'Twas the Night Before Christmas

2003-12-24 Thread Orr, Steve
'Twas the night before Christmas
And all thru the datacenter,
Not a virus was stirring,
Not even a worm.

. . .

And if this Saint Nicolas dude
Tries to break in our cage,
He will be summarily cuffed
And we'll get in a rage.

. . .

So stay away, 
Leave us alone.
No contact by email,
Not even by phone.

. . .

Hackers beware,
We don't wanna fight.
Others take care,
And to all a good night.


Security.



(Need more lines. What rhymes with datacenter?)
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RE: 'Twas the Night Before Christmas

2003-12-24 Thread Boyle, Christopher J.
 'Twas the Night Before Christmas  
   - Written by a technical writer working on a
 Government contract

'Twas the nocturnal segment of the diurnal period preceding the annual
Yuletide celebration, and throughout the place of residence, kinetic
activity was not in evidence among the possessors of this potential,
including that species of domestic rodent known as Mus musculus (mouse).

Hosiery was meticulously suspended from the forward edge of the wood
burning caloric apparatus, pursuant to our anticipatory pleasure
regarding an imminent visitation from an eccentric philanthropist among
whose folkloric appellations is the honorific title of St. Nicholas.


The prepubescent siblings, comfortably ensconced in their respective
accommodations of repose, were experiencing subconscious visual
hallucinations of variegated fruit confections moving rhythmically
through their cerebrums.

My conjugal partner and I, attired in our nocturnal head coverings,
were about to take slumberous advantage of the hibernal darkness
when upon the avenaceous exterior portion of the grounds there ascended such
a
 cacophony of dissonance
that I felt compelled to arise with alacrity from my place of repose for the
 purpose of ascertaining the precise source thereof.

Hastening to the casement, I forthwith opened the barriers sealing this
 fenestration,
noting thereupon that the lunar brilliance without,
reflected as it was on the surface of a recent crystalline precipitation,
might be said to rival that of the solar meridian itself

- thus permitting my incredulous optical sensory organs to behold a
miniature
 airborne runnered conveyance
drawn by eight diminutive specimens of the genus Rangifer,
piloted by a minuscule, aged chauffeur
so ebullient and nimble that it became instantly apparent to me that he
was indeed our anticipated caller.

With his ungulate motive power
traveling at what may possibly have been more vertiginous velocity than
patriotic alar predators, he vociferated loudly, expelled breath
musically through contracted labia, and addressed each of the octet by
his or her respective cognomen - Now Dasher, now Dancer... et al. -
guiding them to the uppermost exterior level of our abode, through which
structure I could readily distinguish the concatenations of each of the
32 cloven pedal extremities.

As I retracted my cranium from its erstwhile location, and was
performing a 180-degree pivot, our distinguished visitant achieved -
with utmost celerity and via a downward leap - entry by way of the smoke
passage. He was clad entirely in animal pelts soiled by the ebony
residue from oxidations of carboniferous fuels which had accumulated on
the walls thereof. His resemblance to a street vendor I attributed
largely to the plethora of assorted playthings which he bore dorsally in
a commodious cloth receptacle.

His orbs were scintillant with reflected luminosity, while his
submaxillary dermal indentations gave every evidence of engaging
amiability. The capillaries of his malar regions and nasal appurtenance
were engorged with blood which suffused the subcutaneous layers, the
former approximating the coloration of Albion's floral emblem, the
latter that of the Prunus avium, or sweet cherry.  His amusing sub- and
supralabials resembled nothing so much as a common loop knot, and their
ambient hirsute facial adornment appeared like small, tabular and
columnar crystals of frozen water.

Clenched firmly between his incisors was a smoking piece whose grey
fumes, forming a tenuous ellipse about his occiput, were suggestive of a
decorative seasonal circlet of holly. His visage was wider than it was
high, and when he waxed audibly mirthful, his corpulent abdominal region
undulated in the manner of impectinated fruit syrup in a hemispherical
container. He was, in short, neither more nor less than an obese,
jocund, multigenarian gnome, the optical perception of whom rendered me
visibly frolicsome despite every effort to refrain from so being. By
rapidly lowering and then elevating one eyelid and rotating his head
slightly to one side, he indicated that trepidation on my part was
groundless.

Without utterance and with dispatch, he commenced filling the
aforementioned appended hosiery with various of the aforementioned
articles of merchandise extracted from his aforementioned previously
dorsally transported cloth receptacle.  Upon completion of this task, he
executed an abrupt about-face, placed a single manual digit in lateral
juxtaposition to his olfactory organ, inclined his cranium forward in a
gesture of leave-taking, and forthwith effected his egress by
renegotiating (in reverse) the smoke passage. He then propelled himself
in a short vector onto his conveyance, directed a musical expulsion of
air through his contracted oral sphincter to the antlered quadrupeds of
burden, and proceeded to soar aloft in a movement hitherto observable
chiefly among the seed-bearing portions

RE: 'Twas the Night Before Christmas

2003-12-24 Thread Orr, Steve
A Computer Christmas

'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the shop,
The computers were whirring; they never do stop.
The power was on and the temperature right,
In hopes that the input would feed back that night. 

The system was ready, the program was coded,
And memory drums had been carefully loaded;
While adding a Christmasy glow to the scene,
The lights on the console, flashed red, white and green. 

When out in the hall there arose such a clatter,
The programmer ran to see what was the matter.
Away to the hallway he flew like a flash,
Forgetting his key in his curious dash.
He stood in the hallway and looked all about,
When the door slammed behind him, and he was locked out. 

Then, in the computer room what should appear,
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer;
And a little old man, who with scarcely a pause,
Chuckled: My name is Santa...the last name is Claus. 

The computer was startled, confused by the name,
Then it buzzed as it heard the old fellow exclaim:
This is Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen,
And Comet and Cupid and Donner and Blitzen. 

With all these odd names, it was puzzled anew;
It hummed and it clanked, and a main circuit blew.
It searched in its memory core, trying to think;
Then the multi-line printer went out on the blink. 

Unable to do its electronic job,
It said in a voice that was almost a sob:
Your eyes - how they twinkle - your dimples so merry,
Your cheeks so like roses, your nose like a cherry, 

Your smile - all these things, I've been programmed to know,
And at data-recall, I am more than so-so;
But your name and your address (computers can't lie),
Are things that I just cannot identify. 

You've a jolly old face and a little round belly,
That shakes when you laugh like a bowlful of jelly;
My scanners can see you, but still I insist,
Since you're not in my program, you cannot exist! 

Old Santa just chuckled a merry ho, ho,
And sat down to type out a quick word or so.
The keyboard clack-clattered, its sound sharp and clean,
As Santa fed this data to the machine: 

Kids everywhere know me; I come every year;
The presents I bring add to everyone's cheer;
But you won't get anything - that's plain to see;
Too bad your programmers forgot about me. 

Then he faced the machine and said with a shrug,
Merry Christmas to All, as he pulled out its plug! 


Author unknown
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