The Anatomy of the Creation of the Times by noremac9 |  |
It's the big 100th issue. Yup, she's finally here. The past 100 issues have been
leading up to; the number of issues that finally amounts to 100.
Actually, that's a total load of dung, because there were 68 old-style issues
of The Neopian Times, and thus issue 32 was the first issue to amount to 100.
But trust me -- that Wocky guy with the time machine is no where to be found
-- so we'll just have to celebrate it 78 issues late. Ah well, gives one a good
reason to do stupid things, celebrating does. For instance, I wouldn't be dumb
enough to write this article if it weren't for all the celebrating.
Now, the celebrating's great and everything, but what about what all the partying
about -- what about the Times ITSELF? We know so very little about it, yet it's
one of our greatest pastimes! Okay, maybe just for some of us, but work with
me here. Now where was I? Oh yeah -- the Times.
So what about where the newspaper actually comes from? Have you ever heard
THAT? Well, if you did, please tell me where I missed it, because I sure haven't.
So I think I'm the man for the job, because I honestly think no one else is
dumb enough to take it on. And if they are, you must be referring to that pink
pet Rock I once owned. Poor little chap, it wasn't his fault. But he met the
Turmaculus, so to speak, so he won't be taking it on. And that leaves the empty
cranial cavity of yours truly.
I figured the first thing to do would be to look up the factory that's supposed
to supposedly manufacture these little piles of paper. This proved to be thrice
as difficult as I had anticipated. First of all, the only information I could
get on them -- I'll read it in a second (so read this next part in 0.7, please)
-- stated they were located in the Darigan Citadel. This made me shift uneasily
in my chair. Actually, my chair was a stone chair, and thus basically a rock,
but it sounds better the other way. Okay, so assuming you just read that last
part really, really fast, here's the paragraph I promised you.
"The place that produces all hard copies of The Neopian Times (which will,
for legal reasons, currently go unnamed) is located in the Darigan Citadel,
though its exact coordinates (for legal reasons) will go unspecified. Its management,
(which, for legal reasons, will currently go unnamed) would like to congratulate
you for finding the only known paragraph (whose writer, for legal reasons, will
currently go unnamed) in existence regarding said company. Congratulations."
As you can see, whoever made this was either: A) a Lawyer. B) a person who
hired a Lawyer, or C) Paranoid.
Or perhaps a paranoid lawyer. Who knows? But there was only one thing to do
-- go the that Citadel, sniff out the mystery company, ask 'em a few questions,
and, more than likely, do one of those Yellow Knight numbers and get pushed
right off the flying hunk of rock. So I put three things I'd need in a disco
Aisha backpack (which matches the disco Aisha I don't own just perfectly!):
an attack fork, a chocolate chip cookie, and some chocolate covered peanuts.
The chocolate is for me, the Attack Fork is for everyone else (the receiving
end, that is). Once done packing, I bought a ticket through Darigan Eyrlines,
hopped on the purple bird taking me to my destination, and nearly fell into
the ocean six or eight times. But that's not the point. The point is I got there.
And that's not even the point. The point is I wish I hadn't.
Because trust me, that granite mother of a flying castle in the sky isn't
exactly known for its hospitality. In fact, why don't I put that in quotes.
Because trust me, that granite mother of a flying castle in the sky isn't exactly
known for its "hospitality." No, not at all. To start it off, for those morbidly
curious, the Eyrie 'pilot' just dropped me off as soon as we were there. Sound
like quality service? No! When I said 'dropped me off,' I meant he cackled evilly
and let me plummet 2000 feet to the ground for the citadel! So much for their
airline slogan of, "Getting you where you want, when you want, evilly." So then
I had to bum a ride off a Pteri. Big mistak -- but that's a whole other story.
Basically, I got there after a bunch of trouble, asked for directions, was
told where to go, and arrived in front of a towering dark fortress located deep
within the confines of Lord Darigan's homerock. Er, homeworld. Country. Thing.
So, being the bright young kid I am, I knocked on the door. It echoed like I
had hocked a goo-ball of saliva into a musty cavern deep within the crust of
the earth. Maybe slightly less graphic, but I had to wake you up.
So there I was, waiting for SOMEONE to answer the double iron clad doors,
about to pee my pants with fear, and surprise surprise -- I heard a dark and
malicious voice answer back as if it were the dark lord himself. The voice boomed,
"Give me your coookie!" like a trumpet of deafening sounding the call
of war as the noble freedom fighters defend their humble turf. Which was pretty
scary. But what scared me even more was the fact that he KNEW I had that cookie.
And what scared me more was that I was way too chicken to keep it. So I slid
it under the hunkering, rusted, iron doors and continued to wait patiently on
the verge of mental breakdown. Then finally -- finally -- I had a chance to
go in. It was when the Dark Lord said, "I want your chocolate covered peanuts,
too," that I decided I needed to bargain my way in. And if it fell apart, at
least I'd get to keep the peanuts. I like the peanuts.
So I called back to him, saying I wanted in. He asked me why. I told him.
He said if I gave him the peanuts, I could come in. So I did, and I did. Mistake
# 156478947.
The room was dark and musty, with visibility at two feet maximum. I looked
around for SOMETHING to see besides the rodent-ridden floor. I didn't see anything.
Then I heard another demand for the peanuts. So I got an idea -- a good idea.
Or, like many ideas I receive, so it would seem at first. Here is my strategy
with Mr. Wannabe Dark-lord: I placed them one by one, several feet apart in
a trail that led slowly towards the light -- the outside. I was almost to the
door when there was suddenly a swinging that strongly resembled an overweight
Skeith rounding a corner as air whooshed over him. Then I realized it was the
two metal doors closing on their own behind me. And there was no light. And
then, luckily for me, there was a sudden flash of light as torches all around
the room lit up. Now I could see.
There was paper everywhere. There were weird machines everywhere. There was
a giant figure in front of me eating all the peanuts. I tried to start a conversation,
but a hand stopped me. He was done with the peanuts now. He motioned me over
to the machines, which were currently pumping out issues like the Tombola man
does junk, or maybe even faster. It was fascinating to watch... I wish I could
say, which I can't. I looked up at the 10 foot tall Nimmo in the Donkey Suit,
trying to emote my boredom. He looked back down at me, and it made me a little
uneasy. So I figured I'd just straight out ask him, and so I did: I said, "Nimmo
in the Donkey Suit who is tall, tell me how the Times is made." I could hear
him chuckle to himself at this.
He just sent me over to a plaque on the wall, which had the whole process
marked down. I transcribed it all below: read to see the true process of the
thing which so much revolves around.
"We here at the Neopian Neopian Times Printing Press of Neopia would like
to welcome you to our factory. The Management (The Dark Lords of Neopia Society)
is happy you could attend the single and sole plant in all of Neopia producing
your copies of The Neopian Times. If you're interested in the process of printing,
see section 2, 'The Steps.'
The Steps.
Before we can begin printing any of those pretty little Neopian Times copies,
we have to select the content. However, we don't select the content. We have
a slave called an 'Editor' for that. And Editor is a minion who is chained to
his or her desk, where they are forced to select content night and day. Since
that's not enough torture, every writer that gets rejected repeatedly asks why,
and if not given an answer sends their piece several more times to make sure
he or she received it. Then, once they are pestered half to death, they send
all selected pieces to us. This is when we select the order, which pieces are
on the front page, etc. After that, we begin the printing process. The editor,
however, must continue their job, for weeks and weeks to come.
We are also pleased to announce we use Puntec fruit extract and purely recyclable
paper. Not. In all reality, The Neopian Times' material is so hazardous, no
amount of extreme conditions can disintegrate it. We take pride in that.
As we were saying, the Times is printed via a system of intricate metal workings,
of which even only Sloth's top scientists can understand. They also break frequently,
and that is the reason so many of the issues are late. Wait, all of the issues
are late. This is a mixture of the fact that Sloth's scientists live very, very
far away in the space station. Also, it is because the Management enjoys painfully
torturing the feeble minds of innocent Neopians.
Now that you've gotten your overview, Management will take you through the
actual PROCESS of printing your Neopian Times. Let us follow a stack of paper
though the machine, as it becomes a publication that all love.
First, the machine selects the appropriate number of sheets for the issue
it is printing to print. It places them on a conveyer belt that then moves them
forward to the "Dungiliciouserizer," where a faint smell of dung is roasted
into the paper, giving it that home-grown touch. It also allows management to
make some really great comebacks. For instance, when a customer says, "Your
news source is complete DUNG!" we merely reply, "No, my dear, it but smells
like it."
Next, the basic printing is done, using a jet black ink (Dung Extract, actually)
to set the copies words in stone. This is the most basic procedure.
After it has been... dunged... and printed, the conveyer belt moves the copy
over to the, "English Spelling of Doom Machine." This is where the machine finds
all American-spelled words, and changes them into the British versions. This
is merely to keep a consistency with the site... er, world. However, the machine
has been out of order as of late, so skip that for a moment, good chap.
Finally, the issue is sent over to the "Subliminal Messaging Inputer Doodad,"
where a bunch of subliminal messages are inserted into the writing and comics,
though the writers and artists still don't know this. That is because the Auto-Response
they receive is a brainwashing subliminal message that makes sure they have
no idea about any of this. The subliminal messages are very useful for getting
readers to join one side of a war, buy a certain item, or jump off a certain
cliff. All very helpful (when you're one of Neopia's premier dark-lords).
The final process is to send the copy to the "Rolly-Rocket-Launcher." This
machine rolls the issue up, places it in a cannon, and fires it at 290 MPH into
the air from the Citadel, where it will pelt a small and unsuspecting news stand
employee, who will put it on their news stand, after recovering from a minor
concussion."
I stood there gaping for several minutes. Reading for that long nearly caused
my brain -- or the poor excuse of one I have -- to melt out my left ear. Plus,
I had to transcribe all that, so my hand was about to fall off. And all that
about the subliminal methods -- I knew that had to be a joke. I also suddenly
felt the uncontrollable urge to buy foods starting with the letter 'T,' which
I could not control. So I tipped my invisible hat to the Nimmo, and ran out
in search of said items, desperately desiring them for no particular reason.
Once I bought some, I felt better.
But there was still a little more to do.
I re-entered the fortress of a factory and consulted the Nimmo in the Donkey
Suit about one last thing. Why issue 3?
He just smiled. He told me to go look at the front page of issue three. I
saw a guild called "Sloths_Army." I asked him if that was why.
He nodded, then asked for more peanuts. I told him he ate them all. He told
me to beat it.
So I did.
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