Even Vista isn't this bad. Sure, it crashes, burps, slows down, is unintuitive, and is just darn right nasty. But it doesn't just lose all your data just because you installed an update!
Let's see how Windows 7 will top this screw up...
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009
The Smiff Reign of TERROR!!!!
Smiff - a reign of Terror unseen since French Times...
What sticks in the craw.
What makes the rain sad.
What makes ice cream taste like salt.
A pretty girl walks down the street in a yellow dress and you don't even notice.
Defeat.
Defeat, an old unwelcome friend with the chilly embrace and the long thin fingers that unwind across your back. October.
The Wellness Center All-Star League.
Smiff is champion again. Say it with me. Say it one time, say it twice. Say it three times, say it four. Smiff is champion again.
Evil triumphs. The hero is thrown from the horse. The villain has the jewels.
Was it a collapse? Undoubtedly. But to claim it was just a collapse would be to deny the evil genius of a man who never made a waiver claim gone wrong. Who combs the free agent pool leaving gold trails along the discarded names as he plucks the nugget from the rough and washes it to a shine in the MI position. Or in the C2 position.
Holds.
In the long days of summer it seemed the leaves would live forever, so strong they held the sunlight in a gleam and the moonlight in mystery. Joe Mauer would double and the crowd would be disappointed. Lincecum would allow a run to gasps from the crowd. Even Cole Hamels only sucked a little.
And the Lord Viper Scorpians were sucking air. Or did they just plot?
Was this rope-a-dope?
We know what the evil genius would say. But we know also that in the dark night of his soul, a blackness that could only be imagined, like a black hole, or some Vernesian vortex in the middle of some lost ocean, there were many 7 for 37s with a double and a couple rbi. A quarter score of double plays to sicken what gleam of hope attempted to make its way down into the dark depths of the Viper soul.
Yet Smiff plotted. Tireless fingers worked the waiver strings and his master puppeteering began to pay results in the shorter days, the longer, hot August nights.
Smiff was reborn. A Phoenix of the Seventh Circle ascending.
We fought. We traded. We prayed for rain. Hamels began to pitch like an asshole again. In a surprise to nobody, Harden, a wounded bird on a hot porch, foundered with stunted wing. The Cyclones fell, Icarus-like, toward the vortex opening beneath them.
Still they fought. Thrashed. Sighed at the emptiness of a middle infield that Sahara like stretched empty to the farthest horizons. Aye, there was no there there. And yet they walked. Wary eyes on the riders approaching from the rear on the dark horses.
The moon lit their reflections red and for weeks trails were covered up as we hid among the dunes of our early fortune.
But the windstorm of the Viper Elefantes did duel with the Cyclones and fate had it that this is the Wellness Center, and the tie goes to the Champion of long-standing.
This year.
But this year is the bookend to the beginning of a dynasty.
Yes. It is the end.
The Smiff has been bloodied. He needed the miracle of Charbeanaeuan incompetence to save him. What next year when others rise to compete? Will the Foleys don the armor of the noble challenger? Will Kevin fight for the honor of the librarian? Will Desiree finish yet another marathon?
Will the Beej uncover untold riches in the aging lumber of hungry veterans? Will Zak awake to the cries of a child in the early night only to be struck with the inspiration of a real trade offer?
Will the chemists of the West Coast alchemize the gold shield to dismiss the spears of Smiff's genius?
Will it be Corms again, his genius shined after his years in the wilderness of the basement?
It will be some or it will be all of us.
Yes, Smiff will languish in the tower of sorrows.
Smiff,
You will lose. Your race is run. The stops have been put out and you enjoy another fat winter. But the spring rains will be cold this year. And the August nights will be full of the pestering bites of misfortune. September will be the bitter harvest of your evil genius.
You will lose.
You will lose.
You are champion. You will lose.
What sticks in the craw.
What makes the rain sad.
What makes ice cream taste like salt.
A pretty girl walks down the street in a yellow dress and you don't even notice.
Defeat.
Defeat, an old unwelcome friend with the chilly embrace and the long thin fingers that unwind across your back. October.
The Wellness Center All-Star League.
Smiff is champion again. Say it with me. Say it one time, say it twice. Say it three times, say it four. Smiff is champion again.
Evil triumphs. The hero is thrown from the horse. The villain has the jewels.
Was it a collapse? Undoubtedly. But to claim it was just a collapse would be to deny the evil genius of a man who never made a waiver claim gone wrong. Who combs the free agent pool leaving gold trails along the discarded names as he plucks the nugget from the rough and washes it to a shine in the MI position. Or in the C2 position.
Holds.
In the long days of summer it seemed the leaves would live forever, so strong they held the sunlight in a gleam and the moonlight in mystery. Joe Mauer would double and the crowd would be disappointed. Lincecum would allow a run to gasps from the crowd. Even Cole Hamels only sucked a little.
And the Lord Viper Scorpians were sucking air. Or did they just plot?
Was this rope-a-dope?
We know what the evil genius would say. But we know also that in the dark night of his soul, a blackness that could only be imagined, like a black hole, or some Vernesian vortex in the middle of some lost ocean, there were many 7 for 37s with a double and a couple rbi. A quarter score of double plays to sicken what gleam of hope attempted to make its way down into the dark depths of the Viper soul.
Yet Smiff plotted. Tireless fingers worked the waiver strings and his master puppeteering began to pay results in the shorter days, the longer, hot August nights.
Smiff was reborn. A Phoenix of the Seventh Circle ascending.
We fought. We traded. We prayed for rain. Hamels began to pitch like an asshole again. In a surprise to nobody, Harden, a wounded bird on a hot porch, foundered with stunted wing. The Cyclones fell, Icarus-like, toward the vortex opening beneath them.
Still they fought. Thrashed. Sighed at the emptiness of a middle infield that Sahara like stretched empty to the farthest horizons. Aye, there was no there there. And yet they walked. Wary eyes on the riders approaching from the rear on the dark horses.
The moon lit their reflections red and for weeks trails were covered up as we hid among the dunes of our early fortune.
But the windstorm of the Viper Elefantes did duel with the Cyclones and fate had it that this is the Wellness Center, and the tie goes to the Champion of long-standing.
This year.
But this year is the bookend to the beginning of a dynasty.
Yes. It is the end.
The Smiff has been bloodied. He needed the miracle of Charbeanaeuan incompetence to save him. What next year when others rise to compete? Will the Foleys don the armor of the noble challenger? Will Kevin fight for the honor of the librarian? Will Desiree finish yet another marathon?
Will the Beej uncover untold riches in the aging lumber of hungry veterans? Will Zak awake to the cries of a child in the early night only to be struck with the inspiration of a real trade offer?
Will the chemists of the West Coast alchemize the gold shield to dismiss the spears of Smiff's genius?
Will it be Corms again, his genius shined after his years in the wilderness of the basement?
It will be some or it will be all of us.
Yes, Smiff will languish in the tower of sorrows.
Smiff,
You will lose. Your race is run. The stops have been put out and you enjoy another fat winter. But the spring rains will be cold this year. And the August nights will be full of the pestering bites of misfortune. September will be the bitter harvest of your evil genius.
You will lose.
You will lose.
You are champion. You will lose.
And you'll LIKE it!
It's that annual time of year that comes around every year about this time...
"You'll pay more -- as much as 75 cents more a ride. You'll have to wait another five or 10 minutes for the bus or train to arrive and it likely will be even more crowded than it is now. And if you work for the Chicago Transit Authority, you could be one of the 1,000 folks who are about to be laid off."
"You'll pay more -- as much as 75 cents more a ride. You'll have to wait another five or 10 minutes for the bus or train to arrive and it likely will be even more crowded than it is now. And if you work for the Chicago Transit Authority, you could be one of the 1,000 folks who are about to be laid off."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
