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The Daily Carrot (IC)

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Main Nation Ministry
Powerbroker
 
Posts: 8031
Founded: Sep 28, 2016
Psychotic Dictatorship

The Daily Carrot (IC)

Postby Main Nation Ministry » Thu Apr 09, 2020 12:09 am

The Daily Carrot


Tribute to Dearest McKennedy Smith
Written by Jean-Marc Consommer

It is perhaps of deep sorrow to know the death of a fellow staff member of the Daily Carrot. While we had our own tragedies in the past, nothing can amount to the death of Editor In-Chief McKennedy Smith. For McKennedy Smith, he was a man of his own worth. A patriot. Adventurer. Journalist ahead of its time. Great man. Did he die doing what he loved? Yes. Even though, dying in the Bermuda Triangle is a fate destined to those who are victim to the curse that the area had to offer, McKennedy and several others didn't back down. However, it was a mistake to ensure your trust on a seaplane that was practically already a death trap. Several FAA investigators were willing to provide accident reports, after the wreckage was found. "Practically made out of sticks and loose bolts", they told me, as they had examined parts of the wreckage.

For McKennedy, he had prepared many things to his will. Even after he might have forgotten that he taped it over a copy of the movie White Chicks, though McKennedy wanted to go old school with using VHS, he still gave his last testament from an old TV on a wheeled cart in the church.



"Hello, if you watching this, I have died under certain circumstances. For the Daily Carrot, I will let you give my sympathies from the many staff that supported me. By now I had died before I had officially retired, though this is what I can say is my permanent retirement which all of you are attending now. I have already planned on selling some of my antiques to some worthy buyers that have been listed with help of my attorney. Now, for the role of editor in-chief, I have to pick someone who I knew who would be eligible for the job".

"Come on..come on.." Frisk Papperman said to himself, as he was reading McKennedy's last will with some of the other Daily Carrot staff. "I hereby announce that my role of editor in-chief will be transferred to my legitmate son, Francis Smith."
"WHAT?!!??!" Frisk yelled at the top of his lungs, alarming the rest of the funeral patrons. "Sir, this is a funeral, people are mourn-" a staff member of the church tried to politely say to Papperman, until he punched him. "Mourning my ass! I wanted that job! I'm entitled to have Smith's job! Me! ME ME ME!"

It was then that the overzealous priest immediately appeared with a loaded shotgun, aimed squarely at Frisk. "Leave, you heteric.." the priest said in a bloodthristy manner on a verge to exterminate all of the heterics in the world in a crusade. Frisk was forced to comply, as the priest and some of his aides escorted Papperman out of the church. The attorney to McKennedy continued playing the video.

"I know it will come as a shock for many, however I admit to have a son. We had never met, however I was aware of his prescene after a letter from a former spouse. Knowing he is now grown up, I believe that due to the magic of my job, he can find some happiness that I was unable to give him, if it helps. I have notified my attorney to contact Francis Smith as specified in discussions addressed while writing this will. Now for how to properly bury my body. As you may know, my body is to be shipped towards cremation. The purpose is that I know for the fact that while I intended to be buried in a sacrophagus, I fear that my own dead feet will be severed, just to fit in the ancient Egyptian coffin."

"For that reason, I intend to go out the same way as Hunter S. Thompson!" McKennedy's last words echo in the altar, as many funeral patrons realize in confusion and bewilderment.


To debate on how McKennedy wanted his ashes to be taken care of, it wasn't something I could chew and shallow. McKennedy's ashes were mixed with gunpowder and loaded into several rockets. Mostly orange colored fireworks. While some of him was taken to Disneyland, he was blown sky high above the church. Some of the falling sparks landed at the nearby greenery, so us at the Daily Carrot will apologize to Mrs. Longbottom for accidently burning down her greenhouse. And we pay respects to Mr. Anderson's new car, after a rocket accidently was sent into his priceless sports coupe.

Some workers left the Daily Carrot after McKennedy's funeral, especially that scheming parasite Frisk Papperman. To where he gone after he was fired, no one knows. Some wished him well, but some of the staff left. New ones popped up, but it's obvious for someone like me to know there is now great change in the air.

Jean-Marc Consommer is a food critic and journalist for The Daily Carrot. He is known for several reviews applauding several restuarants in the Anywhere City business district. One can find him feasting on such exotic delicacies, much to the dismay of many average-minded individuals. You can contact him below this article, if you like to schedule an interview with him or have information to provide.




Francis Smith

Francis arrived early for his gig at The Daily Carrot, as he entered, wearing a shirt and tie. A white-collar gimmick, but it was something he wore trying to peddle Ford Pintos. After taking the old elevator, he walked straight to his office. The words "Office of the Editor" plastered on the window of the door in bold letters. He adjusted the blinds, as the early morning was shining above the city. He been here for several days and was just getting used to the ropes. It was better than being in several dead-end jobs. City does have a nice view of the Hagia Sophia and the third Statue of Liberty.

Now, he needed some coffee..with lots of sugar and cream. It helps him think. At least, he got to make sure the coffee machine wasn't full of tricks.
Local 20 year old Diet Coke Addict College Student Ruins Everything

Quote of the Week: "Touch me, Midas.
Make me part of your design." - My Ordinary Life from The Living Tombstone.

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Voxija
Diplomat
 
Posts: 502
Founded: Jan 17, 2019
Civil Rights Lovefest

Postby Voxija » Thu Apr 09, 2020 7:41 am

Isaacarine Domeka Rosenberg, the youngest employee of the Daily Carrot, stared at the drinking bird toy on her desk out of boredom. Up... and down... Up... and down. Just like her life. One minute, she had a great life at the circus, and now she lived in a small apartment in Anywhere City, a city very new to Isaacarine. At least she got this job.

The old boss had hired her, but now the old boss was dead. Isaacarine had heard about the new boss, how he got the job because of nepotism, and how he hadn't even heard of his father. Eh. Isaacarine did not want to get involved in office politics. Or any politics. That was why she wanted to cover human interest stories, interviews with famous people, and rip apart trash books. Sorry, Isaacarine meant literary criticism.

Isaacarine got out of her chair. Now was the time to explore Anywhere City, and research a heartwarming article she wanted to write about a girl who threw a pool party for the bigwigs of Anywhere City.

Ouch! Isaacarine stubbed her toe. "Dang it!" Isaacarine did not swear. Everyone made fun of I.D. (one of Isaacarine's nicknames) because she didn't swear. Isaacarine was fourteen! What was she supposed to do, let loose with a cluster f bomb every time she stubbed her toe?

Isaacarine decided to walk off the pain. She sauntered out of her office and walked down the dilapidated hallway, ready to get to know the city more closely. Isaacarine found Anywhere City to be a beautiful town, with its harbors and mountains and bridges and parks and skyscrapers. Anywhere City was the metropolis for I. D. Rosenberg.
The Republic of Voxija (pronounced: Voshiya)
I'm female.
A self-quaratined zoomer. Oddly Jewish. Trying to learn French and failing. An American who wishes the US would switch to the metric system. Stroppy cow and proud of it. Secret pyromaniac?

my politics are confused and muddled | Love is love!
My flag is the Basque flag ICly too.
I'd rather be fishing.
I think that by now I've created more lore for my nation than most real-world nations have.
I actually don't speak Basque. I just think it's a cool language.

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Talchyon
Senator
 
Posts: 4965
Founded: May 05, 2016
Moralistic Democracy

Postby Talchyon » Sun Apr 12, 2020 11:48 am

DeMarcus Clark

A tall, African-American man entered the decrepit building the same way he had for years. Late. He normally justified it as a business matter. If he was writing the sports columns, that meant he had to stay up and watch the late games, and then type everything up and select the right pictures, yada yada yada, which meant that he could come in to work late every day after a game. And most every other day at that. Because, again for work related reasons, he could always claim he was working overtime even in the offseasons, even if he was just doing one of his hundreds of fantasy football leagues at night or salivating over who he wanted teams to draft. And since the Daily Carrot was notoriously cheap, and the boss didn't like paying overtime, it made for a good working relationship for DeMarcus Clark.

That is to say, it had been a good working relationship for DeMarcus Clark. But now that his former editor, McKennedy Smith, had gone and gotten his bucket kicked, that is to say, he had gone and bought the farm, bit the big one, said 'sayonara'. Metaphorically, his old editor was pushing up daisies. But it could only be said metaphorically, since DeMarcus was sure that cremations didn't count for that, and especially not when their remains were blasted all over Disneyland. Regardless, McKennedy Smith had always grunted at DeMarcus coming in late, and didn't care.

But there was a new editor in town. And not that prick Frisk Papperman, either. Who knew what position he was going to have now at the Carrot? Maybe they'd stick him on something trivial. Useless. Something no one would want to read. The latest declarations from micro-nations, perhaps. But the new editor? Some guy named Francis Smith. DeMarcus was hoping the old "nod and wink" system going on at his habitual tardiness would go on. But who knew?

That's why DeMarcus was stopping in at the editor's desk first thing that morning. He had a story in hand, about a trade rumor involving three teams: the NBA's Atlanta Hawks, MLB's Tampa Bay Rays, and the NFL's Cincinnati Bengals. The Hawks were going to send the Rays a forward, who then would ship a draft pick (in the baseball draft!) to the Bengals, who would respond by sending the Hawks a backup defensive tackle. And while it sounded crazy, DeMarcus actually thought that that was the kind of trade that could benefit all three teams, since nothing else was seeming to work for those franchises. DeMarcus even had a picture, a pic he himself had photoshopped, somehow combining the jerseys and logos of the Hawks, the Rays and the Bengals together on one baseball-pantsed, basketball tank-topped, football helmeted wearing player. Who cared if it wasn't accurate? He simple said it came from an anonymous source.

Knocking on the editor's door, DeMarcus came in. He was wearing his traditional outfit - shorts, flip flops, a button up shirt, with three buttons undone and his undershirt showing beneath; a nice blue suit jacket. Getting the man's attention, whom DeMarcus assumed was the new head honcho in charge, he said, "Hey man. 'Sup. I'm guessing you're the new editor here? I'm DeMarcus Clark. Usually I'm the Carrot's sports reporter, and sometimes I do other articles too. Got my latest story ready for you, but I don't have your email yet."
The Minnesota Infinites are that group of superheroes no respectable team wanted to join them. Why? It's because their powers are so dumb.

The long running COMEDY RP on NS is almost done with our current arc: The Infinites - INFINITE GAUNTLET (OOC) - and the IC page is here.

If you would like to play in this RP, and would like another arc to start soon, let Talc know!

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Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States
P2TM RP Mentor
 
Posts: 19069
Founded: Feb 20, 2012
Democratic Socialists

Postby Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States » Tue Apr 14, 2020 1:42 pm

Image

I gazed into that orange-red flame, and it gazed back into me. We seemed to speak, that fire and I, as if I spoke one last time with Master Smith. Staring into that blaze told me more about his final wishes than any testament every could. The inferno was like a pyre to my ancient Viking ancestors of old, who would take all their possessions with them to Valhalla, leaving only their blood behind, knowing it would conquer like he had conquered.

It is a sacred text, a final will and testament. The last breath and influence, beyond one’s blood, a person will ever have on its earth. If we could see Time in its full and expanded glory, we would see these moments as the thick paint on a canvas, the colouration connecting one part with the other in the artwork of humanity. The greatest details and the brightest colours being provided by such great lineages as that of Master Smith.

The music plays on, and we enter a new meter in the grand symphony. Mister Smith lives on through his honoured son, who will be my treasured companion in time to come. Just like me, although perhaps in a lesser extent, he carries on his shoulder the legacy of generations. I wish him the best. May we see such majesty as that of McKennedy again. Such majesty.



“Such majesty…”

Maximillian August Wolfgang Schubert Müller, Count of Schwarzberg-Hinterhausen, stood firm in the soft blowing of an evening wind. The flames of orange licked the pink-amber sky, which was illuminated by sudden flashes from exploding fireworks. Grey-coloured specs floated down from the sky, a regrettable side effect of human ash not being flammable.

There was a time to come, and a time to go. As Max saw Frisk Papperman squirming on the floor, he knew it was time for him to go. He stepped over his colleague of two days, soon to be his former colleague, and began walking towards his car. However, before he could reach it, a rather angry-looking man stood in his way, his face red with tomato-like fury.

“Yes, my good man?” the old Max said, adjusting the half-moon spectacles adoring his nose. He threw his gigantic scarf over his shoulder, nearly smacking a passing bicyclist to the floor as he did so. It took a few moments for the man to catch his breath, so furious was he. Even then, for the first few seconds, all he could do was point at the artful pyre that was burning on the side of the road.

“THAT. WAS. MY. CAR.” He bellowed.

“Ah” Max replied, turning his head slightly. Now that the man mentioned it, the few remaining parts of the car that were not blackened by soot did look rather shiny and expensive.

“WHAT. THE. FUCK. DID. YOU. DO!” the man shouted out, releasing a bit of impolite spittle as he did so.

“My friend, I am awfully sorry to bring this up now” Max began, wiping some of the spittle off with a McDonalds napkin that had been self-embroidered.

“But you should really end a question with a question mark. For style, you could add the exclamation point before…”

Max saw the right fist of the car owner approach his face, just in time for him to bend over backwards, allowing the strike to pass by harmlessly. The owner of the car lost his balance and fell over, too dazed to make any more use of his expansive rage. Now, Max bent over forwards, and patted some dust from the man’s shoulder.

“Your car has served to be part of a beautiful piece of art, my friend, to rival the works of the great painters of old! Like… Rubens… and… you know… Anyway, I will of course give you something in return”

The face of the man lit up as Max moved his hand into his inner coat pocket, from which he withdrew what looked like a small black glasses case. With a pop Max opened it, withdrawing a small piece of metal suspended on some fabric. It looked suspiciously like a medal.

“It is my honour to award you the Honorific Cross of the House of Schwarzberg-Hinterhausen for the Benefit of Those who Contributed Masterfully or Otherwise to the Furthering of the Arts, Liberal or Otherwise, with Merit and 2nd Rank”

With the dexterity of someone who had performed the action countless times, Max pinned the medal on the breast pocket of the man’s shirt. A firm pat on the shoulder was enough to make it official, and before the man had time to respond, Max got into his Type S75 Atlanta Coupe, the famous word ‘Buggati’ adorning the steering wheel, and drove off.

The next morning, Max entered the office with a heavy heart, and an even heavier standing clock dragged in his wake. The screeching of the metal legs on the stone floor made anyone younger than 40 shiver, but his advanced age and deteriorated ears safeguarded Max from such inconvenience.

"Dang it!" Isaacarine shouted, apparently stubbing her toe. Max thought highly of her. She was a very well-behaved girl worthy of nobility, and he hoped she would make a match for one of his own grand-children one day. He lamented that betrothals had gone out of style, otherwise he would have gone to her parents at once.

“Good girl!” Max said, heaving with the exertion of dragging the clock with him. At exactly 9, a hideous raven-looking bird exited the clock, and gave nine terrifying shrieks that would have done well to accompany the apocalypse. After the ninth shriek, the raven cried out “Aye, nine there were, and in fifteen, another day closer to the grave!” Max did not listen much to the bird. He would be glad to have it out of the house, where it kept him up late at night. At midnight, it would cry twelve times, and say something morbid about death. Better let him do it here than back home.

After some heavy lifting, he got it into his office. There was barely any space to put it, though. Over the past three days, Max had loaded the office with knick-knacks from his home. Furniture, ancient vases, about three clocks to which he was adding a fourth, paintings of long-lost relatives… Finally, Max managed to squirm the clock between a cupboard and a globe showing the political situation in 1990, the most useless globe ever made. The globe was slightly dented, North Yemen in the process. Having finished that task, Max climbed over a few chairs and squished himself between his office chair and his desk, looking down at his typewriter.

“Another day…” he muttered, and he started writing down the notes he took the day before.
The name's James. James Usari. Well, my name is not actually James Usari, so don't bother actually looking it up, but it'll do for now.

Lack of a real name means compensation through a real face. My debt is settled


Part-time Kebab tycoon in Glasgow.

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Mediama
Chargé d'Affaires
 
Posts: 402
Founded: Jun 20, 2017
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Mediama » Tue Apr 14, 2020 5:13 pm

Caroline Digby
CONTROL Regional Headquarters


Caroline Digby, alias Agent 73 (or was it the other way around? She wasn't sure herself) walked into the dilapidated building that served as the supposed regional headquarters of Sweet Nothings Co, Ltd. A greeting card company that served as the front for Anywhere City's Branch of CONTROL.

Today there was more to offer other than the usual briefing from the Chief of CONTROL.

Today was also the day she was going to introduce herself into her new job that was conveniently across the hallway from their headquarters.

She was rather excited to get the position after somehow acing the interview (She accidently spilled coffee on the interviewer's shirt, caused the door to the interview room to somehow disconnect from its hinges, and accidently set the wastebasket on fire after trying to light a cigarette).

Today was supposedly a somber day though, apparently the head honcho for the Daily Carrot had supposedly disappeared without a trace when he and his team tried to investigate the Bermuda Triangle (Maybe she should check in with the Bermuda branch of CONTROL to see if KAOS did anything, or they really DID disappear, wasn't really that uncommon in that area anyway). Nevertheless, she reminded herself to try to approach her new boss gently as she went through the multitude of reinforced doors, elevators, false entrances, and the like to meet up with the Chief.

One briefing and near accidental homicide later, Carol left the offices and walked across the hallway. She took a deep breath and told herself "You're going to do good today, you're going to do good today, just stay calm. You're the top agent of CONTROL, so you should do good enough here." She kept repeating herself like it was a mantra, before she checked her various hidden phones, cyanide pills, hidden cameras, hidden gadgets, and the Colt Detective Special hidden in her garter belt.

She gave a sigh, fixed her 1960's style dress, and walked into the office, she looked around before she found the door to the new Head-Editor's office, then walked towards it. She then knocked, and the door opened, to the face of a pretty woman.

"H-Hello, I'm Caroline Digby, I'm pretty new here, is this the editor's office?"

The woman shook her head, "No, that would be the next office over." She pointed to the door where someone else was already waiting outside.

"O-Oh, thanks." Carol then walked over to the correct office. She was going to walk in with the other person, but the door ended up closing on her, hitting her in the face. She slowly backed away from the door, covered her nose and tryied to silence her wince as she squinted her eyes. "Owwww..."

Maybe it might be best if she just waited outside for the time being.
Last edited by Mediama on Tue Apr 14, 2020 5:16 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Basically, Canada with Naboo style royalty and more British. My supposed foil and puppet nation is Consertoria


MBC News: Mediaman deployments to Qaidi wind down as conflict in Qaidi comes to a resolution|Mediaman troop deployment escalates in Special Region|HMS Mediama redeploys to Gibraltar for refit|Former Qaidi naval taskforce on standby at Gibraltar|Mediaman royal runs away with lover, Mediama provides asylum|Mediaman Red Cross steps up deployment|Ministry of Foreign Affairs works with British North American Union to provide Commonwealth International aid to Special Region|Margery Thompson inspects local pub for Saint Patrick's Day

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Voxija
Diplomat
 
Posts: 502
Founded: Jan 17, 2019
Civil Rights Lovefest

Postby Voxija » Tue Apr 14, 2020 5:27 pm

Isaacarine Domeka Rosenberg

Isaacarine heard Maximillian say "Good girl!" Isaacarine frowned. Stubbing one's toe is good? Anyway, that German seemed a bit creepy. Like he was going to perv on her. And why was he dragging that gigantic clock anyway? He'd just scrape the floors. Isaacarine had heard a bit about her coworker. Mostly that he was German and he insisted on behaving like a royal brat. I. D. was fourteen and even she wasn't that childish.

Mind you, it would have been a compliment if Max wasn't German. A contradictory—and sometimes quite strange—attitude towards Germans and Germany was the only recognizably Jewish thing I. D. Rosenberg had inherited from her father. Besides the fact that she never ate pork. But that was different.

Isaacarine walked out of the ugly old Daily Carrot offices and observed her new home of Anywhere City. The beautiful foggy—no, it was just smoggy—sky. All the lovely old car wrecks in this part of town. And look—Isaacarine Rosenberg could see the Hagia Sophia in the distance. What a lovely city.

But enough blathering. I. D. Rosenberg had a story to research and write. In the circus, she'd learned a bit about gonzo journalism. Now it was time to apply what she'd learned.

The Daily Carrot

Local Girl Throws Pool Party for Anywhere City Bigwigs!

Written by I. D. Rosenberg
Now

Isaacarine Rosenberg walked the streets of Anywhere City. She once read a novel where a character memorized a map of the city, but I. D. didn't do that. The young journalist walked carefully, so not to stub her toe. Isaacarine always stubbed her toe during the worst moments. She hated that.

Isaacarine's destination was 42 Peachtree Lane, in a suburb of Anywhere City called Nowhere Land. Nowhere Land was considered part of Anywhere City by everyone except for certain people from out of town. A little girl named Isis Kerra (born before the rise of the Islamic State) living at 42 Peachtree Lane is throwing a pool party—right now! for important people living in Anywhere City. The pool party had gone viral 5 minutes after it started, and now—Isaacarine Rosenberg looked at her watch—it was thirty-nine minutes after it had gone viral. Hopefully the pool party would not have ended by the time I. D. got there.

Isaacarine Rosenberg heard a cry. "Help, please help me!" The fourteen-year-old did not ponder whether she should answer the cry for help. Isaacarine knew that journalists report on the news but they never make the news. So, she completely ignored the woman being murdered in Trictobothnia Building.

Isaacarine walked through Ellesmere Park, a beautiful grassy area surrounded by skyscrapers and honking cars. The cars looked like they were stuck in a traffic jam. Isaacarine Rosenberg was glad that she was walking. It was probably faster than the car. Isaacarine was so focused on not stubbing her toe that she tripped on something instead.

As the young journalist fell to the pavement (sidewalk, for you Americans), a teenage boy caught her. "Here, I'll help you up." As Isaacarine got up, she saw the face of her savior. It was an ugly pimpled face. Naturally, Isaacarine Rosenberg had to make a smart remark, and it had to be unexpected.

Isaacarine said, "I'm glad you helped me up. Teenage boys these days are too politically liberal to show chivalry." Hey, unnecessarily making something political is unexpected.

"Wait, what?", said the boy. "If I could vote, I would have voted—" then the boy saw Isaacarine's face. Although the journalist was merely average-looking, teenage boys are often so hormone-driven that they think every girl they see (or guy, if they're gay) is pretty. The boy continued the sentence. "I would have voted for you."

"Don't be silly," said the sometimes silly and usually hypocritical Rosenberg. "You delayed me while I was going somewhere important." Isaacarine feared the teenage boy would call the police and report the Daily Carrot on charges of child labor if she told him why she was going somewhere. I. D. stuck out her hand like a schizophrenic businessman. "I'm Isaacarine, but don't call me Sugar. What's your name?"

It was Gianni Bondier. Isaacarine, like she usually does, analyzed the boy's ethnicity in a heartbeat. Half-French, half-Italian. The two most romantic nations. Isaacarine asked Gianni's address and phone number, and got them. The journalist asked Gianni's Social Security number too, but Gianni didn't know his.

"See you later, Gianni." "You too, Id." Isaacarine walked away.

The rest of this walk to Peachtree Lane is boring, so I'll just take you into Isaacarine's thoughts for a bit.

He called me Id! I like being called Id! We're going to be good friends! There's no time for romance in work. I usually never see people of mixed ethnicity. Or race.

Okay, okay, I'm going to stop before it gets all lovey-dovey and/or culturally insensitive.

Isaacarine Rosenberg reached the path leading to the front door of 42 Peachtree Lane. The two-story house was colored peach. Isaacarine could hear screams of glee—or were they terror?—coming from the backyard. That must be the pool party.

Camera around her neck, Isaacarine walked up to the front door and rang the doorbell. A Black American woman who looked to be in her mid-thirties answered the door.

"I'm Isaacarine, and don't call me Sugar," said the fourteen-year-old. "I'm a reporter for the Daily Carrot. Is this your house where the pool party is?"

Of course the woman knew which pool party. She was Violet Kerra, the mother of Isis Kerra, and she was proud of her daughter for going viral. "Yes, it is," said Violet Kerra. "But aren't you a little young to be a reporter?"

Isaacarine Rosenberg was delighted to get a chance to reference Phineas and Ferb. "Yes, yes I am. So, you're Mrs. Kerra? Miss Kerra?"

"Miss?" asked Ms. Kerra. "I'm flattered. Call me... Miss Kerra." Ms. Kerra giggled. Isaacarine was glad that a single mother, for once, called herself "Miss" instead of the artificial title Ms. Why'd anyone make up a new term when there was a perfectly good one already in use? But that wasn't important.

Isaacarine Domeka Rosenberg walked to the backyard, where the pool party was being held. It was an amazing sight! There was the Mayor of Anywhere City, and the owner of Cabbages and Kings restaurant, and, O! The inventor of the Thingamajig! And they were all swimming in the backyard pool with a young girl who looked about eight. But then... the reality came upon Isaacarine. These bigwigs didn't get their status from their looks. In fact... they all looked terrible in their bathing suits!

"Oh... hoogahooga." Isaacarine still did not swear, but the reporter decided not to take photos of the bigwigs. She walked over to the pool, being careful not to fall in. "So, Isis Kerra, how did you get the idea to hold this pool party?"

The little girl swam over to Isaacarine. "You see, big reporter lady, I just heard about how the Mayor and the inventor of the Thingamajig and other people wanted to make people's lives better, and all they got were jerks saying they were evil and mean. So I threw a pool party for them!"

Isaacarine interviewed all of the bigwigs, but they all said the same thing about how they were grateful to be here and how Isis was adorably precocious. It would be boring if I wrote it all out, so the interviews are summarized here.

Finally, Isaacarine D. Rosenberg had all the material she needed for a heartwarming human interest story, with some added unfortunate implications for controversy. Let's just hope it helps keep the Daily Carrot from failing.
The Republic of Voxija (pronounced: Voshiya)
I'm female.
A self-quaratined zoomer. Oddly Jewish. Trying to learn French and failing. An American who wishes the US would switch to the metric system. Stroppy cow and proud of it. Secret pyromaniac?

my politics are confused and muddled | Love is love!
My flag is the Basque flag ICly too.
I'd rather be fishing.
I think that by now I've created more lore for my nation than most real-world nations have.
I actually don't speak Basque. I just think it's a cool language.

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Main Nation Ministry
Powerbroker
 
Posts: 8031
Founded: Sep 28, 2016
Psychotic Dictatorship

Postby Main Nation Ministry » Tue Apr 14, 2020 11:41 pm

Francis Smith

The knock at the editor-in chief's door alerted Francis, as he scrambled to maintain a professional posture. "Ahem! Come in!" Francis Smith said, as he put his hands together. Smith's office was more overly formal than the late predecessor. A scale model of the Daily Carrot offices was on a shelf, among several books of a variety of topics and information. Several artworks of ocean and animals motifs were hung and put in the office to give a theme. The door to the liquor cabinet was open from Francis adding some booze to his coffee to try to get the sleep out of his eyes. A radio playing a song on a low volume and a goldfish bowl was on his desk, along with his computer. For Francis Smith, he tried to look normal. Even if being normal isn't a thing here.

"Hey man. 'Sup. I'm guessing you're the new editor here? I'm DeMarcus Clark. Usually I'm the Carrot's sports reporter, and sometimes I do other articles too. Got my latest story ready for you, but I don't have your email yet."


"Yes. Yes I am. My name is Francis Smith. I will be the new editor here staying from yesterday afternoon. I had to make sure things suited my needs here in the office. With the sports season this year, it always would be good to do coverage in the country and in Anywhere City. Especially since they are making e-sports an official sport from the looks of it. If you got your story already in print, I'm happy to convert to digital for you, so it can be added to the newest issue. Let me put down my email for you, though." Francis got out a post-it note and pen and started to jolt down an email, however halfway in writing it down, he immediately crossed it off before he wrote another email down on the post-it note. "Sorry, the one that's crossed off is an email for a website I used.. Not that it matters. But this is my work email. Use it to contact me."

"Now for sporting events, I think there some stuff happening in Anywhere City related to sports. Just do what you would do best to get people invested in the magazine." Francis Smith, though he isn't aware that it might go over Clark's head. Meanwhile, it seems Caroline was recovering from her minor nose injury, as she was waiting outside of the office.
Last edited by Main Nation Ministry on Tue Apr 14, 2020 11:42 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Pax Nerdvana
Postmaster-General
 
Posts: 14070
Founded: May 22, 2017
Capitalizt

Postby Pax Nerdvana » Sat Apr 18, 2020 8:16 am

Daniel "Dutch" Van Dyke
Daniel sat at his desk, whittling a stick with an old Barlow pocket knife. Whittling helped him think. He trying to figure out the best way to start an article about the joys of hiking. It would be his first article as an actual journalist, seeing as he had been hired just a day earlier. He set the pocket knife down on his desk, and drained his coffee. He shifted his weight in the chair, and felt his uncle's Vietnam War era M1911 press against the small of his back. His Columbia light jacket did a good job of hiding the bulge. He carried out of years of habit, and recent attacks on journalists had made him a little nervous about safety. He began whittling again, making sure the shavings fell into the trash can next to his desk. He sat up straighter with a start, and said,"I have it!" He folded the blade on the pocket knife, and dropped it into his pocket. He set the partially whittled stick next to his laptop, and began typing...
Right leaning male American independent and something of a libertarian. I am a fan of SF, Transformers, Star Wars, Star Trek, military history, retrogaming, NASA, and Nintendo, among other things. The First Amendment gives freedom; the Second ensures it. TANSTAAFL! Call me Pax. Also: puns.
Colonize other planets! Space! NASA!
Dangerous freedom>peaceful oppression
The stars are ours! Ad Astra!
Live free or die!
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Talchyon
Senator
 
Posts: 4965
Founded: May 05, 2016
Moralistic Democracy

Postby Talchyon » Sat Apr 18, 2020 5:39 pm

Editor's office
DeMarcus Clark


Getting a good look at the new editor's office was something else. Guy had some serious issues, judging by things. The taxidermy specials throughout the room, perhaps. Or maybe it was the sad attempts at a Latin salsa dance coming from the guy's portable radio. Though he did have what looked like a liquor cabinet open at maybe 9:30 in the morning, so maybe there was hope for him yet. His personality? Well, that was something else.

Main Nation Ministry wrote:Francis Smith

The knock at the editor-in chief's door alerted Francis, as he scrambled to maintain a professional posture. "Ahem! Come in!" Francis Smith said, as he put his hands together. Smith's office was more overly formal than the late predecessor. A scale model of the Daily Carrot offices was on a shelf, among several books of a variety of topics and information. Several artworks of ocean and animals motifs were hung and put in the office to give a theme. The door to the liquor cabinet was open from Francis adding some booze to his coffee to try to get the sleep out of his eyes. A radio playing a song on a low volume and a goldfish bowl was on his desk, along with his computer. For Francis Smith, he tried to look normal. Even if being normal isn't a thing here.

"Hey man. 'Sup. I'm guessing you're the new editor here? I'm DeMarcus Clark. Usually I'm the Carrot's sports reporter, and sometimes I do other articles too. Got my latest story ready for you, but I don't have your email yet."


"Yes. Yes I am. My name is Francis Smith. I will be the new editor here staying from yesterday afternoon. I had to make sure things suited my needs here in the office. With the sports season this year, it always would be good to do coverage in the country and in Anywhere City. Especially since they are making e-sports an official sport from the looks of it. If you got your story already in print, I'm happy to convert to digital for you, so it can be added to the newest issue. Let me put down my email for you, though." Francis got out a post-it note and pen and started to jolt down an email, however halfway in writing it down, he immediately crossed it off before he wrote another email down on the post-it note. "Sorry, the one that's crossed off is an email for a website I used.. Not that it matters. But this is my work email. Use it to contact me."

"Now for sporting events, I think there some stuff happening in Anywhere City related to sports. Just do what you would do best to get people invested in the magazine." Francis Smith, though he isn't aware that it might go over Clark's head. Meanwhile, it seems Caroline was recovering from her minor nose injury, as she was waiting outside of the office.


DeMarcus took the post-it with the new editor's email, with an one eyebrow raised, like this (but only kind of, because obviously that's not him). "Right. I'll get my story to you soon. And I'll look into some of those stories on e-sports. Enjoy your hard liquor."

But as Demarcus turned to go, he opened the door and saw a woman standing there, rubbing her nose. White girl. Skinny, shortish brunette hair, in a either horribly retro or blazenly cutting edge hairstyle, not like anyone could tell the difference.

Mediama wrote:Caroline Digby
Carol then walked over to the correct office. She was going to walk in with the other person, but the door ended up closing on her, hitting her in the face. She slowly backed away from the door, covered her nose and tryied to silence her wince as she squinted her eyes. "Owwww..."

Maybe it might be best if she just waited outside for the time being.


DeMarcus said to the woman, "Uh, if you need a kleenex, the ladies' room is down the hallway." Then he shuffled on back to his cubicle.

On the way, the screeching of something heavy grated on his sanity. "Great," he thought. "There's only two things that make a sound like that, and I'm pretty sure no rabid pregnant hyenas are here. That leaves Max." Max would be the erstwhile kook who was dragging a heavy grandfather clock which looked like it had been sitting in some seventh-rate antique shop in a geriatric community. Max had been working at the Carrot about as long as DeMarcus, and even after this time, nothing about the guy made DeMarcus want to spend any more time with him than was possible. Max was as close to certifiable as you could get without having certificates available. And it was just DeMarcus' awful luck that his cubicle was right next door to the nutcase's office. The man got an office! He got to put all his - well, the stuff that somehow must have appealed to the lalas living in his head or something - in that office. He could spread out. But DeMarcus? Ha! He had a cubicle. Same cubicle he always had.

Once, he had gone to his old editor and asked why Max got the office and he didn't. McKinney was all political, talking a lot of crap about good working conditions and good will, but the only thing DeMarcus could figure out was that he was keeping Max in that other office because it was the furthest from the editor's own.

Which didn't sit well when DeMarcus' office was practically just a smidge closer.

When he got to his cubicle, though, there was a strange man sitting in his chair. With a knife!

Pax Nerdvana wrote:[b]Daniel "Dutch" Van Dyke
Daniel sat at his desk, whittling a stick with an old Barlow pocket knife. Whittling helped him think. He trying to figure out the best way to start an article about the joys of hiking. It would be his first article as an actual journalist, seeing as he had been hired just a day earlier. He set the pocket knife down on his desk, and drained his coffee. He shifted his weight in the chair, and felt his uncle's Vietnam War era M1911 press against the small of his back. His Columbia light jacket did a good job of hiding the bulge. He carried out of years of habit, and recent attacks on journalists had made him a little nervous about safety. He began whittling again, making sure the shavings fell into the trash can next to his desk. He sat up straighter with a start, and said,"I have it!" He folded the blade on the pocket knife, and dropped it into his pocket. He set the partially whittled stick next to his laptop, and began typing...


DeMarcus coughed politely. Then coughed a bit louder 'cause the guy was still typing. "'Scuse me," he started. "I think you got the wrong desk. That's my cubicle. See?" And DeMarcus pointed to some of the pictures on the backboard of the cubicle, showing fanboy shots with DeMarcus trying to get pictures with uncomfortable looking professional athletes.
Last edited by Talchyon on Sat Apr 18, 2020 5:42 pm, edited 2 times in total.
The Minnesota Infinites are that group of superheroes no respectable team wanted to join them. Why? It's because their powers are so dumb.

The long running COMEDY RP on NS is almost done with our current arc: The Infinites - INFINITE GAUNTLET (OOC) - and the IC page is here.

If you would like to play in this RP, and would like another arc to start soon, let Talc know!

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Mediama
Chargé d'Affaires
 
Posts: 402
Founded: Jun 20, 2017
Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Mediama » Sat Apr 18, 2020 6:20 pm

Talchyon wrote:Editor's office
DeMarcus Clark


Mediama wrote:[b]Caroline Digby
Carol then walked over to the correct office. She was going to walk in with the other person, but the door ended up closing on her, hitting her in the face. She slowly backed away from the door, covered her nose and tryied to silence her wince as she squinted her eyes. "Owwww..."

Maybe it might be best if she just waited outside for the time being.


DeMarcus said to the woman, "Uh, if you need a kleenex, the ladies' room is down the hallway." Then he shuffled on back to his cubicle.


Carol nodded and mumbled out a thanks. She looked back down the hallway, down to the ladies room. Do I have time to freshen up real quick? Probably not, I'm already a little late as it is. She decided to blindly dig into her purse to take out a handkerchief to wipe her nose as she pinched her nose to stop the bleeding.

Instead of pulling out a handkerchief, she accidently grabbed another woman's sleeve, prompting a shriek and a loud slap to sound across the offices.

Carol quickly said her apologies, and groaned as the lady left, her own cheeks burning from embarrassment and from the sharp pain that come from the slap. She dug back into her purse, her hand right on target this time, and pulled out her handkerchief to wipe her nose clean from the bleeding. After cleaning herself up, she gave a little knock before she quakingly walked into the office.

"G-Good morning Mr..." She quickly peered behind the door to look at the nametag on the door before she leaned back into the room "Editor, Mr. Editor sir!" She said, she attempted to walk forward and reached out a hand to shake, before she tripped on a fly, resulting in a summersault toe-jump towards the editor, true to her gymnastics training, she landed on her feet like a cat as if she never tripped at all.

She looked around dazedly at the room, taking in the happy-go-lucky, yet annoying song coming from the radio, to the kinda-yet-not-really clean room filled with paitings that tried to make the room look facy, and the various books that made the editor look a little more studious than he probably seemed, to the alcohol cabinet opened so early in the morning. Never too late for a drink, I guess. She thought as she shook her head to get herself out of said daze, and reached her hand out to shake again.

"I-I'm Caroline Digby. I-I applied to become a journalist and a comics artist for you paper before the... um..." An awkward silence filled the air, "Accident?" She asked meekly in an attempt to try to soften the blow to her boss' father's fate. "I-I know it's your first day here, i-it's mine as well, so I just wanted to introduce myself before I got started." She smiled meekly in hopes that maybe she hasn't screwed everything just yet.

I mean, it's so early in the morning, it can't all go wrong immediately, right?
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Pax Nerdvana
Postmaster-General
 
Posts: 14070
Founded: May 22, 2017
Capitalizt

Postby Pax Nerdvana » Sun Apr 19, 2020 10:27 am

Talchyon wrote:Editor's office
DeMarcus Clark


Getting a good look at the new editor's office was something else. Guy had some serious issues, judging by things. The taxidermy specials throughout the room, perhaps. Or maybe it was the sad attempts at a Latin salsa dance coming from the guy's portable radio. Though he did have what looked like a liquor cabinet open at maybe 9:30 in the morning, so maybe there was hope for him yet. His personality? Well, that was something else.

Main Nation Ministry wrote:Francis Smith

The knock at the editor-in chief's door alerted Francis, as he scrambled to maintain a professional posture. "Ahem! Come in!" Francis Smith said, as he put his hands together. Smith's office was more overly formal than the late predecessor. A scale model of the Daily Carrot offices was on a shelf, among several books of a variety of topics and information. Several artworks of ocean and animals motifs were hung and put in the office to give a theme. The door to the liquor cabinet was open from Francis adding some booze to his coffee to try to get the sleep out of his eyes. A radio playing a song on a low volume and a goldfish bowl was on his desk, along with his computer. For Francis Smith, he tried to look normal. Even if being normal isn't a thing here.



"Yes. Yes I am. My name is Francis Smith. I will be the new editor here staying from yesterday afternoon. I had to make sure things suited my needs here in the office. With the sports season this year, it always would be good to do coverage in the country and in Anywhere City. Especially since they are making e-sports an official sport from the looks of it. If you got your story already in print, I'm happy to convert to digital for you, so it can be added to the newest issue. Let me put down my email for you, though." Francis got out a post-it note and pen and started to jolt down an email, however halfway in writing it down, he immediately crossed it off before he wrote another email down on the post-it note. "Sorry, the one that's crossed off is an email for a website I used.. Not that it matters. But this is my work email. Use it to contact me."

"Now for sporting events, I think there some stuff happening in Anywhere City related to sports. Just do what you would do best to get people invested in the magazine." Francis Smith, though he isn't aware that it might go over Clark's head. Meanwhile, it seems Caroline was recovering from her minor nose injury, as she was waiting outside of the office.


DeMarcus took the post-it with the new editor's email, with an one eyebrow raised, like this (but only kind of, because obviously that's not him). "Right. I'll get my story to you soon. And I'll look into some of those stories on e-sports. Enjoy your hard liquor."

But as Demarcus turned to go, he opened the door and saw a woman standing there, rubbing her nose. White girl. Skinny, shortish brunette hair, in a either horribly retro or blazenly cutting edge hairstyle, not like anyone could tell the difference.

Mediama wrote:Caroline Digby
Carol then walked over to the correct office. She was going to walk in with the other person, but the door ended up closing on her, hitting her in the face. She slowly backed away from the door, covered her nose and tryied to silence her wince as she squinted her eyes. "Owwww..."

Maybe it might be best if she just waited outside for the time being.


DeMarcus said to the woman, "Uh, if you need a kleenex, the ladies' room is down the hallway." Then he shuffled on back to his cubicle.

On the way, the screeching of something heavy grated on his sanity. "Great," he thought. "There's only two things that make a sound like that, and I'm pretty sure no rabid pregnant hyenas are here. That leaves Max." Max would be the erstwhile kook who was dragging a heavy grandfather clock which looked like it had been sitting in some seventh-rate antique shop in a geriatric community. Max had been working at the Carrot about as long as DeMarcus, and even after this time, nothing about the guy made DeMarcus want to spend any more time with him than was possible. Max was as close to certifiable as you could get without having certificates available. And it was just DeMarcus' awful luck that his cubicle was right next door to the nutcase's office. The man got an office! He got to put all his - well, the stuff that somehow must have appealed to the lalas living in his head or something - in that office. He could spread out. But DeMarcus? Ha! He had a cubicle. Same cubicle he always had.

Once, he had gone to his old editor and asked why Max got the office and he didn't. McKinney was all political, talking a lot of crap about good working conditions and good will, but the only thing DeMarcus could figure out was that he was keeping Max in that other office because it was the furthest from the editor's own.

Which didn't sit well when DeMarcus' office was practically just a smidge closer.

When he got to his cubicle, though, there was a strange man sitting in his chair. With a knife!

Pax Nerdvana wrote:[b]Daniel "Dutch" Van Dyke
Daniel sat at his desk, whittling a stick with an old Barlow pocket knife. Whittling helped him think. He trying to figure out the best way to start an article about the joys of hiking. It would be his first article as an actual journalist, seeing as he had been hired just a day earlier. He set the pocket knife down on his desk, and drained his coffee. He shifted his weight in the chair, and felt his uncle's Vietnam War era M1911 press against the small of his back. His Columbia light jacket did a good job of hiding the bulge. He carried out of years of habit, and recent attacks on journalists had made him a little nervous about safety. He began whittling again, making sure the shavings fell into the trash can next to his desk. He sat up straighter with a start, and said,"I have it!" He folded the blade on the pocket knife, and dropped it into his pocket. He set the partially whittled stick next to his laptop, and began typing...


DeMarcus coughed politely. Then coughed a bit louder 'cause the guy was still typing. "'Scuse me," he started. "I think you got the wrong desk. That's my cubicle. See?" And DeMarcus pointed to some of the pictures on the backboard of the cubicle, showing fanboy shots with DeMarcus trying to get pictures with uncomfortable looking professional athletes.

Daniel "Dutch" Van Dyke
Daniel turned and said,"Sorry, I'm kind of new around here", and began to stand up. He continued,"Would you be so kind as to point me towards where my desk is." Daniel turned, so as to be able to shake hands. "I'm Daniel Van Dyke, but people call me Dutch."
Right leaning male American independent and something of a libertarian. I am a fan of SF, Transformers, Star Wars, Star Trek, military history, retrogaming, NASA, and Nintendo, among other things. The First Amendment gives freedom; the Second ensures it. TANSTAAFL! Call me Pax. Also: puns.
Colonize other planets! Space! NASA!
Dangerous freedom>peaceful oppression
The stars are ours! Ad Astra!
Live free or die!
Don't tread on me.
Quotes
It's "We the People", not "We the Government.
Christian
Bill of Rights
Think for yourself-it's patriotic! Don't be sheeple!
I dislike and/or distrust big business, taxes, the current American political parties, and the government.
Freedom is never free, so remember those who died for it.
Support the troops!

User avatar
Main Nation Ministry
Powerbroker
 
Posts: 8031
Founded: Sep 28, 2016
Psychotic Dictatorship

Postby Main Nation Ministry » Sun Apr 19, 2020 4:08 pm

Francis Smith

"Right. I'll get my story to you soon. And I'll look into some of those stories on e-sports. Enjoy your hard liquor."


"Right. Righ-" It wasn't until Francis realizes that DeMarcus knows about Smih's little drinking habit. This wasn't a bit good. He wanted to try to maintain a positive friendship with his fellow workers, but he needed to look more presentable. It wasn't until he heard a little knock a while later, was when he tried to maintain his professional posture again. "Come in."

"G-Good morning Mr..." She quickly peered behind the door to look at the nametag on the door before she leaned back into the room "Editor, Mr. Editor sir!" She said, she attempted to walk forward and reached out a hand to shake, before she tripped on a fly, resulting in a summersault toe-jump towards the editor, true to her gymnastics training, she landed on her feet like a cat as if she never tripped at all.

"I-I'm Caroline Digby. I-I applied to become a journalist and a comics artist for you paper before the... um..." An awkward silence filled the air, "Accident?" She asked meekly in an attempt to try to soften the blow to her boss' father's fate. "I-I know it's your first day here, i-it's mine as well, so I just wanted to introduce myself before I got started." She smiled meekly in hopes that maybe she hasn't screwed everything just yet.


"Well, I'm not Mr. Editor, but-" it was then that Smith saw the weirdest thing. Carol managed to trip over a pebble-sized fly, where with some gymnastics, she somersaulted towards his desk. Smith was dumbfounded at first, but he tried to welcome this agile woman into the job. "Right! My name isn't Mr. Editor. Only Francis Smith. But I am the editor, still." Francis Smith, getting into the groove. "For comic artists, here's my advice. As long as you know how to use Mircosoft Paint. That's the only requirement to be a comic artist here. You could bring some fancy art program for the comics, but as long as people can be interested in the comics, you should be fine."

"Also, please don't trip on anything on the way out. I don't want any new workers having any accidents that could lead to some lawsuits." Francis Smith said to Carol.

Jean-Marc Consommer

The elevator opened up at the floor of the Daily Carrot, as the great Jean-Marc Consommer strolled out with some french music to mark his arrival. With the cane as he walked, he entered to see the many workers going about with their own shenanigans. He required some fine Pinot Noir from the year of 1898 to get his nerves working. Entering his office with the fine antiques from his years of working in the Daily Carrot, he started to check his computer for what restaurants are offering to let him review their establishments. A long pile of business cards and matchbooks from many restaurants he reviewed. Now what restaurant was on the top of his list for reviewing?

"Let's see.." Jean-Marc checked his email. A recent one happened to be from a restaurant in Anywhere City's Arts District. Jean-Marc read the description, but he knew that something about it wouldn't be pleasant.
"Rosario's House. Experience a new form of Mexican cuisine in avant-garde style! Exclusive opening at the Anywhere City Arts District!"

Avant-garde was a bit of a red flag for Jean-Marc. He wasn't no Maximillian August Wolfgang Schubert Müller, Count of Schwarzberg-Hinterhausen, but even if the food that Consommer ate was works of arts, he knew avant-garde when he saw it. He might as well schedule a reservation. Perhaps with the new editor in-chief? And maybe he can convince some of his fellow co-workers?
Local 20 year old Diet Coke Addict College Student Ruins Everything

Quote of the Week: "Touch me, Midas.
Make me part of your design." - My Ordinary Life from The Living Tombstone.


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