creativeSo I've joined
rahmbamarama. It offers crackfic (if RPF bothers you, just pretend it's West Wing fanfic), the concept that Anderson Cooper is a (Valdemaran-style) Companion (look at that white hair and those blue blue eyes), and the sort of giddy love for Rahm Emanuel that you might get if Rahm were secretly a cleaned-up Severus Snape on Perkium (I'd like to thank the Academy...). A spin-off from
rahmbamarama (and actually the reason for this post) is re_cma: Rahm Emanuel's Colorful Metaphor Academy. Now, I use language my mother would not approve of, and sometimes I even use it in public. I look to jdn as a cursing mentor. As part of my applicationfor re_cma, I had to demonstrate my current cursing abilities. The other night's struggles with Java were an inspiration. As a rule, I moderate my language in my journal here. I know plenty of words that I don't often use. There's usually no call for me to use them. In the application, however, I stretched a little for the sake of demonstrating what I could write if I chose to, and thus I felt it deserves a warning in the re-post. Foul language, I do not own one of those, I know neither the programmers in question nor their mothers, and I wasn't actually that annoyed with the programmers. Best programming practices are always in order, though.
Last night I had to deal with the kind of crackmonkey website that makes strong men cry and women shriek and kick the firstborn infant sons of the coders in the embryonic nuts, to ensure that the stupid will not spread into future generations. This fucking weaselly excuse for a cunting website had the nerve to declare I needed to update my Java Virtual Machine. Let me tell you which motherfucking Java Virtual Machine I had, asstards. I had 1.6, update 11. The website, which could not have been coded, it was hatched from an egg laid by a syphilitic turtle, thought I should have version 1.5, update 6. I taught their mother more about backwards compatibility than that last night when I made sure her asshole was compatible with my 12" strap-on. Neither my Windows laptop nor my uncle's fucking Mac, despite meeting the technical requirements of the psychotically boneheaded excuse for a program, seemed to fit the bill. I shall draw an undeservingly kind veil of obscurity over the programmatic gymnastics that followed. Suffice to say that it was two in the goddamned morning by the time I'd called it off for the night, and I am hard-pressed to say whether my sheer exhaustion was due to the hour or to the stupidity of what I'd been forced to do. When I resumed in the morning, the bleeding program I was just trying to run in the first place lived down to its runtime requirements. If I had the fucking time, I may seek out the programmers, who I will identify by the smell of sheer failure on the wind blasting out of their enormous asses, and implement some best programming practices on their nose hair.
