From: Adam L. Beberg (email@example.com)
Date: Fri May 05 2000 - 21:36:32 PDT
To all the brave forkers that fall off the face of the earth
every weekend. Where do you go while the rest of us work anyway?
I removed the 3 paragraphs about the fat white man with the nicotine
fits - maybe someone who knows Rohit can fill them in ;) [or not]
Twas the night of a Friday, when all through the house
Not a keyboard was stirring, not even a mouse;
The folders were hung by the archive with care.
In hopes that St. Rohit soon would be there.
The readers were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of protocols danced in their heads;
And mamma on her pilot, an I on my WAP,
Had just settled down, work a long weekend nap.
When out on the net there arose such a chatter
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to my Windows I flew like a flash,
Tore open the crypto and threw up the hash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen bits
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects and snits,
When, what to my wondering grep should appear,
But a miniature list, and eight tiny re-deers,
With a little old master, so lively and fit,
I knew in a moment it must be Rohit.
More rapid than spammers his readers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now, Bolcer! now, Baker! now, Whitehead and Brickley!
On, Rifkin! on Sweetnam! on, DeLong and Baisley!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! bash away! trash away all!"
As dry bits that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the house-top the re-deers they flew,
With the sleigh full of bits, and St. Rohit too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the list
The prancing and pawing of each little jist.
As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,
Down the mail queue St. Rohit came with a bound.
He was dressed in no hair, from: his head to: his neck,
And his clothes were all tarnished with factoids and tech;
A bundle of bits he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a lurker just opening his pack.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the folders; then turned with a smirk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, to the archives he rose;
He sprang to his list, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he logged out of sight,
"Happy weekend to: all, and to: all a good night!"
- Adam L. Beberg
Mithral Communications & Design, Inc.
The Cosm Project - http://cosm.mithral.com/
firstname.lastname@example.org - http://www.iit.edu/~beberg/
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