Archive for the 'Internet' Category

Securing the future

July 5th, 2011

There is always the possibility that I could be hit by a bus tomorrow.

Or it could be a stray bolt of lightning.

Or a meteorite.

Or something.

Leastwise, as some wise old sage was once heard to mutter into his cornflakes – “you never know the day nor the hour”.

With that in mind, I started wondering about all my Interweb shit.  Herself wouldn’t be able to access anything that I have done on line.  There is a lot of important shit in there that she would need to access.  There is also a lot of shit in there that I don’t want her to access. *cough*

I did a quick guess as to how many user names and passwords that I had. 

I guessed at twenty, give or take a few.

I was wrong.

One hundred and ninety fucking one accounts.

Holy shit!!!

Where did they all come from?  I haven’t a clue what half them are, but I must have signed in at some stage or other.  Other accounts have several user names, and I don’t know why. 

I have managed to write them all down and will leave her the file in my will……

minus all the sites I don’t want her to know about, of course.

That should bring the figure nearer twenty.

Heh!

The need for speed

May 8th, 2011

The damned Interweb is trying to annoy me again.

Here I am on a blustery Sunday afternoon trying to download some porn download some pirated films research the decline of the honeybee, and the fucking Interweb is acting like I am using an old modem thingy.  It’s not only slow, but it keeps disconnecting.  Fucking irritating.

It could be that the lightning we had last night screwed something up in which case there is fuck all I can do about it.

Or it could be that the trees and hedges have gotten a little out of control and are blocking the signal.

I’ll tell you one thing -

It’s a piss poor state of affairs if the fucking Interweb is nagging me to do some gardening.

Sent from my brain via the power of hamsters

September 15th, 2010

I do a lot of shopping on line.

In fact just about everything I buy comes from the Interweb with the exception of my baccy, my booze, vegetables and fruit and my meat. 

I buy my groceries, clothes, books and all the shit that makes life reasonably tolerable. 

I mentioned recently that I had had some trouble with a piece of kit, and I thought it was about time to replace it.  I went on line and found that the yoke I was looking for wasn’t that common.  Undeterred, I sniffed around and eventually found a seller in Ireland on eBay.  I like to get stuff from Ireland because the postage usually isn’t so high and it tends to be quicker.

The seller I found had a rather unusual name.  I don’t know how many parents who, when searching for a name for their new offspring come up with Holymaryjoe, but this chap’s parents obviously did.  The poor bloke must have had one hell of a time in school?

Anyhow, to cut a long story into a slightly longer one, I ordered my kit and it duly arrived on a Friday.  Fucking sweet!

I used it on Friday evening, and a bit on Saturday.  I went to switch it on on Sunday and the fucking thing was as dead as Mary Coughlan’s intelligence.  It was quite like Mary Coughlan in fact – it looked reasonably good, but on closer inspection was just a useless piece of junk. 

I wrote to Holymaryjoe and explained what had happened.

No reply.

Then I realised that his yoke on eBay clearly said ‘no returns’.

Fuck!

I chalked it up to experience and wend down the pub for a few pints and a smoke.

When I got home, there was a mail waiting for me.  Holymaryjoe was very concerned that my purchase wasn’t up to scratch.  Despite his no returns policy, he said he was going to sort me out if it killed him.  I’m not sure whether this was a physical threat against me or against himself, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt anyway.  He said he would start sending me replacement parts, bit by bit until we found the problem.

Two days later a package arrived.  Using the new parts I got to work and soon my kit was less like Mary Coughlan and more like Sharon – looking good and working perfectly.

If ever I come across his name again when searching on eBay, I will definitely give him my business.

 

And if you are wondering where I got the title of this ramble?

It is how he signed one of his emails.

I like!

Farting on Twitter

July 18th, 2010

For reasons I won’t go into just now, I have been asked to analyse my attitude to Twitter.

For a start, I fucking HATE the name.  What fucking moron thought that one up?  Why couldn’t they come up with a good old fashioned acronym like Fast And Rapid Texting?  That way people wouldn’t be so fucking smug about bragging that they FART a lot or the fact that they are keen FARTers?

I joined FART quite a while ago, and did my best to get the hang of it.  I persevered, but it still made no sense.  In fact, I see I have FARTed a total of 2412 times, so you can’t say I haven’t tried?

What baffles me is the banality of some of the FARTs.  Why should I give a fiddler’s fuck what film you are about to watch / are watching / have just watched?  Why should I give a shit if you are walking down Fifth Avenue?  What care I if you have decided to treat yourself to another slice of cake?  Good luck to you, but don’t bother me about it.

Don’t get me wrong – it does have its uses.  It is good for lamming out a quick emergency cry for help – “Accidentally drank Paraquat.  Where nearest hospital?” or “Does anyone know Obama’s password?”   It is also excellent for advertising links and articles that people have found.  The latter is the one use that I do have for FART, and I have my site set up that whenever I post, I FART.  It lets people know when there is a new nugget of gold on my site.  I know they are just waiting for it, and it notifies them that bit quicker.

I do get the odd chuckle out of FART, but not often.  Some people just regurgitate old jokes, which is a bit tedious.  Some people have a great way with words though and can provide a quick smirk.  Some people can throw in a quick comment about an event or some other item which can raise a laugh, but generally it just isn’t worth the effort.

A while ago, I decided to try FART out as it it were one of those old text adventures, to see what reaction I would get.  I would write something like “Grandad has entered.  Looks around.  Grandad leaves”.  One or two got the gist of what I was at, but my theory is that most FARTers are too young to remember text based adventures.

That is the nub of it.  FART is for the younger generation.  They like the instant gratification, and the ease of writing a message in less than 140 letters.  It requires no thought.  Some say it gives a sense of community, but it doesn’t do that for me because there is little of the one to one communication that a blog [another despicable word] provides.

I think basically that there is little wrong with FART.

It’s just that I’m too old for it.

Where a letter can make all the difference

March 26th, 2010

I had a grand chat the other night with my good friend Kirk, on Skype.

I should mention that I have never met Kirk, nor spoken to him because he lives in America, and the friendship is based purely on text.  I don’t even know what the fucker looks like!  Maybe he is just a computer that has passed the Turing Test?  Or maybe he is an alien?  Who cares?

kirk
Kirk?

Anyhow, we were having a grand chat, when he happened to mention that while out driving, he had hit a mouse.

“So what?” says I.  Well, actually, I typed it but you know what I mean.

He then said that the mouse was grand, and he and the missus were grand but that the mouse had smashed his windscreen, his rear view mirrors and put a huge fucking dent in the front of his Jeep.

We have mice here in Ireland, and some of them grow quite big, but fuck me!!  I know the Americans love to exaggerate but this was going too far.  How could a tintsy wincy mouse do so much damage?  I told him to cop on to himself.

He replied that it wasn’t a mouse – it was a moose.  Apparently one letter can make quite a difference?

Herself was reading all this over my shoulder and muttered that he should have brought it home to mount its head over the fireplace.

He replied that it wasn’t dead.

She replied “what has that got to do with it?” which is a fair point.  I told him to get his arse back out there and run it down again.

Because it is still alive, he is going to have to drill a hole in his wall over the fireplace to stick its head through.  It’s only fair to leave the rest of it outside, because that apparently is the part that makes the nasty smells.  He is going to attach its tail to the door-bell so he has a nice fancy bell-pull.

Kirk and I have long meaningful discussions on a regular basis.

Our topics are many and varied.

If he came to Ireland, would there still be a four hour time difference between us?  Would he have to wait four hours to hear my question?  Would I have already heard his answer four hours previously?  These are groundbreaking questions, and have never been studied properly.

We have also discussed the possibility of thought transfer.  Well, we didn’t type that bit – we used long distance mind reading, but we decided it wasn’t possible anyway.

I wonder if he’ll be on line tonight?

I want to find out how he is doing with installing his trophy in his hoose.

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