DISCLAIMER:  I was bored when I wrote this.  It involves telephones and
aliens and neon colored buildings.  If any of these are offensive to
you, you shouldn't even be here.  This...whatever the heck it is makes
fun of Apoc, telephone psychics, politicians, and various other things
that I'm not sure of yet.  If any of this offends you, skip that part,
it won't make it make any less sense.  The cast contains a full
complement of aliens in bright primary colors and purple, mutants,
bigass guns, androids, redshirt rookies, civilian casualties, pompus
businesspersons, artifically intellegent tanks, and retro-fifties flying
ships, public transportation, and Fred..  If any of THESE offend you,
you've really got issues.

DISCLAIMER PT. 2: If the story below sucks, I place all the blame on the
mind control sattelites, Scientologists, Area 51, Ethereal Bob, my
sister's gerbil, the fact that I spent like 20 minutes on these
disclaimers, and kiwis.

DISCLAIMER PT. 3: There will be no more disclaimers after this point,
although there may be footnotes.  Which will be at the end.

DISCLAIMER PT. 4: Oh yeah, legal stuff.  X-Com and all that is copyright
Microprose, or Hasbro, or Mythos, or whoever has it now.  The characters
and situations here are merely figments of my overactive imagination,
and anything they do or say is not necessarilly reflective of my
opinions or those of a kumquat.

DISCLAIMER PT. 5: Okay, 3 was wrong.  And this is really goin on too
long now, wonder if I've managed to kill the joke yet. [1]

X-Com Dispatch Center
Unused Government Basement, Mega-Primus
September, 2074

A small light blinked red on a panel.  Blinking red lights in secret
paramilitary bases are usually a very bad sign, as they indicate an
imminent alien attack, a reactor core breach, the pizza guy being later
than thirty minutes, or other similarly threatening situations.  Despite
this, the operator sitting at the desk ignored the light, continuing to
work on his crossword puzzle.  This might be because he had the
crossword puzzle right over the section the light was on.  He figured
out a nine letter word for lisenced thief [2], and raised his arms in
celebration, the crossword puzzle still in them.  Then he saw the light
and swore.

However, despite his swearing, he didn't seem particularly worried, just
annoyed.  He went to press the red button.  As anybody who's seen any
decent amount of science fiction can tell you, you NEVER want to press
the red button, that always launches the planet destroying missle or
whatever.  Totally unaware of this great tradition of science fiction,
he pressed the button, unworried.  A burst of static filled his headset,
then resolved into somebody yelling with gunfire in the background.
This would be because the red light merely indicated there was a call on
the X-Com Alien Assault Hotline (tm). [3]

"X-Com Alien Assault Hotline (tm) [4], how can I be of service?" he
answered.

"Yes sir, an alien is rampaging through your women's lingere
department?  Did you have somebody make sure it's really an alien and
not just Rosanne again?"

"It ate three clerks and stuffed a manager in an air duct?  Well sir,
that could still be...Ah, it appeared right after a UFO flew over, in a
psychadelic beam of light?  Can you describe the beam of light?"

"Sorta glowing yellowish, with sparkles moving through it's outline
until it appeared?  Sir, have you been watching Star Trek again?"

An operator on the other side of the room snickered and gave him a
thumbs up.

"Yes sir, it does sound like a real alien.  Can you descibe the alien
for me?"

The operator pulled out a thick three-ring binder with lots of pages in
it, proudly labeled "THE BIG UFOPEDIA BOOK O' ALIENS" [5] and thumped it
down on the panel in front of him.

"Uh huh.  It's humanoid, with no discernable head and wrinkly grey
skin?  Well, it sounds like an Antrhopod, you wouldn't happen to have a
neuron count, would you?  No, I didn't think you would, it would just
confirm the identification."

"Yes sir, I'm checking now," the operator said, pressing various keys to
make the screen scroll green text, accompanied by a typically "sci-fi"
sound effect to emphasize the fact that he's using a computer, "Your
insurance does cover alien rampages and subsidary damages from removal
of such.  Now, just give me your credit card number, and a team will be
dispatched shortly.  Thank you and have a nice day."

The operator scribbled some notes on a piece of paper, then stuck it in
a plastic cylider that he placed in the incredibly advanced pneumatic
message system.  "We've got a 411 at 432 Northwest, phoned in by a 404.
First available troopers not involved in this round of the All-Star
Jenga [7] tournament and not at rehersal for 'All My Sectoids' please
respond," he reported into the headset, boredly.

On the other side of the room, another omnious red light blinked,
calling the other operator's attention.  She grumbled and pushed the
button, again oblivious to the scary sci-fi cliches that were about to
be unleashed, but it was just another phone call.

"X-Com Alien Assault Hotline (tm), [aww, hell with it, you should know
by now] how may I help you?"

"An alien in your azeleas?  Are you certain sir?"

"Yes sir, but if your azeleas are that tall, it could be a giraffe in
there.  We need more than just vague reports of movement.  Do you have a
cordless phone?"

"Oh, you're on your cell phone?  That's good.  Could you go out and look
in the azeleas for me, we need to know if it's a legitamte alien."

"No sir, it shouldn't be too dangerous, these aliens are generally
pretty brightly colored."

"Well, if your azeleas are in bloom in all those colors, it might be
more difficult, yes.  But we can't just go chasing after every moving
patch of azeleas in all of Mega-Primus."

"Okay sir, you've spotted the alien?  Can you describe it?  Mmmmhmmm,
sorta brownish, with built in weapons?  Can you tell me how many legs it
has sir?  Sir?  EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEUUUUUUUUUUAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGHHHH!  Is
not a number.  Neither is gurgle.  Sir?  Hello?  Sir, a crunching sound
followed by static doesn't match any alien descriptions," she said,
consulting her own copy of "THE BIG UFOPEDIA BOOK O' ALIENS".

The female operator sighed and clicked off the phone.  Her little slip
of scribbled on paper followed the other one up the tube in it's plastic
holder, while she checked a schedule sheet.  "Okay, we need four guys
prepared for Megaspawn hunting, we've got an unconfirmed report, be
ready to move as soon as we get a call to go play hero."

A pair of red lights flashed on on both consoles.  Not a sign of
impending doom, or even of burned toast, it was just two more phone
calls.  "Flip ya for it," said the female operator.

"We don't have time for that right now, we've got to answer the phones,"
replied the male operator.

"Ba-dum-dum-CHING," quoth the drums.

"QUIT PRACTICING DRUMS IN HERE!" shouted both the operators.

"Sorry, I'll just be leaving now," replied the figure in blue robes, who
looked oddly familiar, but was probably just some lame self-insertion
cameo.  It could be worse, he could be invincible and save the day,
instead of providing a soundtrack.  But then, considering the musical
skill, maybe not. [11]

"Dibs on line one!" yelled the guy operator, jabbing the button down
hard and spraining his finger before the other operator could do
anything.

"X-Com Alien Assault Hotline (tm), what can we do for you?"

His face took on a puzzled expression, then he pulled the front of his
pants away from his waist and looked down for a second.  "Fruit of the
Loom standard Y-front briefs [9], why?" he asked.  He had to pull the
headset off his head at the loud scream of disgust from the other end.

Meanwhile, while the enjoyable conversation had been going on on the
other end of the room, the female operator had answered the other
blinking light.  When the light didn't say anything, she pushed it down
and answered the phone line.

"X-Com Alien Assault Hotline (tm), what's your problem?"

"Tall and green, with a purple face?  That doesn't match anything in the
book...Just a second."

She spun her chair around to face the other operator.  "Hey, you know
anything about green aliens with purple faces?"

"You're doing WHAT with feces?" he asked, still half-deafened.

"No, GREEN ALIENS with PURPLE FACES!"

"I dunno, did you check the book?" he replied, gingerly placing his
headset back on.

"Yeah, nothing like it.  It's weird."

"Check the back issues,[10]" came the suggestion.

She flipped through an old big three ring binder, labeled "THE BIG
UFOPEDIA BOOK O' ALIENS" with a little "v 1.0" on the front, as opposed
to the "v 42.69" on the current one.

"Sir, your alien appears to be a Muton.  We don't deal with Mutons.  I
think you have the wrong universe.  Where are you located?"

"New Jersey?  What year is it?"

"Yeah, that's what I guessed.  You entered the wrong temporal code.
I'll transfer you to the authorities in the proper timestream. [13]"

The female operator stood up and left her headset on the counter.  "I'm
gonna go get some coffee, want some?"

"Nah, but could ya bring me back three raw eggs, a blender, protien
powder, a glass of whole milk, and two celery stalks?"

She nodded absently, already leaving.  The operator returned to his
crossword puzzle.

A red light turned on.  Instead of flashing, it just glowed.  Annoyed,
the operator flicked it with his pencil a few times.  After such a
severe beating, the light decided discretion was the better part of
valor and began blinking.  Satisfied, the operator pressed the button
in.

"X-Com Alien Assault Hotline (tm), who's shooting at you?"

"No, this isn't the Psychic Friends Hotline.  No I can't tell you what
next week's lottery numbers are.  Go away."  He hung up.

He turned his headset from phone to loudspeaker.  "I would like to
remind the psi-boys that running an unauthorized psychic hotline is a
waste of X-Com resources and management frowns on anything they don't
get a cut of.  Whoever's doing it had better cut it out or we'll be
forced to lock you in a room for a week with that weird addicted guy.
[14]  The Bowling trip for tonight is on, as a reminder, no more than
one android and/or mutant is allowed on each team, unless they are the
ball.  That is all."

And so, we leave the bustling hub of the center of activity of an X-Com
base in the bustling neon city of Mega-Primus.  We pass down the
corridor, past the returning female operator, who is trying valiantly to
carry all the items for the power shake, in addition to the whipped
cream and chocolate syurp, and not spill her coffe.  We go through a
door, since we're immaterial and it's sensors can't notice it, so we can
appreciate the fine construction, layered armor plating and all.  In the
room on our left, the Jenga tournament continues, giving the troopers a
much-needed outlet for their agressive competitive drives [15].  We slip
underneath the red belly of an X-Com craft, past Flash Gordon's rocket,
and back out into the blinding neon brightness of Mega-Primus.  Then,
since we forgot our sunglasses, and since it's dramatic, we fly up and
up and up, first Mega-Primus, then Earth itself disappearing in starry
blackness, over which the words "THE END" appear in white letters.  Then
an omnious ? appears at the end of "END". [16]

FOOTNOTE 1: Damn straight I did, see, there's the tombstone.
                 RIP The DISCLAIMER Joke
        November 19, 1999  -  November 19, 1999
        12:45 PM EST       -  12:50 PM EST
        "It died a lingering painful death of being
        dragged out far beyond what it should have been.
        What we could find of it is in here, although there's
        probably still some intestines on RT. 66"

FOOTNOTE 2: Politican

FOOTNOTE 3: 1-900-BUGHUNT.  $9.95 for the first three minutes, $2.95 a
minute after that.  Foreign calls recieve an extra 20% fee.  Unavailable
where prohibited and Florida, New Jersey, Scotland, France, and Fort
Worth, Texas.

FOOTNOTE 4: See FOOTNOTE 3.

FOOTNOTE 5: Published by "Big Book O'" Corporation, video games
division.  Available at all better booksellers, and some pretty groady
ones.

FOOTNOTE 6: There is no FOOTNOTE 6.

FOOTNOTE 7: The $100,000 Jenga tournament is one of the prime stress
relievers for the harried troopers of X-Com.  The tournament was reset
after the first try, when Trooper S. Green tried to claim the win after
a UFO raided during his opponent's (Squaddie Detonate) turn, and a stray
High Explosive round from HWTrooper "Big Mad" "Pyromaniac" Drongo's
autocannon hit the table, vaporising the entire game.  The tournament
rules were revised to include a playover if the game was destroyed,
since with no pieces surviving, it was rather hard to determine if it
was knocked over or not.  The updated rules also involved playing the
game on a shock-proofed table, with armor plating and shielding to cover
it in case of alien attack. [8]

FOOTNOTE 8: Some of the FOOTNOTEs and DISCLAIMERs are incredibly long
and involved and weird and boring and take a joke way too far.  If a
joke dies, see FOOTNOTE 1 and change the names.

FOOTNOTE 9: Available at all major department stores.

FOOTNOTE 10: The "Big Book O'" Corporation maintains warehouses full of
old copies of its books, from returns for rebates for the new issues and
from ones that didn't sell so well.  A whole warehouse in South Dakota
was full to the brim of "The Big Book o' Weird and Impossible Sexual
Positions," because it had been recalled after it was directly linked to
a number of deaths, permanent disfigurments, spinal injuries,
amputations, and gas.

FOOTNOTE 11: Any resemblence between this character and the author is
purely a coincidence, or at least that's my story and I'm sticking too
it. [12]

FOOTNOTE 12: Yes, several footnotes are out of order.  This is to
encourage the non-linear thinkers and confuse the government agencies
spying on me.

FOOTNOTE 13: Later, the unfortunate caller, identified only as a "Git"
was found, hiding in the ruins of his garden shed.  Unfortunately,
shortly after that, the continuity police arrived and liquidated him.
Remeber this story, wrong numbers can cause more than big phone bills.

FOOTNOTE 14: See the a.g.x FAQ, under Not-So-Breaking News, I believe.

FOOTNOTE 15: Aside from blowing alien brains all over the sidewalks and
conference rooms of Mega-Primus, of course.

FOOTNOTE 16: Your score is 12 out of a possible 666 points, giving you
the rank of Telephone Salesperson. [17]

FOOTNOTE 17: Would you like to Restore, Quit, or Start Over?

- Bluemage, who spent WAY too long on this.