The Bastard Poems of Chunk Jack-9x


The cogs were goofing. The gears were grinding. Like always–

That one damn electron. Got free again, got radical.

Like a pebble in my electric shoe.

Now that pisses me right off.

Like some kind of–I don’t know–

It. Does. Not. Compute.

It. Just. Freaking. Irritates.

Like a digital sunburn, or a selfish baby wailing away on a fully booked trans-Pacific flight.

When are those high-horsing knee-jerks gonna come up with an elegant algorithm,

some kind of program that’s gonna solve my stinkin’ problems?

There’s money to be made there. In solutions. Dig?

Beep. Beep. Whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.



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