Many who played WarBirds and were on the boards will remember
Toad's Wingless Cafe. Carrot's Mum, God bless her, offered to host the old stories. Look for the link to the "archives", about 3/4 of the way down the page. But do read that first page of Toad's. Funny stuff.
Oh, and someone on that Finnish website badly munged the Book of Dweeb. For example, here's the original version of my Psalm:
"How might I more targets hit?!?!"
Yon Dweeb doth wail, and pitcheth fit.
His fists he shaketh, heaving sobs
Do rend the air nigh yon poor slob.
The barkeep, Debbie, pours more ale
Thus hoping to delay the tale
Which needs must emanate from one
So pale and wan, as plants sans sun.
"Months on end have I well flown
Yet few, the triumphs have I known.
Yon FTD, with torque so mild,
I've piloted, as something wild.
Heads of Hammer, Slides of Tail
These and more, my Holy Grail!
Roll Warps, Alt FFour, Slow Chicane!
I now well know the Tricks Arcane.
And yet for nought have I such moves
Spun through icy altitudes,
Betimes my gunnery doth SUCK!
If foe I hit, 'tis simply luck!
For each five score of slugs I spray
The number'd hits 'neath Five do lay!
With such slow pace, Eternity
Wilt ne'er crown 'Vet' on lowly me!"
The Dweeb doth cry, the Dweeb doth sob
The Dweeb his teary face doth daub.
Then all heads turn en masse to face
The one who calleth out, "Pray, peace!"
A Vet there is, perched at the bar
And stareth he, at vistas far
Which only in his mind do lie
At yon Dweeb's rants, he bursts out, "Fie!
When thou sprayest as a bub'ling kettle
Shalt then thy target know thy mettle.
Listen, Dweeb, as I recite
The remedy for thy dire plight:
If thou seest icon Five
Fire, and yet he shall survive.
Wait thou patiently, and more.
Hold, fire not, bore in past Four.
'Ere thou firest, wait to see
Thy range hath fallen below Three.
When thou spiest icon Two,
Then, yea THEN, thy bullets spew!
Chew him up! Belch forth thy flame!
Watch the buffer for his name.
When thou spy it, trumpet loud
On one hundred, as allowed.
Insult, taunt him! Let all see
Thy craven depths of Dweebery.
For tho' thou hast thy bullets master'd
'Struth! Thou art yet still a bastard!
Never wilt thou understand
The play's the thing that makes the man!"
With that thus thundered, out he strides.
The murmur 'mongst the Dweebs subsides.
Sweet Debbie pours more ales all 'round.
The Dweebs, afrighted, make no sound.
But soft, what rumble then is heard?
'Tis sure not meet, to name it 'word'...
"How might I more targets hit?!?!"
Yon Dweeb doth wail, and pitcheth fit.
