Microsoft knows that reliable software is not cost effective. According to studies, 90% to 95% of all bugs are harmless. They're never discovered by users, and they don't affect performance. It's much cheaper to release buggy software and fix the 5% to 10% of bugs people find and complain about.
In any case, his religious teaching consisted mostly in more or less vague ethical remarks, an obscure mixture of ideals of English gentlemanliness and his favorite notions of personal hygiene. Everybody knew that his class was liable to degenerate into a demonstration of some practical points about rowing, with Buggy sitting on the table and showing us how to pull an oar.
Toad must have been very accustomed to traveling this way, balanced on the back rails of a rushing buggy, but Melena was not. She gripped the sides and white-knuckled the rails with her knapsack sandwiched between her knees. Hazel was clamped onto the roof, grinning like an alligator in the sun. And Toad lounged like a cat.
The only way for errors to occur in a program is by being put there by the author. No other mechanisms are known. Programs can't acquire bugs by sitting around with other buggy programs. Right practice aims at preventing insertion of errors and, failing that, removing them before testing or any other running of the program.
What gives a wriggle And makes you giggle When you eat'em? Whose weensy little feet Make my heart really beat? Why, it's those little creepy crawlies That make me feel so jolly. For the darling centipede My favorite buggy feed I always want some more. That's the insect I adore More than beetles, more than crickets, Which at times gives me the hiccups. I crave only to feed On a juicy centipede And I shall be happy forevermore." -Soren
It helps to resign as the controller of your fate. All that energy we expend to keep things running right is not what's keeping things running right. We're bugs struggling in the river, brightly visible to the trout below. With that fact in mind, people like me make up all these rules to give us the illusion that we are in charge. I need to say to myself, they're not needed, hon. Just take in the buggy pleasures. Be kind to the others, grab the fleck of riverweed, notice how beautifully your bug legs scull.
I used to be Amish. I had to stay a lot with my grandparents or aunts and uncles who are Amish, so I was sort of partially Amish. When I go back there now I still get into that culture. I can drive a horse and buggy because they don't use cars. And, of course, there's no electricity. I respect them a lot. The Amish like to live a very plain lifestyle, the way they think God intended. It sort of brings you back to like Little House on the Prairie days or something.
Is the United States going to decide, are the people of this country going to decide that their Federal Government shall in the future have no right under any implied power or any court-approved power to enter into a solution of a national economic problem, but that that national economic problem must be decided only by the States? We thought we were solving it, and now it has been thrown right straight in our faces. We have been relegated to the horse-and-buggy definition of interstate commerce.
Franklin D. Roosevelt
[Hades] returned his attention to the playlist while I eased the car back on the road. His fingers flipped deftly over the screen. 'Orpheus... Dusk... Orpheus... Dusk... do you have anything on here that doesn't make people want to jump off a cliff?'... 'I'm driving. When you learn to drive something more modern than a horse and buggy, we can listen to your music.' 'I can drive!' 'Did they even have cars the last time you can to the surface?' I teased. 'Yes.' 'Not counting the minute and a half you spent rescuing me last year?' Hades fell silent, and I laughed. 'I didn't think so.
February. Get ink, shed tears. Write of it, sob your heart out, sing, While torrential slush that roars Burns in the blackness of the spring. Go hire a buggy. For six grivnas, Race through the noice of bells and wheels To where the ink and all you grieving Are muffled when the rainshower falls. To where, like pears burnt black as charcoal, A myriad rooks, plucked from the trees, Fall down into the puddles, hurl Dry sadness deep into the eyes. Below, the wet black earth shows through, With sudden cries the wind is pitted, The more haphazard, the more true The poetry that sobs its heart out.
The girl and Doctor Reefy began their courtship on a summer afternoon. He was forty-five then and already he had begun the practice of filling his pockets with the scraps of paper that became hard balls and were thrown away. The habit had been formed as he sat in his buggy behind the jaded white horse and went slowly along country roads. On the papers were written thoughts, ends of thoughts, beginnings of thoughts. One by one the mind of Doctor Reefy had made the thoughts. Out of many of them he formed a truth that arose gigantic in his mind. The truth clouded the world. It became terrible and then faded away and the little thoughts began again. ("Paper Pills")
After driving 30-minutes East of Seattle, I expect to see a great bowling alley. But, as we pull into the parking lot, all I see are pot holes, a horse and Amish buggy, and no cars to speak of- broken down or otherwise. Even the building is in shambles, needs painted and looks a bit haunted. The old road sign reading- Flicker Lanes- is half-burnt out. Seeing the building's interior lights on, I'm reassured that the place is open- but then again, maybe they've been left on by mistake. "There's LOTS of NICE bowling alleys in SEATTLE, " I said. "Why did we come ALL THIS WAY to go BOWLING?" "I take it that you've never BEEN here before." "I don't think ANYONE HAS. I don't even KNOW what PLANET we're on." "I don't know what PLANET you're on either... but the rest of us are on your ANUS." I half-smile, marveling at his wittiness.
Do an overwhelming number of respected scientists believe that human actions are changing the Earth's climate? Yes. OK, that being the case, let's undermine that by finding and funding those few contrarians who believe otherwise. Promote their message widely and it will accumulate in the mental environment, just as toxic mercury accumulates in a biological ecosystem. Once enough of the toxin has been dispersed, the balance of public understanding will shift. Fund a low level campaign to suggest any threat to the car is an attack on personal freedoms. Create a "grassroots" group to defend the right to drive. Portray anticar activists as prudes who long for the days of the horse and buggy. Then sit back, watch the infotoxins spread - and get ready to sell bigger, better cars for years to come.
Flint, Michigan. Detroit as seen backwards through a telescope. The callus on the palm of the state shaped like a welder's mitt. A town where 66.5 percent of the working citizenship are in some way, shape or form linked to the shit-encrusted underbelly of a French buggy racer named Chevrolet and a floppy-eared Scotchman named Buick. A town where 23.5 percent of the population pimp everything from Elvis on velvet to horse tranquilizers to Halo Burgers to NRA bumper stickers. A town where the remaining 10 percent sit back and watch it all go by-sellin' their blood, rollin' convenience stores, puffin' no-brand cigarettes while cursin' their wives and kids and neighbors and the flies sneakin' through the screens and the piss-warm quarts of Red White and Blue and the Skylark parked out back with the busted tranny.
MONEY AIN'T NEVER BEEN NOTHING I HIT THE BLOCK IF THIS SHIT GET UGLY AND IT AIN'T NEVER BEEN IN MY HEART TO LET NIGGAS THUG ME HIT THE DEALER AND COP A DROP IF THE EYES IS BUGGY AND PULL UP IN FRONT OF THE SPOT CAUSE THE MOMMIES LOVE ME YEAH AND AIN'T NO NIGGA GONE MATCH ME STOCKY, CHUBBY NIGGA VOICE REAL RASPY I SEE YOU REAL FLASHY "BUT THAT AIN'T GONE LAST NIGGA" POP FIRE OFF SHOTS "AND THAT'S YOUR ASS NIGGA" IT'S WAR NOW THAT'S WHY I KEEP THE FOUR WITH LONG NOZZLE SIX-HUNDRED BAD BITCH ON IT HOLDING DOWN THE THROTTLE AND FUCK THAT BEEF SHIT CAUSE SOME BEEF WON'T DIE AND SOME NIGGAS WILL SAY THEY GANGSTA BUT THEY WON'T RIDE AND WHILE IT'S HARD FOR YOU TO DECIDE I'LL LET IT FLY FORTY SHOTS HIT YOUR RIDE UP HIT THE TROPICS AND HIDE UP UNDER PALM TREE'S TO WHITE SAND EVERYTHING IS A PRICE MAN YOU SNIPE WHEN BULLETS ARE PIPING HOT WHEN IT'S YOUR FLESH IT BEGIN WARMING YOU NOW DIE MOTHERFUCKER DIE CUZ I'M TIRED OF WARNING YOU
Ja Rule F/ Black Child
a kid, maybe eight years old, ran up and poked her in the ribs with a plastic laser weapon, making electric zinging noises as he repeatedly pulled the trigger. 'You're dead, ' he said victoriously. His mother came hurrying up, looking harassed and helpless. 'Damian, stop that!' She gave him a smile that was little more than a grimace. 'Don't bother the nice people.' 'Shut up, ' he said rudely. 'Can't you see they're Terrons from Vaniot.' The kid poked her in the ribs again. 'Ouch!' He made those zinging noises again, taking great pleasure in her discomfort. She plastered a big smile on her face and leaned down closer to precious Damian, then cooed in her most alienlike voice, 'Oh, look, a little earthling.' She straightened and gave Sam a commanding look. 'Kill it.' Damian's mouth fell open. His eyes went as round as quarters as he took in the big pistol on Sam's belt. From his open mouth began to issue a series of shrill noises that sounded like a fire alarm. Sam cursed under his breath, grabbed Jaine by the arm, and began tugging her at a half-trot toward the front of the store. She managed to snag her purse from the buggy as she went past. 'Hey, my groceries!' she protested. 'You can spend another three minutes in here tomorrow and get them, ' he said with pent-up violence. 'Right now I'm trying to keep you from getting arrested.' 'For what?' she asked indignantly as he dragged her out of the automatic doors. People were turning to look at them, but most were following the sounds of Damian's shrieks to aisle seven. 'How about threatening to kill that brat and causing a riot?' 'I didn't threaten to loll him! I just ordered you to.