Speak Stiltedly and Wear a Yellow Shirt

A
brief
history of the blog war

A figure appeared on the sand in ample judicial robes. “Why are we at the
beach?” she asked. “It’s not beach weather in any of our hemispheres.”

“Christine!” There was joy in the Zen Resort, mixed with a subconscious
fear that she had come seeking betas for her legalfic.

“We appear to have misplaced the pool,” Lori said, taking the opportunity to
toss Virgil for Dummies into the ocean.

Jemima contemplated the now soggy tome as it swirled away. “I don’t
understand why we can’t decide how to spell Virgil. My Latin is a bit rusty, but
as I recall they used exactly the same alphabet we do.”

“Which alphabet is that?” Sean asked Lori.

“The Latin alphabet,” she informed her poolboy in an aside.

“I mean,” Jemima continued, “didn’t the fellow ever sign his name?”

“He does predate sig files,” Christine observed.

Liz donned her black toga to explain the situation. “The fellow
spelled his name Vergilius. The proper nick is therefore
Vergil. There’s no known explanation for
the centuries-long tradition of calling him Virgil.” She
paused a beat. “Except, of course, the usual one - nobody can spell a bloody
thing in English.”

“Virgil looks nicer,” said the Nice One.

“The Law is on the side of Vergil.” Christine scribbled some
notes. The others desperately hoped it wasn’t a new legalfic.

“Vergil gets my vote.” Lori picked a margarita off the tray
Sean was carrying around and sipped it with an air of finality.

Jemima’s eyes lit up. “Virgil,” she said. “Vergil, Virgil,
Vergil. Virgil. Do you know what this means?”

“What?” Sean asked. Lori slapped him for encouraging Jemima.

“Blog war! The Vergillians against the Virgilantes! Blood, sweat, tears
and little blue corpses filling the trenches of France!” She practically hummed
with excitement. “Seema, are you with me? We must defend the
i!”

“The i - sure…” Seema looked doubtful. “Uh, weren’t you
about to tell us about badficcers, though?”

“The i,” Jemima repeated dreamily.

“The witness is evading the question.” Christine rapped her gavel on
a passing smurf’s head. “The topic is badfic.”

Jemima traced a circle in the sand with her toe. “Well, ladies, I do have
a confession to make.” Beach chairs appeared and the Mod Squad seated
themselves. Sean came around with more margaritas. “I…I’m a badficcer.”

Sean gasped. Lori smacked him again.

“I’ve always been a badficcer. I married off the characters.”

“There is that,” Lori agreed.

“I made babies - lots of babies,” Jemima added. “How old is Janeway
anyway? I had her popping them out at the drop of a hat.”

“I must have missed that fic,” Seema said.

“Those five fics,” Christine muttered.

“I was a J/C writer, for Kahless’ sake!”

“We all were once,” Liz said.

“Speak for yourselves,” Seema and Lori protested in unison.

Jemima hung her head in shame. “I may as well be wearing an apron
that says Kiss the badficcer.”

“While barefoot, pregnant and baking cookies,” Christine added.

“Hold on a minute.” Lori held up her empty glass, as if to block further
true confessions. “Jemima may have a weakness for weddings–”

“And said-bookisms,” interrupted Seema.

“And filk,” sang Liz.

“And Chakotay,” spat Christine. A passing smurf drowned in the unexpected
saliva shower.

Lori held up her glass menacingly. “But there’s one thing that sets us all
apart from badficcers–”

“Angst?” Liz asked.

“Slash,” said Christine.

“Plot,” Seema suggested.

“Virgil,” Jemima said.

Lori shook her head. “Spelling,” she declared.

For previous Blog War entries, see the wiki.

“They want us to hold a press conference.” Jemima sounded less than enthused.

Seema, however, was in her element. “Set up the soapboxes, boys!” she called out to the poolboys sunning themselves on the deckchairs. Sean in his speedo bumped into Jemima’s new poolboy, Liam Neeson, overdressed in a Soviet naval uniform. Words in funny accents were exchanged. Liz, to keep up her battered image of aloofness, had Snape move her soapbox a little farther away from the others, closer to the pool. Spike and Liam unfolded a few rows’ worth of the resort folding chairs, lining them up in front of the soapboxes.

“Let ‘em in!” Seema pointed the way to their seats. “Aren’t you folks supposed to be at the White House? What brings you all to our humble pool?” They weren’t poolboy material, that much was certain.

The reporters all answered at once, drowning each other out. “War,” one said, after the others had grown silent. “Stone Electrons,” he introduced himself, “reporting for the Blog News Service.”

“Never heard of it,” Liz muttered.

“You’re a little late,” Seema said. “The blog war started, oh, about eight months ago. You should have stopped by when we were at the Death Star.”

“Which Death Star?” Stone asked.

Seema shrugged. “They all look alike to me.”

Stone shifted uncomfortably in his seat; Snape stood nearby, looking innocent. “I believe this is a different blog war,” Stone said, leaning over to scratch his legs.

“There can be only one blog war,” Liz said, slipping momentarily into Highlander fandom in her unique multi way. She loosened her longsword in its scabbard.

“So that’s what’s under the cloak,” Lori whispered to Christine.

Stone was speechless, but another reporter filled in the gap. “Is Jemima going to apologize for her inflammatory remarks?”

“Which ones?” Lori asked.

“‘A story should have a beginning, a middle, and an end,’” Seema quoted. “Do you mean that one?” The reporters looked at her blankly. “I was there for that one - it was messy.”

“I remember when she said a mailing list with no email on it was dead,” Christine said. “That didn’t go over well, either.”

“I know,” Lori said, “it must have been ‘Sex does not advance the plot.’ The resort was in an uproar for days over that one.” The White House press corps was nonplussed. They didn’t seem to know much about Jemima, after all.

Liz shook her head. “It must be that she called people without muses ‘museless’. Now, that was a blog-wide scandal.” No response.

“What exactly did Jemima say this time?” Seema asked.

Stone Electrons stopped scratching for a moment. “Jemima is a C/7 fan.” One of the reporters fainted, but the figures on the soapboxes were unmoved. “She thinks she’s better than J/C writers.”

“When did Jemima ever say that?” Christine asked. “Do you have a source, Mr. Electrons?”

“Several bloggers have said–”

“I meant a reliable source,” Christine interrupted. “Or is defamation the standard policy of the Blog News Service? You’d better get your story straight - it’s all going in my docket.”

Stone leaped out of his seat, but it wasn’t the specter of the law that had frightened him. The fire ants had finally reached his derriere. Unable to shake them off, he ran out of the Zen Resort in a mad panic. Snape’s self-satisfied expression wasn’t lost on the other reporters, who began to collect their notepads and edge away.

Jemima cleared her throat. “I would like to make it perfectly clear that I have never claimed to be better than other J/C writers. Honestly. I mean, Penny is a J/C writer.” There was a general hush as an angel of light appeared over the pool, walking towards them across the water and playing an unearthly melody on a golden harp. “Monkee is a J/C writer.” The angel vanished and the ABBA appeared in her place, wearing six-foot platform shoes which kept them above water. They broke into a rousing rendition of ‘Dancing Queen.’

“Do you admit that your website is yellow?” one last reporter shouted over the din.

Jemima clapped her hands together. “That reminds me! This month marks the two-year anniversary of Jemima’s Trek, proving fanfic and entertainment in lovely TOS technicolor and standards-compliant html since August 2000. We need to celebrate.” She turned to Lori. “Do you think the ABBA would sing ‘Fernando’ with my lyrics?”

“It’s your blog.”

“Indeed.” She had Sean run off four sunshine yellow copies of ‘Chakotay’ on Lori’s color printer and swim out to the ABBA to deliver them. Spike chased out the press and let in the members of CSFic. Snape handled the drinks, Jade brought cookies and Jemima hummed along.

Can you hear their guns Chakotay?
I remember long ago another starry void like this
In the firefight Chakotay
You were humming to yourself as I was cursing Gul Evek
I could hear his pompous threats
And sounds of phaser fire coming through the deck…

Just a link to amuse Seema:
Blog
War Anonymous. (The link to make your own twelve-step program is
_____ Anonymous.)

There’s fresh blog war at
Your Guide
to the Blog Wars, and fresh character-lovin’ zen at
zendom.

And Don’t Let the Door Hit You on the Way Out

(A sequel to Bye Bye Bye. For previous chapters, see Jemima’s Annotated Guide to the Blog Wars.)

Jemima mounted the soapbox that had taken out Seven of Nine.

“That’s enough!” she shouted. “There isn’t room in the van for the boyband, the Britney and the 80 million teenagers. You are hereby banished to one of the frostier circles of Hell.” Jemima snapped her fingers, and the extras disappeared.

“Much better,” Lori said. Seema sent Tom to the wetbar for another margarita as Jemima watched thirstily. Then a lightbulb appeared above her head, and she snapped her fingers again.

A platinum-blond appeared and said, “Bloody hell! This scene again.”

“Spike, take the wheel. As long as we’re in this galaxy, we may as well blow up the Death Star.” Jemima rubbed her hands together eagerly.

“Which one?” Lori asked.

“There’s always one hanging around,” Jemima assured her. “Snape, fetch me a Guinness.”

Snape appeared from behind the wetbar and poured Jemima a foamy one.

“Now this is the life - two poolboys and a perilous mission to save the galaxy.” Jemima dismounted the soapbox and sat down in one of the minivan seats, putting her feet up. Snape retrieved a tray of deviled eggs from behind the wetbar and began serving.

Chakotay cleared his throat. Everyone ignored him. Jemima handed her Guinness to Snape to hold and pulled out her UFO bag - not the unfinshed fanfiction, but the unfinished cross-stitch projects. “Lori,” she proposed, “how about a real round robin?”

“Sean, fetch my crochet bag,” Lori said, and the two stitchers were soon deeply involved in their other common addiction.

“When will you drop us off in the Delta Quadrant?” Chakotay asked.

“Are you still here?” Jemima frowned. “Talk to Seema about tying up that loose end.” Seema saw him coming, however, and had Tom run interference while she started on her third margarita and petted her angst bunny.

“Say, luv, does this van have any armaments?” Spike called from the front.

“There’s probably a freeze-ray around here somewhere - why?” Jemima said.

“Because we’re coming up on that Death Star you ordered.”

“As a neutral country, I must protest,” Liz said, “or at least bravely run away.” Harry, Hermione and Ron gathered around her, drawing their wands and and uncorking a few potions in preparation for a sudden retreat.

“Fine, but leave my poolboy here,” Jemima said. Snape gave her one of those piercing, ambiguous looks that was so much more complex than a vapid Volvo-boy smile, and she sighed contentedly. There was nothing in the world like semi-evil, tortured poolboys who looked good in black.

“It was nice seeing you, Liz,” Seema said pointedly.

Such little hints were lost on Jemima, who added, “And don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

Jemima ex machina

(for previous posts, see Jemima’s Annotated Guide to the Blog Wars)

Kira was distracted from Chekov’s heavily-accented attentions by a comm hail, informing her that an unusual ship had requested permission to dock. “Put it on the viewscreen in here,” she told Ops, glad for the distraction.

A large black van was approaching the docking ring.

“What is that?” Kira asked.

“That’s a truck, ma’am,” Tucker informed her. At her puzzled stare, he added, “A ground transport vehicle powered by fossil fuels. Watch that baby fly!”

“That van looks familiar,” Buffy said, climbing down from Worf’s shoulder.

“Is that the Death Star painted on the side?” Xander asked.

“Right-o,” Willow said, plucking a stray leaf out of her hair and edging away from Chakotay. Her witchly senses told her something big was up - a crackle in the air like lightning, in which case she didn’t want to be caught standing under a tree.

“Why is a truck docking at my space station?” Kira asked.

“We picked one up in the Delta Quadrant a few years back,” Chakotay told her. “They get around.”

A hush fell over the conference room, and lasted until the door opened.

“Cool!” said a rather short, dark-haired geek in a Star Wars t-shirt. “T’Pol, Seven of Nine, Kira–”

“Jonathan, what are you doing here?” Willow asked.

“Would you believe following the Slayer around as part of a nefarious scheme to take over Sunnydale?” the short geek asked.

“As if!” Buffy said, and the other Scoobies laughed.

“Fine,” he said huffily. “I’m Jemima’s driver. Warren installed a warp drive in the van, and here we are.”

“Where’s Jemima?” Lori and Seema asked in unison.

“She and Anya stopped at Quark’s for a drink. She said something about always having wanted to try Romulan ale.”

“Anya!” Xander choked out. He let go of Ezri, who fell a full two feet to the floor and sprained an ankle.

“Jemima is on her way,” Jonathan said, wagging a finger at the crowd. “You know what that means.”

“Weddings,” Spike said.

At the mention of marriage McCoy and Chekov, sixties characters to the core, filed out the door of the conference room. Riker was edging towards the exit himself when a tall, buxom, blonde woman strode through the doorway, carrying a box marked Ivory. She placed it on the ground in front of the crowd.

“Is that Jemima?” Kira whispered to Willow.

“No, that’s just Anya.”

“Anya…honey…how was your trip?” Xander asked. His fiancee eyed the gnome on the floor, then dragged Xander into a corner for a good scolding.

Suddenly, everyone noticed a figure framed by the heavy Cardassian architecture of the doorway. She was of average height, with wavy, flowing locks and flashing eyes of indeterminate hue. “Hi, Lori,” she said, and “Hi, Seema - fancy meeting you here.”

“Welcome to DS9,” Seema replied. Lori gave Jemima the secret handshake.

“Now, about this blog war…” Jemima said as she mounted the soapbox. The poolboys tensed, Buffy drew her best stake and Spike’s fangs appeared. Willow began replicating wedding dresses. “When someone says war, I expect to see photon torpedos and Genesis waves and Chakotay weeping over Janeway’s apparently-dead body - whole planets assimilated by the Borg, species wiped out, redshirts bleeding profusely, and Harry Kim dead again.”

Buffy cleared her throat.

“Oh, yes,” Jemima added, “and giant snakes eating the high school, Earth getting sucked into an unknown hell dimension, Spike saving humanity just because they’re so snackable, and Buffy dead again.”

“Sounds messy,” Seema observed.

“That’s the idea. So the next time you declare war, I want to see a war, not a round robin.” Jemima caught Lori’s eye. “Is that so much to ask?”

“I guess not,” Seema said. Lori shook her head, but there was a sparkle in her eye that made her poolboys nervous.

“Now that that’s settled, we can move on to the weddings. Kira, will you do the honors?” Jemima asked. The Bajoran agreed to perform the wedding ceremony, hoping to appease this Victorian Prophet and get her station back as quickly as possible.

“Thank you. Now, when I call out your names, pair up and don your formalwear.” The crowd shuffled nervously as Jemima took a little purple notebook out of her pocket and opened it. “Crusher and Riker…” Riker turned pale and Beverly looked positively ill. “You two are dismissed. Lori has pairings prepared for you when you get home.”

Lori raised an eyebrow as Beverly and Will fled the conference room in relief.

“Anya and Xander,” Jemima announced, and Anya squealed in delight. Xander shrugged on the tuxedo jacket Willow was holding out for him, looking resigned.

“Tucker and T’Pol,” Jemima said next. Tucker gave out a whoop.

“This procedure is highly illogical,” said T’Pol, “yet strangely fascinating.” Willow replicated a pecan pie with a tiny bride and groom on top.

“Worf and Ezri Dax,” Jemima announced.

Seema protested. “What about those trill rules?”

“You’re the ones who were bashing the writers,” Jemima explained. “Do you expect me to follow their idiotic rules?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but named the next couple, “Chakotay and Seven of Nine.”

Chakotay maintaned his arboreal calm, but Seven protested. “I have no established interest in Commander Chakotay.” Captain Janeway would be highly displeased, as well. “May I marry Ensign Kim instead?”

“No,” Jemima said, with a touch of regret.

“The Doctor?” Seven suggested, but the matchmaker merely shook her head. “Axum?”

“Sorry, Seven, but you and Chakotay are canon.”

“I will…adapt.” Seven pulled a white dress on over her catsuit.

“Last but not least,” Jemima pronounced, “Buffy and Spike.”

“Bollocks!” Spike exclaimed. “Wait a minute - this means I get to move in.” Willow helped the lucky vampire into a tuxedo with tails.

Buffy watched in shock, then approached the soapbox. “I can’t marry Spike,” she said. “He doesn’t have a soul.”

“Don’t talk back to the author,” Lori warned her.

Jemima was tired of the soul excuse. “You’re not doing your Vamp Tramp of the Hellmouth routine in my blog, young lady,” she said. “It’s high time you settled down.”

Buffy frowned, but took the dress Willow handed her.

“What about me, o bloggy one?” Willow asked, eyeing Kira Nerys. Jonathan hid himself under the conference table.

“Sorry,” Jemima replied, “it’s the Season of Evil Willow. I can’t marry you off until you clean up your act.”

“What about Kira?” Willow protested.

“Seema can handle Kira.” Seema nodded, and Willow pouted. “I can give you Evil Jonathan under the table there,” Jemima offered, relenting slightly.

“I’ll pass,” Willow said.

Jemima looked down upon the collection of couples in their tuxedos and white dresses, and saw that it was good. “Make it so,” she instructed Kira as she dismounted her soapbox. Kira began the traditional Bajoran group wedding ceremony, and Jemima opened her box and placed five bottles of Bajoran blue wine on the conference table, next to the pecan pie.

“Where did you get those?” Seema whispered to her.

“Quark’s,” Jemima whispered back. “My work here is done, ladies. If you need a lift, my van’s parked on the docking ring.”

Armabloggen [5/?]

(see previous post for…previous posts)

“Aren’t any of you demons?” Buffy asked.

Xander pointed at the gnarly creature passed out on the floor. “He looks like a demon.”

“He’s my tactical officer,” said one of the men in red pajamas, striking an indignant pose.

“He’s my tactical officer,” said the woman with the scrunchy nose and the name that sounded like one of those diseases Xander came home with after a particularly bad episode.

“He is a Klingon,” the starving woman with the pointy ears explained.

“Don’t mind Worf,” said the woman who’d come in just as Lori had left. “He always acts that way. I’m Beverly, by the way.”

“I’m Buffy. But I still don’t understand who you people are.”

“I’m Chief Medical Officer of the starship Enterprise.”

Xander snorted. “Right, and I’m Mr. Spock.”

“Hey! Dr. Phlox is our CMO,” drawled the man who’d been running around with a pecan pie. Now he was eating it.

Kira Nerys shook her head. “Please keep the Temporal Prime Directive in mind, people.”

“There is no Temporal Prime Directive,” T’Pol argued.

“It applies retroactively,” Kira lied.

“Will?” The annoying man in red looked up at Buffy. “Uh, Willow…” Buffy poked the redhead, distracting her from her admiration of Kira’s earrings. “Geekiness is your area - can you tell us if these people are really Star Trek characters?”

“Well, I was a Voyager girl myself, back when they were on the air - ship of the Valkyries and all that, you know. So I can vouch for Seven of Nine over there.” Willow smiled shyly at the Borg.

The man with leaves in his hair cleared his throat. No one paid any attention, so he added, “I’m also from Voyager.”

Willow dragged her eyes away from Seven’s implants and tried to focus on the large, pajama-clad man. “Sorry, I don’t remember you. I missed part of second season…”

“I’m the first officer!” the leafy man insisted.

“Were you?” Willow replied. “I thought the Vulcan was first officer.”

“I was captain of the Maquis ship!”

“You mean Seska wasn’t the head of the Maquis? I liked Seska…until she turned evil, of course,” Willow added, glancing at Buffy nervously.

“I…”

“Anyway,” Willow interrupted, “if you’re from Voyager, where are Captain Janeway and B’Elanna Torres? I’m sure they could settle this war right away.”

“Is Captain Janeway a good mediator?” T’Pol asked.

“Mediator?” Willow laughed. “Janeway would blow Lori halfway across the Delta Quadrant just for looking at her funny, and B’Elanna would slice Seema into tiny little bits with her bat’leth - because you know, Seema is just two letters away from Seska, and Seska was bad.” She glanced at Buffy again.

The Slayer took the opportunity to cut to the chase. “Ok, assuming you’re all from Star Trek, how did you get involved in the Blog Apocalypse?”

“Do you mean the Blog War?” Kira asked.

“Whatever.” Buffy twirled her stake, waiting for an answer.

Kira cleared her throat. With Worf unconscious, security was at a low ebb, and that stake looked awfully pointy. “We’ve all gathered here to negotiate a peaceful settlement of the blog war. Although with Lori claiming there never was a war–”

Spike crushed out the cig he’d been smoking. “Ok, mates, there’s your first mistake.”

“What do you mean?” Riker asked, puffing out his chest.

“I mean there’s your first mistake - trying to settle things peacefully,” Spike said. “That’s why all you blokes are off the air–”

“We’re still on the air,” T’Pol interrupted. Tucker mumbled agreement around a mouthful of pecan pie.

“Give it a few months,” Spike replied dismissively. “You were always trying to play nice with the bad guys. Negotiate. Compromise. Very bad idea. Like that whole treaty with the Cardassians - look how that blew up in your faces.”

“Hey, Captain Picard negotiated that treaty,” Riker said.

“My point exactly.” Spike lit another cigarette, and continued his argument. “Do you want to know why we get the ratings, the Emmys, and the big, big bucks?”

“Yes,” Seven of Nine said.

“How big?” Riker asked.

“You don’t want to know,” Xander told him sotto voce.

“Because,” Spike said, “we kill the bad guys. Buffy here stakes them right through the heart.” Buffy made a demonstrative staking motion, and several pajama-clad people backed away. “That’s what you people need,” Spike explained, “stakes, crossbows and throwing knives. No negotiating. No more wanking around.”

“That’s all it takes?” Beverly asked.

“Well, that and the occasional apocalypse,” Willow said. “Lucky for you, we brought our own. One Blog Apocalypse, coming up. I’ll just replicate some stakes, and you’ll be ready when Lori and Seema come back in.”

“We could certainly use the ratings,” Tucker said.

Jemima’s Annotated Guide to the Blog Wars

(Note as of mid-January: the Guide has moved into the wiki. Check there for new skirmishes.)

Note: Since Seema still hasn’t republished her archives, the Seema links may be a little funky. Page up instead of down.

Armabloggen [2/?]

The gang gathered at the Magic Box to brainstorm. Jemima must be saved from the mindless electron-slaughter of this “blog war” at all costs, so that she could return to her peacetime occupation of writing Buffy fic. Anya was especially anxious to eliminate the demonic threat of Lori and Seema - she’d heard about Jemima’s prediliction for wedding-fic, and she figured no cold feet of Xander’s could stand against the great Victorian fanfic writer in the sky. Even Spike, usually too surly for this sort of Scoobie do-good project, was willing to help a writer who never, ever, under any circumstances, allowed the poofboy into her fic.

Buffy, however, splashed cold water on their plans. “From what Xander has told us about this ‘blog war’,” she said, “Lori and Seema are just average human beings. I can’t go over there and stake them. I only do demons.”

“We know that, luv,” Spike said. Buffy glared at him.

Anya found the enemy sufficiently demonic. “They’re obsessed with cheesy TV programs that were never all that popular and now seem to be”–she paused dramatically and whispered–“off the air.” The Scoobies gave a collective gasp.

“Maybe we can have Lori and Seema committed,” Dawn suggested. “Buffy knows plenty of people over at Social Services.”

“I’m the Vampire Slayer, not the Blog Warrior. I say we let Jemima and William James handle this on their own.”

“William James is dead, luv,” Spike reminded her.

“As if that ever stopped anyone around here.”

Willow cleared her throat. “I think this blog war may be your kind of thingy after all, Buffy.” She flipped open one of Giles’ dustiest old magic tomes to the section on blogs. “It says right here: ‘In the last days, the Two Horsewomen of the Apocalypse will appear, their bright eyes of indeterminate hue flashing, and their posts flaming, to bring an end to all blogs. And their names shall be called Libel and Slander.’” Willow shut the book, looking quite pleased with herself. “Get it? Libel and Slander - Lori and Seema! They’re bringing on the Blog Apocalypse.”

“We have to stop it!” Anya added.

“Why?” Spike asked.

“Because that’s what we do,” Buffy replied. “We stop Armageddon.”

“No armageddony stuff on her watch,” Willow echoed.

Armabloggen

“Spike! Spike!”–a pause, in which the object of such outcries dared not hope his pursuer had left the upper level of his crypt–”Spike!”

The vampire in question climbed halfway up the ladder, bleached-blond head-first. His visitor was unlikely to get a warm welcome from his room-temperature host. “Bloody ‘ell, Harris, can’t you see we’re shagging down here?”

“You were not ’shagging’ Buffy,” Xander replied.

“Why not?” Spike demanded. “Because I’m a demon? Because I have no soul? Because I’m not dark, bulky and brooding like poof-boy?”

“No,” Xander said slowly and clearly, “because this is Jemima’s blog. There’s no shagging allowed.”

“Then where do young bloggers come from?” Spike asked, curious despite himself.

“They lure them in with candy.”

Spike nodded sagely. “Like the Shakers…”

“The who?”

“Never mind, monkey-boy. Say whatever you came to say and let me and the Slayer get back to…patrolling.”

Xander cleared his throat. “It seems Jemima has a little problem on her hands.”

“And that would be…?”

“Lori and Seema, Blog War Criminals.”

I’ve been a dazed and confuzed non-combatant in the Great Blog War for some time now, but you know I can’t let a good debate lie. So I jumped into the Switzerland Blogback Skirmish and now suddenly I’m all over Seema’s and Lori’s blogs. The Blog War to End All Blog War has taught me one thing - you can link directly to a blogback. My blogging-back rant still stands, but it’s nice to know I don’t have to extract my offensive William James quote and requote it here. It’s nice to know that I do so solely for the sake of violating the Khitomer Accords one more time:

I was very pleased to see that T’Pol has her own poolboy. Lovely little war, this… And Seema was kind enough to assemble the links for me, or steal them from Lori, more likely:

On the Jemima’s Trek side, I posted DQ Babes in the Mirror-Mirror Universe, my award-losing J/P fic, to ASC. (It seems to be open repost season in there. I feel a huge awards brouhaha coming on.) Fortunately, someone here at Jemima’s Trek has fans and minions: Jade won third place in the Purple Comet Coda Contest for Bygones. Congratulations, Jade!