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Year View| Summary| Highlights| Month View| Saturday 17 March 2007 (Day View)

17.03.2007Saturday 17 March – Breasts, Power Failures & The Computer Crocodile of Death

So, like, there I was—just sitting there, you know, trying to get something done? And, like, there they all were, just watching, like hungry crocodiles; not helping, not doing their job—making fun of me. So, like, I just stared back, sullenly, defiantly—but not giving in, you know. You have to be strong; they’re waiting—they’re waiting for you to give in, and once you do, they will laugh. They will all laugh, and that’s the worst thing. But, in the end, the crocodile of death, he got me—he waited, and he won. You can’t win, when the crocodile of death comes. You can’t win, when the crocodile of death is in your computer.
  It all began when I noticed I had no volume on my primary Windows output. I reset the sound card, which BSOD the machine, as usual. Crocodiles one, our valiant hero, nil. To make matters worse, I was halfway through an interesting conversation, and my computer, being the dinosaur machine it is, takes a long time to do anything, particularly when there’s crocodiles around. I figured this could be related to hard drive failure due to a lot of disk related errors in the event log. Then Bronwen came over to get a copy of the photos I took of her new house, and I discovered that ACDSee wouldn’t work, no matter what. Crocodiles 2, our extremely intelligent and rather attractive hero, nil. Needless to say, had I not urgently needed to use ACDSee, it would have worked. Much crocodile hunting later, our now thoroughly disgusted hero left for work.
I don’t mind working on the weekend. Working on the weekend isn’t too good—but the work itself I enjoy, because I’m by myself and in charge of a lot of expensive things. Tonight was interesting, as we had a series of brownouts, switching over to generator power several times. For some reason, every time the power failed and everything switched to panic mode, the immortal phrase “I love the smell of napalm in the morning” came to mind. I’d seek psychiatric evaluation, but I’m too sleepy.
It appears to be the patron saint of alcohol’s birthday. The tract of vomit between the city and the valley is covered in legged-breasts, closely followed by drunken staggerers. I’m reminded of when the Pied Piper de-ratted Hamelin.

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