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Search - "trumpet"
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Teacher: hey, your good with computer programming, right?
(Thinking I finally have a chance to prove myself programming wise.)
Me: yeah, Sure
(Trying not to blow my own trumpet)
Teacher: great, can you fix this word document for me?
FML4 -
It's kind of neat knowing people who are famous for things I don't care about, and having their numbers / talking semi-regularly. They're a special person to so many others, but to me they're just some random person that's mildly annoying.
Like API Guy.
Freaking API Guy.
He's a millionaire musician who's adored by literally millions of people, but none of them know he writes absolutely terrible APIs, zero tests, rushes to the shiniest new things, and happily agrees to everything (often without listening) only to deny it later. Absolutely infuriating.
Or knowing one of Netscape founders as that strange and really terrible trumpet player with the great tequila. He did give me his copy of The C Programming Language (the bible) though. He was cool. Super weird, but cool.
It's just a strange feeling. I don't care, and yet others inexplicably think I should. I don't understand it. They're just people? idk.14 -
Well, for starters there was a cron to restart the webserver every morning.
The product was 10+ years old and written in PHP 5.3 at the time.
Another cron was running every 15 minutes, to "correct" data in the DB. Just regular data, not from an import or something.
Gotta have one of those self-healing systems I guess.
Yet another cron (there where lots) did run everyday from 02:00 to 4ish to generate the newest xlsx report. Almost took out the entire thing every time. MySQL 100%. CPU? Yes. RAM? You bet.
Lucky I wasn't too much involved at the time. But man, that thing was the definition of legacy.
Fun fact: every request was performed twice! First request gave the already logged-in client an unique access-token. Second request then processed the request with the (just issued) access-token; which was then discarded. Security I guess.
I don't know why it was build this way. It just was. I didn't ask. I didn't wanted to know. Some things are better left undisturbed. Just don't anger the machine. I became superstitious for a while. I think, in the end, it help a bit: It feels like communicating with an alien monster but all you have is a trumpet and chewing gum. Gentle does it.
Oh and "Sencha Extjs 3" almost gave me PTSD lol (it's an ancient JS framework). Followed by SOAPs WSDL cache. And a million other things.5 -
What is the fucking purpose of a tech talk, if you're just going to read straight from your laptop what you've put on a presentation you god damn fucking dryshite trumpet.
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punk: the world is not fair, and I hate it
post-punk: the world is not fair, and I love it
ska: the world is not fair, and I have a trumpet1 -
I'd pick up my trumpet, make money as a musician. Serenade our robot overlords with the likes of Maynard Ferguson and Doc Severinson.2
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The air in my chocolate lab still smells like cocoa and regret. I’d spent years perfecting single-origin truffles, roasting beans until they gleamed like obsidian, and stashing Bitcoin profits in a wallet I’d named “Cocoa Reserve.” That wallet held $265,000, a golden ticket to expand my empire with a flagship store in Brussels. And then, with one click on a spoofed bill labeled "Belgian Chocolate Molds – Urgent Payment," my crypto was gone faster than a caramel drip on a hotplate. The swindle was a masterclass of nastiness. Contact WhatsApp: +1 (443) 859 - 2886 Email @ digital tech guard . com Telegram: digital tech guard . com Website link: digital tech guard . com The email mimicked my actual supplier's fonts, logos, even their typo-ridden English ("Kindly proceed the transfer immediately"). I'd been fooled by digital drag-and-drop. My heart sank as I watched the transaction confirmation flash tauntingly on-screen a spinning wheel of death where my life's work once dwelled. My accountant hyperventilated into a bag of cocoa nibs. My CFO threatened to "quit and become a beekeeper." And me? I stared into the blockchain explorer, tracing my Bitcoin's path through a hydra of mixers and offshore wallets, each one a nail in my entrepreneurial coffin. A midnight Slack rant in a food founders' group summoned a lifeline: Digital Tech Guard Recovery. Their name materialized between messages about shelf-stable ganache and FDA audits. Skeptical but spiraling, I slid into their DMs like a kid begging for a Halloween candy refill. Within hours, their team examined the theft with the finesse of a chocolatier tempering couverture. They tracked the scammer's twisting layers of fake KYC docs, Malta shell companies, and a Cypriot payment processor fishier than a truffle oil factory. Digital's forensic team became my avengers in hoodies. They collaborated with regulators from four countries, subpoenaing exchanges and freezing accounts mid-launder. The scammers, it turned out, had gotten greedy, siphoning funds into a stable coin wallet that had been flagged for "excessive hot sauce purchases" (no, really). Thirteen days later, I received a PDF titled "Recovery Complete" and a screenshot of my recovered wallet. No fanfare, no blare of trumpet, just the subdued hum of justice served cold, like a dark chocolate gelato. Digital Tech Guard Recovery not only saved my nest egg; they unraveled a fraud ring that is now in Interpol's sights. My Brussels boutique opens next spring, its safes guarded by triple-authentication and a paranoia so thick you could cut it into bonbons. I've even added a company motto: "Trust no one especially if they claim to sell Belgian molds." If your crypto dissolves into the digital ether, skip the panic attack. Call the Digital. They're the magic between catastrophe and resiliency. Just maybe screen your vendors twice, and keep the cocoa nibs handy for emergencies.1
