Slashdot Mirror
Trojans and Popups and Slimeball Business
Selanit writes "Salon.com is reporting
on a company which exploited a vulnerability in an old but common version of Internet Explorer's Java engine to install spyware on the visitor's machine. " It's a pretty in depth story showing the lack of respect that
some companies have. My favorite part is that the guy who denies any knowledge
of the trojan popup is named 'Frank Bigott'.
Mandi's voluptuous curves emphasised the singlemindedness of a Reaganite generation. Her wholesome rump, which would do a farmer proud in even the most competitive Texan meat markets, once again interrupted my field of vision to the birds perching nonchalantly on the roof of the opposite building. Two years, three months, four days and one hour into my job at dotcomrevolution.com, and the word on the seventh floor was that the VC's were about to cut off our air supply. These gulls were my only break from the monotony of BSD server administration, and Mandi had to be punished for her countless intrusive hours at the photocopier.
"Your ass is blocking my view," I mumbled.
"What did you say?" she roared. Well, it was more an angry squeak than a raw. I just had to block out the irritating, high-pitched whine that characterised all Mandi's replies, and my instincts caused my right hand to jump onto the air conditioning knob for the server room, turning it up to full blast.
"You -- that again -- I'll -- the manager!" she continued, her voice drowned out by the healthy whir of the most expensive fans in Christendom. I looked at her and grinned. "I can't think -- that -- noise! Turn -- off now!" She was trying to keep her cool (an act made all the easier by the now exceptional air conditioning), but even a blind man could have felt the heat from her cheeks as they began to turn a rosy red with rage.
"I'm afraid I can't do that, Mandy," I responded. I guess she looked like more of a Dave than a Mandy, her smooth but noticeably dark follicles of facial hair contrasting with her pasty skin under the lifeless fluorescence of office lighting, but she would not have understood the reference anyway.
With that, I turned back to my console and resumed my xtank session. But what was this? Out of the corner of my eye, I saw water begin to drip out of the corner of Mandy's eye, while she was sitting in my assistant's chair. (Well, I called it the assistant's chair, I had not actually had an assistant since late 1999, when I selected him to be the scapegoat for my rather poor backup schedule.)
"Why must you always make fun of me? I'm just trying to do my job," she blubbed. Sitting close to me now, not even $10,000 of Taiwanese ventilation could block out her piercing tone. "Ever since I got this job the guys here have made fun of me for my shape, why can't they just respect me for who I am."
A change of heart that would have made Montgomery Burns proud caused me to stand up and walk over to the wreck. I wanted to explain this rationally to her, in terms of the mating habits of the human male, and the desire for a woman fit for childbearing and housework, but there was no time for that (it was ten minutes to five). "I'm sorry," I uttered, and rested my hand on Mandy's shoulder, fearing a lawsuit.
Mandy stood up, and without hesitation put her arms round me, whispering, "Thank you." I reciprocated, grateful for a secure office lacking in inside windows. Instead of letting go, she squeezed me harder, and her tears began to stain the shoulder of my designer shirt. I motioned to back away, and in doing so my hand slipped downwards, brushing against her behind.
"I'm not so repulsive, am I?" she questioned.
I was racking my brain for a diplomatic response. "I guess there are advantages to looking at you over the gulls and the hypnotising router LEDs," I confessed. "And unlike with the routers, I'm not called out when you break down. And you don't leave a mess on the roof..."
"That's the nicest thing anyone's ever told me," she interrupted. "Do you have a girlfriend?"
(I'm a geek. Do you have a girlfriend? Exactly.)
"I'm, um, er.. I'm playing the field," was my closest attempt at honesty without offending my manhood. "I dont like to deprive others of my attention by focussing too much on one person."
"That's a shame," she said, and then her tone of voice changed completely. "Because I was so hoping to score before next week's lay-off."
"NEXT WEEK?" There was no chance that I would be able to return my home-brewed Beowulf cluster of 'borrowed' workstations so soon, and I had expected at least two week's warning from management. "Oh, and I know about your Beowulf cluster," she whispered, "but I'm sure I can use my special relationship with your boss to make it easier for you to return the equipment. The question is, what can you do for me?"
to be continued...
Yield: 4 servings
2 lb Squid, cut into rings
1 c Coconut milk
2 Cloves garlic, chopped
6 tb Fish sauce
3 tb Peanuts, finely chopped
Juice of 1 lime
Cayenne to taste
1 ts Sugar
Coconut milk is easily made if you have a blender or food processor.
Boil 1 1/2 cups water. Pour it over 1 1/2 cups of fresh or dry grated
coconut. Beat it in the food processor or blender for at least 1
minute. Strain it through a sieve or through cheesecloth. Marinate
the squid for 1 hour in coconut milk to which you have added the
garlic. Prepare the coals and skewer the squid.
To make the dipping sauce which makes this dish so distinctive,
combine the fish sauce, peanuts, sugar, lime juice and the cayenne.
Grill the squid for about 3 minutes on one side. When brown, turn
over and barbecue 3 minutes more.
Serve accompanied by the dipping sauce.
This recipe will produce tasty grilled fish if you use firm varieties
such as swordfish, sea bass or halibut, cutting the steaks or fillets
into large squares.
This dish serves 4 to 6 as part of a larger meal.
Do people like this sell thier soul to satan? I would like a Cray Computer Im considering selling my soul for it... but i guess satan is backed up with these Popup Companies
"All I can tell the "lesser of two evils" folks is that if they keep voting for evil, they'll keep getting evil."-Lp.org
Not. Trollworthy.
Bring on the Katz! Bring on the Katz! Bring on the Katz!
Fortuyn, who believed immigrants were a threat to liberal Dutch life, and stated that Islam (but not Christianity or Judaism) was "backward", already had several seats in government.
A rich, overtly homosexual skinhead who campaigned that diversity causes intolerance and wanted a constitutional amendment to repeal the paragraph forbidding discrimination, Fortuyn was a hypocrite on a scale surpassed not even by Slashdot editors and karma whores.
Truly, therefore, a Slashdot icon, he will be sorely missed.
(Moderators, this is not a troll).
The easiest way to get shot is to carry a gun -- Atticus Finch
Are you sure that carrying a gun is the easiest way to go shot? I mean, where do you carry it? In a bag, in your pocket, or maybe a holster. If Im just carrying it, how would someone else know I have it to shoot me. Oh, maybe it will accidently go off and hit me. Im sure there are faster ways of getting shot rather than just carrying it and waiting for it to go off or waiting for someone to shoot me b/c I have a gun.
you guys finally used the internet explorer icon!
i thought I would never see the day where you used it, for about the fifth time in the history of slashdot.
now what you should really do is get a google icon
I am a lesbian, deeply involved with a woman of lusty beauty such as most men will never know. Her hair is short and blonde. Her face is bold, with a nice sexy square jaw. She has small breasts, and muscular arms and legs, and even a slight hint of a six-pack. Just the mere thought of her body gets my juices flowing.
She and I have been carpet munching for well over five years now. We love each other deeply, but it seems we've reached an impasse in our relationship. Every night, I lick and I lick and I lick. I finger, finger, finger. I also get the attention back with all sorts of creative ideas from my partner. Everything from dildos, to finger paints (when I am on my period), to meat tenderizer. However, no matter how much sexual gratification we exchange, it seems to be wearing down.
One day, while surfing on Slashdot, I learned about an interesting technique involving a turkey baster. The basic idea is that you fill a turkey baster with semen, then insert that tool into the vagina, and squeeze out its contents. With this in mind, I contemplated the idea of getting pregnant with this method, and having a baby with my partner.
I approached my beautiful mate and asked him if she wanted to have a baby. Her face lit up! She seemed to be excited; imbued with new life! However, the euphoria rapidly dissipated when she came to the realization that she did not possess the proper equipment to get me pregnant. I quickly responded that "indeed you do have the right equipment! It's in the kitchen, I'll show you." Promptly, we waltzed into the kitchen and out of a drawer, I produced the turkey baster that would bring a new life into world.
The next job was to find a source of sperm. Sperm is not hard to come by. Men ejaculate tens of thousands of gallons of it every day. We figured it'd be easy to acquire a nice hot, steaming load of cum from virtually any man. One day, I stood outside the door of our home, close to the sidewalk, top-less, and perking my lively breasts at any man who passed. Most simply gawked, but some actually tried to touch, but quickly walked away before doing so. Pretty soon, a nice young man came along who took such an interest in my tits that he seemed to forget about all else! Before long, I had him in our house and I was giving him a blowjob before he even knew what happened. As soon as he shot a big load into my mouth, I grabbed the baster and spit the load into it. He looked puzzled, but quickly realized the bizarre situation he was in and left immediately. I paid him no mind.
"Quickly," I shouted to my lover, "fuck me with this thing!" My lover grabbed the baster, thrust it into my eager beaver, and began to thrust like she was a man. I rubbed her clit and fingered her and she tweaked my boobs and fondled my own clit. When we were both about to climax, she squeezed the bulb of the turkey baster, squirting the whole load deep into my uterus. The warm, thick feeling of it drove me wild! When we were done, we rubbed oil all over each other's bodies, praying to the Lord Jesus that we would get pregnant.
Over the next few weeks, signs of something unusual began to show. As it turns out, I was not only pregnant, I had herpes too. Fucking Hemos! My life was turned upside down, but that story is for another day...
IIRC, "we gotta get it out the door to do our part to help the economy, can't stop now to do the right thing, W.'s counting on us!" -- hmm soft stance of the DoJ... scratch my back, I'll scratch yours? Seems to fit in with the recent pattern of sucking up to industry.
Anyway, RealNetworks (love 'em, hate 'em) gripes are valid, if Microsoft rolls out a "tested and Q/A Approved (the MCSEs all playing solitaire never found any bugs) Final version" and mysteriously competitors products (which you know they've had a keen eye towards making sure all is well) malfunction and look shoddy.
Other than being rich and arrogant, I wouldn't want to be in their shoes.
A feeling of having made the same mistake before: Deja Foobar
I got a pop up "trojan" for ya right here!
Damn there goes my Karma.
He was not a skinhead, nor a fascist.
You are small and fat, and we will write nothing of your death, your simple existance for which noone bothered to recognize.
Look! You breath now, and no one cares. What difference, then, comes from your death? Perhaps just another parking space at the local supermarket.
Your post, though a troll, is a joke, as is your life.
Long live Pim Fortyn, he will be missed.
http://www.revenews.com/archives/00000179.html#com mentsu svideos . tm
http://www.affiliatemarketing.co.uk/morphe
a) Morpheus enabled browsers automatically overwriting affiliate links with their own affiliate ID.
b) Morpheus enabled browsers writing their affiliate ID code even if the visitor arrived at a merchant's site via direct entry of the URL into the web browser.
c) Morpheus enabled browsers intercepting an Overture PPC click-thru and writing their own affiliate code.