Damn you, Fail Whale,
And damn your smile
That taunts sarcastically.
All the while,
Tweeps are waiting
For my latest words.
Whale, why try to fly
With little orange birds?
“Please wait a moment and try again,”
As if “please” could excuse
Your smiling sin.
Damn you, Fail Whale!
Damn your courtesy,
While “Twitter is over capacity”!
Actually, the whale is white.
#justsayin
Actually, the whale is white.
#justsayin
Actually, the whale is white.
#justsayin
Smittybuck, first mate: To be enraged with a dumb brute that acted out of blind SQL code is blasphemous.
Captain Other McAhab: Speak not to me of blasphemy, man; I’d strike the Frum if it insulted me. Look ye, Smittybuck, all visible Tweets are but as pasteboard masks. Some inscrutable yet reasoning server puts forth the molding of their features. The blue whale tasks me; he heaps me. Yet he is but a mask. ‘Tis the thing behind the mask I chiefly hate; the malignant thing that has plagued mankind since Twitter began; the thing that maws and mutilates our ether, not killing us outright but letting us live on, with half a heart and half a test message.
Smittybuck, first mate: To be enraged with a dumb brute that acted out of blind SQL code is blasphemous.
Captain Other McAhab: Speak not to me of blasphemy, man; I’d strike the Frum if it insulted me. Look ye, Smittybuck, all visible Tweets are but as pasteboard masks. Some inscrutable yet reasoning server puts forth the molding of their features. The blue whale tasks me; he heaps me. Yet he is but a mask. ‘Tis the thing behind the mask I chiefly hate; the malignant thing that has plagued mankind since Twitter began; the thing that maws and mutilates our ether, not killing us outright but letting us live on, with half a heart and half a test message.
Smittybuck, first mate: To be enraged with a dumb brute that acted out of blind SQL code is blasphemous.
Captain Other McAhab: Speak not to me of blasphemy, man; I’d strike the Frum if it insulted me. Look ye, Smittybuck, all visible Tweets are but as pasteboard masks. Some inscrutable yet reasoning server puts forth the molding of their features. The blue whale tasks me; he heaps me. Yet he is but a mask. ‘Tis the thing behind the mask I chiefly hate; the malignant thing that has plagued mankind since Twitter began; the thing that maws and mutilates our ether, not killing us outright but letting us live on, with half a heart and half a test message.
Yes, but everybody calls it the “blue Fail Whale” because you see that color when you refresh and it’s over capacity.
Yes, but everybody calls it the “blue Fail Whale” because you see that color when you refresh and it’s over capacity.
Yes, but everybody calls it the “blue Fail Whale” because you see that color when you refresh and it’s over capacity.
OK, in acknowledgement of Kiser’s point, the poem has been amended, substituting “Fail Whale” for the original “blue whale.”
OK, in acknowledgement of Kiser’s point, the poem has been amended, substituting “Fail Whale” for the original “blue whale.”
OK, in acknowledgement of Kiser’s point, the poem has been amended, substituting “Fail Whale” for the original “blue whale.”
Truly, a literary achievement here Staccy. Bravo!!!
Truly, a literary achievement here Staccy. Bravo!!!
Truly, a literary achievement here Staccy. Bravo!!!
Well then…
Smittybuck, first mate: To be enraged with a dumb brute that acted out of blind SQL code is blasphemous.
Captain Other McAhab: Speak not to me of blasphemy, man; I’d strike the Frum if it insulted me. Look ye, Smittybuck, all visible Tweets are but as pasteboard masks. Some inscrutable yet reasoning server puts forth the molding of their features. The fail whale tasks me; he heaps me. Yet he is but a mask. ‘Tis the thing behind the mask I chiefly hate; the malignant thing that has plagued mankind since Twitter began; the thing that maws and mutilates our ether, not killing us outright but letting us live on, with half a heart and half a text message.
Well then…
Smittybuck, first mate: To be enraged with a dumb brute that acted out of blind SQL code is blasphemous.
Captain Other McAhab: Speak not to me of blasphemy, man; I’d strike the Frum if it insulted me. Look ye, Smittybuck, all visible Tweets are but as pasteboard masks. Some inscrutable yet reasoning server puts forth the molding of their features. The fail whale tasks me; he heaps me. Yet he is but a mask. ‘Tis the thing behind the mask I chiefly hate; the malignant thing that has plagued mankind since Twitter began; the thing that maws and mutilates our ether, not killing us outright but letting us live on, with half a heart and half a text message.
Well then…
Smittybuck, first mate: To be enraged with a dumb brute that acted out of blind SQL code is blasphemous.
Captain Other McAhab: Speak not to me of blasphemy, man; I’d strike the Frum if it insulted me. Look ye, Smittybuck, all visible Tweets are but as pasteboard masks. Some inscrutable yet reasoning server puts forth the molding of their features. The fail whale tasks me; he heaps me. Yet he is but a mask. ‘Tis the thing behind the mask I chiefly hate; the malignant thing that has plagued mankind since Twitter began; the thing that maws and mutilates our ether, not killing us outright but letting us live on, with half a heart and half a text message.
Concerning the whole poetry thing, it might be wise to heed the words of Stanislaw J. Lec:
“Advice to writers: Sometimes you just have to stop writing. Even before you begin.”
Concerning the whole poetry thing, it might be wise to heed the words of Stanislaw J. Lec:
“Advice to writers: Sometimes you just have to stop writing. Even before you begin.”
Concerning the whole poetry thing, it might be wise to heed the words of Stanislaw J. Lec:
“Advice to writers: Sometimes you just have to stop writing. Even before you begin.”
I was too busy correcting you, Stacy (in a friendly way, I’m not a jerk – promise!) that I never told you how good the poem was. You’re no Percy Bysshe Shelley, but you’ve got talent!
I was too busy correcting you, Stacy (in a friendly way, I’m not a jerk – promise!) that I never told you how good the poem was. You’re no Percy Bysshe Shelley, but you’ve got talent!
I was too busy correcting you, Stacy (in a friendly way, I’m not a jerk – promise!) that I never told you how good the poem was. You’re no Percy Bysshe Shelley, but you’ve got talent!