and perchance THY favorite steed wilt receiveth The Gift of the Great Brewster. And shall it be good? None can yet tell.
Sleepeth thou well, friend Linus.
Psalm of Bino.
"Listen, Dweeb, as I recite
The remedy for thy dire plight:
If thou seest icon Five
Fire, and yet he shall survive.
Wait thou patiently, and more.
Hold, fire not, bore in past Four.
'Ere thou firest, wait to see
Thy range hath fallen below Three.
When thou spiest icon Two,
Then, yea THEN, thy bullets spew!
Chew him up! Belch forth thy flame!
Watch the buffer for his name."
The New Generation...
Let thy tellest about the "New Generation of Dweeb." From the moutains came a great storm as the Gods of iEN brought forth new types of dweeb. "This shalt be the biggest, and baddest!" cried the Gods of iEN. Thus it was proclaimed as..."WarBirds 3."
The first of the newest dweeb cometh upon as a pasta fighter. It was known as the "Macchi" and the Luftdweebs were happy. Many a dweeb tookth to the skies and ventured into the unknown in thy's new machine, and quickly topped thous SpitDweebs and LightingDweebs. "ART THOU A VET! THY MACCHI MAKETH ME GREAT!" Thus the Macchi proclaimed itself. "NAY!" proclaimth the Dweebs of Ally. "THOU FLYEST A UBER FIGHTER LIKE THY 109!" Again, the iEN Gods lookth down upon thy dweebs and sighed. "Thou shall correct thy FMs for thy Dweeb." Thus it began...the great war that hast continued to day... the great "FM War."
Secondth Dweeb createth among the heavens by the great iEN Gods were the CrittersDweeb. A strange new creature who hast no wings emerged among birds. "Thou callest the GV!" And it was good, but evils tookth over and soon dweebs were spawned from thy "GV."
Thus it called itself.. the "M16." While thy birds were flying, destroying, landing, thy M16 came along and kilt thy birds. "DOEST THOU HAVE NO HONOR!?" Callth BirdDweeb of many kind. "YES! THOU HAVE THE MIGHTIES WEAPON! THY ART VET OF GV!" spoakth the M16dweeb. "NAY! THOU A GROUND LOVIN' DWEEB!" Thus many a BirdDweeb becameth angry, and started punishing thy GVdweebs w/ eggs from BirdDweebs. "
Among the others "GVdweebs" cometh, the MKVdweeb. With thou most powerfullest 75mm, thy went hunting for even the biggest of thy Birddweebs. The "Buff." When thou comest among other CrittersDweeb, thy armor protected like Dora Shield. Doest then the MkV shooteth thy Shermans and thous M16s from the fartesth and closest of distances! "THOU ARE MASTER of GV! THOU ARE A GV VET!" Spoakth thy MkVdweeb. "NO! THOU ARE BIGGEST GV DWEEB!!" Commeth from thy Shermans and other GVDweebs. The iEN Gods looked upon this with disgust..and thus created a new GV to combat the MkV. "Thou HAST GIVEN YOU the NEW SHERMAN and T34!" AllyDweebs rejoiced with the creation, but from the darkest of the corners came a cry, "THYS MKV WILL NEVER BE DEFEATED!"
Within this new born Dweebhood came along the "Master Dweebs" of the Birds. Thous callest "PDC," while thous Dweebs fight upon now both land and ground...thy PDC doest createth, thy new Terrains and Bird Skins! Cheers of joy cometh up from thy Regular dweebs as the iEN gods looked at thys the crowds with smiles upon their lips the spoakth "And it was good..."
Last modified: 2003-08-19 22:04