Most server administrators manage their servers, setting up simple rotation scripts to prevent their logs from filling the hard drive.
But there’s some slackers out there who have no idea what they’re doing, and they let the hard drive fill up, and they can’t send email or serve up any more web pages.
I send those people a knowledgebase article and offer to set up the log rotation scripts, but one refused, saying “The unicorns will appear when it reaches 101 percent!”
Bah. I install the rotation scripts anyway.
Remotely, of course.
(Those roaming unicorns are really dangerous, you know!)
Tag: silly
Walking Taco
A Frito Pie is a bowl of Frito chips covered in chili, cheese, sour cream, and other Mexican food condiments. You eat it with a fork like you’d eat a casserole.
If you pour that stuff into a bag of Fritos, it’s called a Walking Taco or a Taco-On-The-Run.
Close your eyes. Imagine a Taco walking around or running on its own.
If you saw a taco doing that, would you let it pass, or would you chase it down and try to eat it?
Eat too many Frito Pies, and you may have nightmares of the things chasing you.
Improbable
There’s a big difference between improbable and impossible.
No matter how improbable it is, Henry still managed to get chased by a herd of angry elephants across campus and into the Chemistry final exam.
Impossible is explaining to the professor how he managed to get chased by a herd of angry elephants across campus and into the Chemistry final exam.
“And more importantly, why did you bring them here?” asks the professor.
“You lock the door at nine,” Henry says. “And I didn’t want to miss the final.”
The professor nods, mutters “Fair enough” and hands out the blue books.
Until I Fall Away
We tried to use music to teach Calculon creativity and inventiveness.
We failed. All it did was reproduce the same sound, over and over.
So, we tried improvisational jazz.
Calculon reproduced that, too.
“Maybe we should use live concerts instead of studio albums?” I asked.
After Calculon copied the live albums, we made a few calls and loaded it into a truck.
We joined the Gin Blossoms tour.
At first, to observe. But in time, Calculon picked up on the “magic” of live concerts and picked up a guitar to jam.
Then it did a stage-dive and crushed 4 fans.
Stampede
At our retirement community, we have just as many weddings as funerals.
Because when someone dies, someone else rushes to marry the widow or widower.
“Married people live longer,” the studies say, “And if your mate dies, you’ll go soon after.”
Nobody here wants to go without a fight. So, the moment there’s an opening, those who haven’t already paired up rush to the side of the bereaved to offer their sympathies.
It’s like a stampede. A dangerous, wrinkled stampede.
So, unless you put on a wedding ring, I can’t give you the nurse job.
It’s just not safe here.
Too much of an mmmm mmmm good thing…
I’ve gotten into the habit of bringing cans of soup to work for lunch.
“It’s good food,” the commercials say. “Mmmm mmmmm good!”
But instead of following the directions, I pour two cans into a single bowl, stir it up, and heat it without adding water.
It’s just as thick as the chunky style soup, I figure. And cheaper, too.
And I don’t have to fish about for the vegetables and noodles as much.
That’s when it hits me… my stomach… my guts… too much!
Help me throw it up, or I’ll die of an overdose of Mmmmm mmmmm goodness!
Toot
I’ve often been accused of tooting my own horn too much.
This is an outrage!
Unlike others, who do it out in public, I have the decency to reserve a rehearsal room for my tooting sessions.
The more I practice, the better I get.
Or, are they accusing me of not letting others toot my horn?
Why would I let them do that? I paid for it, It’s mine. Mine!
And just the thought of your lips on my mouthpiece. Ewwwwww! Grosssss!
Toot your own damn horn! Leave mine alone!
Now I have to boil the damn thing, you bastards!
… and a salad!
My doctor says I need to eat more salad.
Romaine lettuce and onions, and a whole lot of different kinds of beans.
I like lots of different kinds of beans in my salad.
So, I open the cans of beans, dump them out into a colander, wash them off, and shake the colander to mix up the beans.
When the beans are nice and mixed, I dump them out into a few plastic containers and stick them in the fridge.
They’re ready for when I really want a salad.
Which is never, I think, as I drive to the steakhouse.
Scale
I keep the bathroom scale under the sink.
It’s one of those expensive scales that measures body fat and blood pressure and all that stuff. Tracks your progress on the Internet, too.
Well, every so often, my littlest cat likes to walk into the bathroom, pull down the hanging towels, and she then stands on the scale.
Ten pounds.
“Who’s a happy little kitty?” I ask her.
She arches her back, ears twitching, and blinks happily at me.
Meanwhile, the scale talks to Weight Watchers, and at the end of the week, my chart is a wacky series of spikes.
The Search
The producer for NPR’s Fresh Air says that every time they listen to an interesting interview, they want to quit their job and do whatever the guest is doing.
This is the ultimate irony, because the more they love their job, the more they want to quit it and do something else.
They said the next interview is with a guest searching for extraterrestrial life.
Endless years of scanning radio waves for signals.
Boring!
I believe in being so interesting and unusual, extraterrestrial life seeks ME out.
And if we never find it, well, at least we had fun, right?