Fun_People Archive
12 Oct
Wondering what Lassie would do.

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From: Peter Langston <psl>
Date: Thu, 12 Oct 100 14:37:12 -0700
To: Fun_People
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Subject: Wondering what Lassie would do.

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[Readers who don't remember the BOFH (Bastard Operator From Hell)
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 http://www.langston.com/Fun_People/1993/1993ADO.html
 http://www.langston.com/Fun_People/1993/1993ADP.html
 http://www.langston.com/Fun_People/1993/1993ADQ.html
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Forwarded-by: Nev Dull <nev@sleepycat.com>
Forwarded-by: Adam Shand <larry@spack.org>
Forwarded-by: Shannon Murray <shannon@earthlight.co.nz>

BOFH takes the Piss
By: Simon Travaglia
Posted: 19/08/2000 at 11:49 GMT

So The Boss has volunteered my services to the Beancounters to upgrade some
software an PC-based unix system to its latest (and last, if there's a God)
revision -from the current version they have - which was probably installed
on the Ark.

And as is always the case with vendors of old, dodgy software, there's more
clauses to the Warranty than there is Warranty (or Documentation), so it
looks like a suck-it-and-see job.

I hate it.

I offer to slap Linux in and rebuild their system for them, but apparently
some equally crap chunk of interface software absolutely HAS to have this
EXACT flavour of Unix to run, or it'll just sit mindlessly in the corner
like most of its users.

Eventually I come across the licences for the software, which probably cost
more to print than the product is worth - and notice that the licences are
for the old version of the software, and not the new version they were
delivered with.

Sigh.

So I've got to choose whether to back the whole lot up on floppies using
a brain-dead version of the only backup package the system has - cpio -
and then perform the upgrade, or give it a miss altogether.

So I'm packing up my kit when The Boss rolls in.

"So what's it look like?" he asks, peering at the documentation and
pretending he can read multiple syllable words. "Looks tricky.."

"More than tricky" I respond, "A pig's breakfast - The licences aren't
valid and the documentation is shite!"

"Nonsense, it's just a misprint!" he cries when I show him the evidence.
"It's bound to be a typing mistake!"

To top my day off, the user of the machine concerned arrives for his
twopenn'th of information.

"How's it going?" he asks nervously.

"Fine!" the boss cries, "Just about to get started! Well, I'll leave you
to it!"

He trundles off with the user for a cup of something which I can only hope
is toxic..

And I'm left wondering what Lassie would do... would she dial the
suspiciously short US 24hr freecall number? Would she ring the local "Value
Added" (pfft) Reseller and ask what the hell's going on?  Or would she just
relieve herself on the cabinet and wander off?

So I'm relieving myself on the cabinet (with the Power OFF, of course) when
the user returns to the office. ..

Slightly shocked by the look of it.

"Thank goodness you're here!" I cry, adlibbing like a daemon, "Quick, get
a fire extinguisher - I think I'm holding it at bay!!!"

He rips out of the office like a madman while I escalate things a bit by
kicking the tower over and jumping on it a couple of times until the lid
pops off, to "stifle any lingering flames".

When he gets back I empty half a cylinder of dry powder into the floppy
and CD openings just to make sure that it doesn't "spontaneously re-
ignite".

. . .


"Better safe that sorry!" I mention to my helper as I empty the other half
of the cylinder into the cooling fan inlet of his machine's power supply.

"My system!" he gasps. "YEARS of work!"

"Oh, don't worry about it, it's all backed up," I reassure him.

"Really?!"

"Nah, couldn't be stuffed. But hey, they hard drive's still OK!"

"You think so?"

"Almost definitely - there it is there, hardly a scratch on it, except for
those heel marks."

"What heel marks?"

>CRUNCH< >CRUNCH< >CRUNCH<

"Those ones!"

. . .


So I'm in The Boss's office and he's not buying the fire story for a minute.
Neither is he buying the: "my dog ate the backup tape" story.

"You're for the high jump now!" he cries, grabbing the phone and punching
in security's number. "You're as good as gone!"

"Gone?!" The PFY cries, arriving in the nick of time. "That's great! I
can't believe my luck!"

"?" The Boss hmmms.

"Well *I* get to be in charge! I get to make decisions for myself!  Crash
the systems when I want, leak your dodgy Website browsing to the HOD,
randomly disconnect network connections f.."

I non-maskably interrupt the PFY with a quick >SLAP!< before he can get
all the way to meglomaniacland. Still he does dribble on a bit about making
the user's lives a misery in his own way, making IT Management look like
the prats they are, and so forth. Another NMI brings him back to the real
world..

"Well, maybe I was a bit hasty in my initial estimation," The Boss adds
nervously, thinking carefully about the devil he knows.

"No, no!" I cry, realising the vast untapped fear potential stored within
the PFY, "I think you were more than justified! I'm a walking technical
timebomb! I'm a menace to myself and others. I can't be trusted near
equipment! Like your monitor."

"My monitor?"

>CRASH<

"Yes!"

"An accident," The Boss cries, "could have happened to anyone! Look!  See!"

>CRASH< a laptop joins the debris.

10 minutes later every piece of kit in the place is in pieces on the floor
as the Boss strives to prove that I'm not a completely malicious bastard
after all, and just prone to workplace accidents like him. It's all rather
fun really.

Even more fun when security rocket up in response to the sounds of crashing
on the phone call they just received in time to see the boss "accidentally"
push his bookshelf over.

"Thank Goodness you're here!" I cry, using a line that's served me well in
the recent past. "He's gone completely mad you know. A walking timebomb -
a menace to himself and others! Why only this morning he directed me to
urinate in a mach..."

The rest is just history, like The Boss. The wailing, the gnashing of teeth,
the denials - it's worse than a Presidential Impeachment.

Still, best get 6 or 7 cups of coffee if I'm to complete that upgrade....

© 2000 Peter Langston