I'm convinced. Things so easy and seemingly stringless can go awry without your direct doing, though such an act can only be attributed to a fateful misguided strike of the keyboard, improper capitalization, maybe a tossed up TAB in there, perhaps a misplaced punctuation mark, you name it, things tactically go wrong at the exact time you need them to go right. For me, I was simply trying to login to a
new blog that a friend of mine started (so I could post more randomly-oriented entries and avoid having to put [rather] pointless rambles such as thing on a SCIENCE blog, for cryin' out loud), and the exact user name and password that I was sent simply denied me access. No, it said, promptly, boldy, get out of my blog.
Clearly, there is an underlying issue. Within the mass amount of 1's and 0's floating about in cyberspace, some of these numbers must sometimes achieve the status of "return to sender." Or even worse, these numbers are sucked into a vacuous nullity of digital binary death, relegated from a single bit to a nonentity. Whap. Not even toast, toast eaten by a stealthy passerby. Then again, my engineering training would lead me to believe that you can't make something out of nothing, and thus can't make something into nothing. The something, in cases of, say, fires or food, becomes ashes and human waste. While many computer scientists out there are joyously hooting to themselves, "Ho ho, silly engineer doesn't know pancakes about computer information." I say, "Ha ha, world, you don't know muffins about Web Gnomes."
That's right. They're there, beneath the surface. Entering went you look away and quick to escape when your gander returns. You send an email with High Importance, and the Web Gnomes get you fired for not sending your boss that highly importance report. I'm sure they've got little stocking caps and pudgy hands, too. Along with there speedy wit and fiendish trickery, they snatch up the highest of importance digital information and stuff it into their little gnome satchels. They compile up huge amounts of these data, and take them to the gnome reservoir, located somewhere in Paris. Then, they have an annual feast (date unknown, for fear of people emailing the utmostly important documents during this period) in which they bring out the well-cured and aged binary figures collected over the years and gobble them down, all washed down with [high proof] ale. They have songs they sing at this annual gathering, here is one:
We sweep up all the noise,
and for this now rejoice,
in times of harrowing,
we can but only sing!
The gnomes clash their mugs together after "sing" has been held at a boisterous and exhaustive length so that at least half of the, well, weaker gnomes pass out from asphyxiation. Those left standing are the ones who cheer, those on the ground eventually wake up and rejoin the festivities, only to hope that next year they'll be much more prepared as to not one of the gnomes who passed out in the popular song. Gnomes can grow very old, so it can be many decades before one can make it through the aforementioned tune.
Sure can be tough, sometimes.
