Comment Bad Prose Time.. (Score 1) 247
Horrendously bored at work (yay, call centers...), so please bear with my stress relief.
(Pseudoepic)
Ho, valiant warriors of the technical world, thou arcane and wise mages of the electron flow! Hark to mine telling of days gone by...when sysadmin were feared user tamers, and managers oft cowered quietly in their dens; afear'd of treading where daemon do toil.
In the days past, there existed a quiet mecca of thought, known as the Ewe of Eh. T'was a middling realm of unreality, hedged close by all around by the sleepy town of E-ville. A peaceful place, with the sleepy air only interrupted by the Guild of the Gheers and the Cults of the Aggs with their yearly revelry and beer bash (and Lady Godiva ride). Therein was a small group of codebabies, the Ewe-Aks (http://ugweb.cs.ualberta.ca/~uacs/), whose den was a small and twisted place, lit by the light of the CRTs and filled with the sounds of ABBA.
In the days before they discovered they needed insurance, every year there was held an event; a meeting of fellow thinkers. There met the Beck, the Bart, the Senda, and many others. Food and drink was provided aplenty; much 'za and beer was doled out by the younger apprentices. The goal of the night: to do mighty battle with old computer equipment...with a fire axe.
Many an old monitor met a shattering death; bright, sparkling bits scattered across the rugs. Old workhorses where brought in to do battle, and left fit naught for the heap.
Then there came the day of the Sparc. T'was an unassuming beast, flat of stature and wide of hips. Placed on the slaughter floor, lots were drawn to kill the beast. The victor raised high the axe, and with a mighty blow, struck it....and bounced.
I jest not, for the blade of the axe bounced back up like a rabbit a'frightened. The Sparc sat there, nary but a light scratch on the plastic surface. A second blow, heavier than the first did no more damage.
The blade was handed to another of a larger stature...and the Sparc merely sat there smugly, shouldering off blow after blow of the axe with but nicks and scratches the sole result.
They handed the blade to one of the largest. A fat man, of great girth and height, of many a stone in weight. Laughing, he swore he'd slay the beast. In front of the scoffing crowd, he raised the blade high, and brought it down. With a resounding smack...the blade bounced. In the deepening silence, the man looked distraught, for the case had shrugged off the blow like mud from a senator. Now angry, he raised the blade again, when the Beck did cry "Go for the soft underbelly!" The fat man did pause, and flip the beast, dire intent to rend the beast's copper guts. With a mighty yell, he smote the belly...and hung the blade up on the thick sheet metal skin. Baffled he wrenched and roll'd, tossing his weight back and forth until the blade wrenched loose. Laughing in anger, he flipped the beast again, and set himself. Leaping into the air, yelling madly, he brought the blade down; the weight of countless late night coding sessions bringing snarling vengeance upon the case..., which only cracked...lightly.
The Bart did rise, smug of purpose, and claiming the axe from the fat, besaddened man, did take his stance. Flipping the blade around, so that the blunt end would be his tool, he did set himself. He raised the blade. He swung. With a mighty shattering, the Sparc did finally go to its final reward, shrapnelling the air with the fragments of its inch-thick polycarbonate, honeycombed shell. ...and there was much rejoicing.
So hear well, ARCane wizards... Beware the Sun Sparc...for the beast is hard shelled, and sure of its construction. Do not underestimate it, like the man of weight did, ere you too will hear the derision of your peers...
(/Pseudoepic)
Bloody thing. Kudos to Sun for building a machine that can take a blow from an axe backed by the weight of a 460lb man.
(Pseudoepic)
Ho, valiant warriors of the technical world, thou arcane and wise mages of the electron flow! Hark to mine telling of days gone by...when sysadmin were feared user tamers, and managers oft cowered quietly in their dens; afear'd of treading where daemon do toil.
In the days past, there existed a quiet mecca of thought, known as the Ewe of Eh. T'was a middling realm of unreality, hedged close by all around by the sleepy town of E-ville. A peaceful place, with the sleepy air only interrupted by the Guild of the Gheers and the Cults of the Aggs with their yearly revelry and beer bash (and Lady Godiva ride). Therein was a small group of codebabies, the Ewe-Aks (http://ugweb.cs.ualberta.ca/~uacs/), whose den was a small and twisted place, lit by the light of the CRTs and filled with the sounds of ABBA.
In the days before they discovered they needed insurance, every year there was held an event; a meeting of fellow thinkers. There met the Beck, the Bart, the Senda, and many others. Food and drink was provided aplenty; much 'za and beer was doled out by the younger apprentices. The goal of the night: to do mighty battle with old computer equipment...with a fire axe.
Many an old monitor met a shattering death; bright, sparkling bits scattered across the rugs. Old workhorses where brought in to do battle, and left fit naught for the heap.
Then there came the day of the Sparc. T'was an unassuming beast, flat of stature and wide of hips. Placed on the slaughter floor, lots were drawn to kill the beast. The victor raised high the axe, and with a mighty blow, struck it....and bounced.
I jest not, for the blade of the axe bounced back up like a rabbit a'frightened. The Sparc sat there, nary but a light scratch on the plastic surface. A second blow, heavier than the first did no more damage.
The blade was handed to another of a larger stature...and the Sparc merely sat there smugly, shouldering off blow after blow of the axe with but nicks and scratches the sole result.
They handed the blade to one of the largest. A fat man, of great girth and height, of many a stone in weight. Laughing, he swore he'd slay the beast. In front of the scoffing crowd, he raised the blade high, and brought it down. With a resounding smack...the blade bounced. In the deepening silence, the man looked distraught, for the case had shrugged off the blow like mud from a senator. Now angry, he raised the blade again, when the Beck did cry "Go for the soft underbelly!" The fat man did pause, and flip the beast, dire intent to rend the beast's copper guts. With a mighty yell, he smote the belly...and hung the blade up on the thick sheet metal skin. Baffled he wrenched and roll'd, tossing his weight back and forth until the blade wrenched loose. Laughing in anger, he flipped the beast again, and set himself. Leaping into the air, yelling madly, he brought the blade down; the weight of countless late night coding sessions bringing snarling vengeance upon the case..., which only cracked...lightly.
The Bart did rise, smug of purpose, and claiming the axe from the fat, besaddened man, did take his stance. Flipping the blade around, so that the blunt end would be his tool, he did set himself. He raised the blade. He swung. With a mighty shattering, the Sparc did finally go to its final reward, shrapnelling the air with the fragments of its inch-thick polycarbonate, honeycombed shell.
So hear well, ARCane wizards... Beware the Sun Sparc...for the beast is hard shelled, and sure of its construction. Do not underestimate it, like the man of weight did, ere you too will hear the derision of your peers...
(/Pseudoepic)
Bloody thing. Kudos to Sun for building a machine that can take a blow from an axe backed by the weight of a 460lb man.
