I went to my favorite club to see what was happening. Turned out master booty sector was playing, so I walked up to the door woman and she said hey user, let's see your id and while you're at it, what's the word? i said, *********. And she said, you can enter, but think about changing it, your birthdate is fucking pathetic. BOFH-- Bitch Operator from Hell. Sheet. I went looking for Pam, she would know how to authenticate, I was getting tired of this p-word shit. Besides, you would know where I could score some X, so I could get all gooey on the dancefloor. By the time I got there, everybody was talkkin about Kay. It was k-this and k-that, but what was the alternative? All that pseudo-evolution with the Gnome Eunux crowd? It was getting as bad as microslobber. Fuckin libs all over the usr-place. I try to compile and I am shut-down. Cannot make it. So I spin some rpm with my favorite dj wizard, Mandrake the marvelous, a stoner french cat who looks like he spends too much time on E-max. "Just pick all the dev shit and you'll be fine." What if I run out of space? "By that time, you'll be driving a brand new bus, flakewit."
So now I'm spinning and I'm winding down. But at least I'm not indexing and counting all my toes and making strange connections to Zombie masters in the middle of the night or sharing my addresses with all the elite scam daddies out there. I just scoot neatly through a low wall of flame. And nobody follows me home.