Freebsd Fortunes 2

        The FIELD GUIDE to NORTH AMERICAN MALES

SPECIES:        Cranial Males
SUBSPECIES:     The Hacker (homo computatis)
Plumage:
        All clothes have a slightly crumpled look as though they came off the
        top of the laundry basket.  Style varies with status.  Hacker managers
        wear gray polyester slacks, pink or pastel shirts with wide collars,
        and paisley ties; staff wears cinched-up baggy corduroy pants, white
        or blue shirts with button-down collars, and penholder in pocket.
        Both managers and staff wear running shoes to work, and a black
        plastic digital watch with calculator.

        The foreman of a lumber camp put a new workman on the circular saw.
As he turned away, he heard the man say, "Ouch!".
        "What happened?"
        "Dunno," replied the man.  "I just stuck out my hand like this, and
-- well, I'll be damned.  There goes another one!"

        The General disliked trying to explain the highly technical
innerworkings of the U.S. Air Force.
        "$7,662 for a ten cup coffee maker, General?" the Senator asked.
        In his head he ran through his standard explanations.  "It's not so,"
he thought.  "It's a deterrent."  Soon he came up with, "It's computerized,
Senator.  Tiny computer chips make coffee that's smooth and full-bodied.  Try
a cup."
        The Senator did.  "Pfffttt!  Tastes like jet fuel!"
        "It's not so," the General thought.  "It's a deterrent."
        Then he remembered something.  "We bought a lot of untested computer
chips," the General answered.  "They got into everything.  Just a little
mix-up.  Nothing serious."
        Then he remembered something else.  It was at the site of the
mysterious B-1 crash.  A strange smell in the fuel lines.  It smelled like
coffee.  Smooth and full bodied...
                -- Another Episode of General's Hospital

        The geographical center of Boston is in Roxbury.  Due north of
the center we find the South End.  This is not to be confused with South
Boston which lies directly east from the South End.  North of the South
End is East Boston and southwest of East Boston is the North End.

        The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy has a few things to say on
the subject of towels.
        Most importantly, a towel has immense psychological value.  For
some reason, if a non-hitchhiker discovers that a hitchhiker has his towel
with him, he will automatically assume that he is also in possession of a
toothbrush, washcloth, flask, gnat spray, space suit, etc., etc.  Furthermore,
the non-hitchhiker will then happily lend the hitchhiker any of these or
a dozen other items that he may have "lost".  After all, any man who can
hitch the length and breadth of the Galaxy, struggle against terrible odds,
win through and still know where his towel is, is clearly a man to be
reckoned with.

        The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy has a few things to say on
the subject of towels.
        A towel, it says, is about the most massively useful thing an
interstellar hitchhiker can have.  Partly it has great practical value.
You can wrap it around you for warmth as you bound across the cold moons
of Jaglan Beta; you can lie on it on the brilliant marble-sanded beaches
of Santraginus V ... use it to sail a miniraft down the slow heavy River
Moth; wave your towel in emergencies, and, of course, dry yourself off
with it if it still seems to be clean enough.

        The honeymooning couple agreed it was a fine day for horseback riding.
After a mile or so, the bride's mount cantered under a low tree and a
branch scraped her forehead lightly.  The groom dismounted, glared at his
wife's horse, and said, "That's number one."
        The ride then proceeded.  After another mile or so, the bride's
horse stumbled over a pebble and the lady suffered a slight jostling.
Again, her man leapt from his saddle and strode over to the nervous animal.
"That's two," he said.
        Five miles later, the bride's horse became frightened when a rabbit
crossed its path, reared up and threw the girl.  Immediately, the groom was
off his horse.  "That's three!", he shouted, and, pulling out a pistol, he
shot the horse between the eyes.
        "You brute!" shrieked his bride.  "Now I see the kind of man I
married!  You're a sadist, that's what!"
        The groom turned to her coolly.  "That's one," he said.

        The Lord and I are in a sheep-shepherd relationship, and I am in
a position of negative need.
        He prostrates me in a green-belt grazing area.
        He conducts me directionally parallel to non-torrential aqueous
liquid.
        He returns to original satisfaction levels my psychological makeup.
        He switches me on to a positive behavioral format for maximal
prestige of His identity.
        It should indeed be said that notwithstanding the fact that I make
ambulatory progress through the umbrageous inter-hill mortality slot, terror
sensations will no be initiated in me, due to para-etical phenomena.
        Your pastoral walking aid and quadrupic pickup unit introduce me
into a pleasurific mood state.
        You design and produce a nutriment-bearing furniture-type structure
in the context of non-cooperative elements.
        You act out a head-related folk ritual employing vegetable extract.
        My beverage utensil experiences a volume crisis.
        It is an ongoing deductible fact that your inter-relational
empathetical and non-ventious capabilities will retain me as their
target-focus for the duration of my non-death period, and I will possess
tenant rights in the housing unit of the Lord on a permanent, open-ended
time basis.

        The Magician of the Ivory Tower brought his latest invention for the
master programmer to examine.  The magician wheeled a large black box into the
master's office while the master waited in silence.
        "This is an integrated, distributed, general-purpose workstation,"
began the magician, "ergonomically designed with a proprietary operating
system, sixth generation languages, and multiple state of the art user
interfaces.  It took my assistants several hundred man years to construct.
Is it not amazing?"
        The master raised his eyebrows slightly. "It is indeed amazing," he
said.
        "Corporate Headquarters has commanded," continued the magician, "that
everyone use this workstation as a platform for new programs.  Do you agree
to this?"
        "Certainly," replied the master, "I will have it transported to the
data center immediately!"  And the magician returned to his tower, well
pleased.
        Several days later, a novice wandered into the office of the master
programmer and said, "I cannot find the listing for my new program.  Do
you know where it might be?"
        "Yes," replied the master, "the listings are stacked on the platform
in the data center."
                -- Geoffrey James, "The Tao of Programming"

        The Martian landed his saucer in Manhattan, and immediately upon
emerging was approached by a panhandler.  "Mister," said the man, "can I
have a quarter?"
        The Martian asked, "What's a quarter?"
        The panhandler thought a minute, brightened, then said, "You're
right!  Can I have a dollar?"