From jeff@starfall.com.nospam Sun Mar 12 10:42:15 2000 Newsgroups: rec.arts.sf.written.robert-jordan Subject: Re: Lewis Carroll.com From: jeff@starfall.com.nospam (Jeff Huo) Date: Sun, 12 Mar 2000 09:42:15 -0600 In article <38CB1835.5AF6@mindspring.com>, marcsand@mindspring.com says... > Jeff Huo wrote: > > > > "John S. Novak, III" wrote: > > > > > On 10 Mar 2000 04:19:16 GMT, Mike Kozlowski wrote: > > > > > > >Besides, there's just something ineffably _right_ sounding about > > > >"dot-com". It trips off the tongue in a way that even ".org" or > > > >".gov" completely fail to do. That's why I'd almost want a .com > > > >even for a vanity domain -- it just sounds better. > > > > > > Dot-coms are for pansies. > > > But http://www.novak.mil has a nice ring to it. > > > > Not to mention that http://www.novak.com is already taken. > [snip also .net and .org] > > But wouldn't it be better to be > > > > http://www.army.mil.novak ? > > Wow, talk about a vanity domain! > > That may be a solution though (adjusted for standard naming practices): > novak.jsn, army.jsn, etc. > .... HERNDON, VIRGINIA (Into a sea of cubicles confidently strides a dark-haired man with glasses. His round, bearded face bore no mark of pain or fear or guilt. It was proud, and took pride in being proud; his expression was a strangely comforting blend of serene determination and certainty. [1] Dressed in iron- shod boots and a long black trench-coat, he strides up to a specific cubicle next to a bank of plate-glass windows overlooking the corporate campus. Inside, a dapperly dressed, overweight, pointy-haired corporate drone rises from his desk to greet him with the enthusiastic mien common to all such mindless corporate drones. The corporate drone extends a hand for a handshake. It is not recieved. After an uncomfortable pause, the pointy-haired drone presses on:) "Good afternoon, Mr. Novak. I understand you were fowarded up to my office regarding a question they thought one of us customer support specialists could handle better in person." "Yes. I'm here to register a web address." "Mr. Novak, you can register a web address from our web page." "No, not the address I want." "I see...what address were you trying to register?" (a slip of paper is handed over) "Excuse me, Mr. Novak, but...we can't register you with a .novak domain. It's against standard naming practices, and strictly against the rules. Now, we at Network Solutions would be more than happy to help you find an alternative that would meet your needs just as well..." (The trench-coated man, totally ignoring this speech, reaches inside his coat and pulls out a small computer data pad. He makes a few pointed taps and scribbles with a stylus, then puts it back in the coat. He then pulls on a pair of heavy ear-protectors and dark shades, pulls out a stopwatch, and activates it. The corporate drone, realizing he is now being ignored, tails off his spiel and stares at John in annoyance. The drone puffs himself up and begins speaking in a tight clip.) "Mr. Novak. I insist that you treat me with the respect appropriate to my position. Registering an address is a privelege, and unless you are willing to be cooperative--" "Hmm? Oh, hm, really. Actually, you probably want to stand away from those windows." "Excuse me?" (From the cubicle behind the pointy-haired registrar, the sound of a ceramic coffee cup rattling on a saucer begins. It is quickly joined by the sounds of dozens of other such cups, loose drawers, pencils, and myriad other things set to motion by the sudden tremor shaking the complex. People look up from their terminals in confusion. The sounds of nervous panic begin.) <* KABLBLBLBLBLAAAMM!!!! *> (Suddenly, the entire length of the plate glass windows on either side of the room vaporize into a million shards in one massive, blindingly white-hot concussive explosion that knocks the drone to the floor and flattens the first few rows of cubicles. Strangely, not only does the trench-coated man remain standing, his coat doesn't move a bit. Even before the flash has even cleared, four-dozen black-clad commandos rappel right through each bank of sundered windows, unclip themselves from their lines, unsling nasty- looking energy weapons and charge into action. Simultaneously, two dozen of their fellows plunge down through the ceiling tiles, and more pour through shattered doorways. The men systematically club, stun and otherwise subdue with ruthless, practiced efficiency the dazed office workers crawling about on their hands and knees. The sounds of frightened screams and gasps are quickly silenced as the room is secured. Two commandos race over to where the trench-coated man is standing, grab the still dazed corporate drone and pull him up roughly to a kneeling position. Out the now shattered windows, behind the trench-coated man, the corporate drone can see phalanx after phalanx of black helicopters swarming over the countryside; legions of stormtroopers and three-story tall mecha keep a baleful eye on packs of frightened employees being herded, hands behind heads, in columns out of the various buildings of the Network Solutions corporate campus. The ground literally quakes as three, massive flying battlecruisers ponderously soar in just a thousand feet above them, periodically stopping to disgorge yet more smaller assault craft, or to unleash missile and beam-weapon attacks on various targets near and far. Emblazoned on the side of the cruisers is a iron fist clenching a sheath of thunderbolts on a field of stylized flames: above is written "Es gibt keinen Kabal"; under is the inscription "L'uomo pił umile sulla rete". With a sudden start, the corporate drone realizes that the two armored hoplites holding him in place, and their fellows rounding up cowed employees, have the same crest stenciled on the left pectoral plates of their armor --and that the same crest is embroidered in silver on the left breast pocket of the man standing before him. The pointy-haired one's mouth drops in sudden realization;) (Addressing the hoplites) "Gentlemen, that took you one- minute forty-two seconds. That's barely three seconds within acceptable. You'll have to better than that when we take on the forces at Barnard Castle next week." (The trench-coated man now turns his attention to the employee, who by now has made a piddle in his thousand-dollar Armani slacks, and smiles.) "Okay, let's try this one again. I would like to register the address http://www.army.mil.novak." "Y-y-y-yes, Sir, of course Sir, right away Mr. No---" (The trench coated man raises a hand. Lightening shoots out from his fingertips and strikes the pointy-haired drone. The drone's back spasmodically arches as he screams in agony, then drops to the floor whimpering as the bolts stop. He whimpers in pain.) "That would be 'Mr. GODLIKE Novak', to you, drone,...and my boots need polishing. Get on it." ..... I have a feeling that if you need a domain like .mil.novak, you probably don't need to worry about conforming to standard naming protocols. :-) -Jeff [1] Joel Havenstein, alt.shrugged, 1996. -- Jeff Huo | jeff@starfall.com.nospam (remove nospam) U. Michigan Med | http://www.starfall.com/~jeff New to the group? Welcome! Please read http://www.landfield.com/faqs/sf/robert-jordan-faq/ http://www.starfall.com/~jeff/rasfwrjians2.html