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Stallman Meets KDE Team for Tea
fishermonger writes "Trying to imoprove relations, the french KDE team invited RMS to tea at Linux Solutions 2003. From the piece: 'He asked whether KDE people were saying "Gnu/Linux" or just "Linux", and Open Source or Free Software. I told him some of us are using KDE/Gnu/Linux which pleased him as an answer.' Many pearls in the article."
You are a whiney little backstabbing JERK! You ABUSE your position as a slashdot editor for your own personal gain. How could you sell your friends at the CensorWare Project Out?
You will justify this to yourself by assuming I am the only person who thinks your a jerk. That is not true - Most slashdot readers wish you would shut up with your rants. How else could this account ('Michael's a Jerk') get excellant karma? The fact is we are sick of your moderation abuse.
Take This comment. You broke the rules and had more then question per comment. You then modded yourself up to make it into the question list.
Michael: GROW UP OR LEAVE SLASHDOT.
I'm not Seth.
PS - does anyone know how to get the taste out of your mouth???
10 PRINTLN "Let KDE 4.0 and Gnome 3.0 be the same"
20 IF RMS > KDE + Gnome GOTO 10
30 PRINTLN "This is good (TM)"
This information must be dispensed to the world.
Yet again I concur my fiendish little Klington friend! Proceed indeed, proceed!
When I think of dirty old men, I think of Ike Thomas and when I think about Ike I get a hard-on that won't quit.
."
."
."
Sixty years ago, I worked in what was once my Grandfather's Greenhouses. Gramps had died a year earlier and Grandma, now in her seventies had been forced to sell to the competition. I got a job with the new owners and mostly worked the range by myself. That summer, they hired a man to help me get the benches ready for the fall planting.
Ike always looked like he was three days from a shave and his whiskers were dirty white, shaded by the brim of his battered felt fedora.
He did not chew tobacco but the corners of his mouth turned down in a way that, at any moment, I expected a trickle of thin, brown juice to creep down his chin. His bushy, brown eyebrows shaded pale, gray eyes.
The old-timer extended his hand, lifted his leg like a dog about to mark a bush and let go the loudest fart I ever heard. The old fellow then winked at me, "Ike Thomas is the name and playing pecker's my game."
I thought he said, "Checkers." I was nineteen, green as grass. I said, "I was never much good at that game."
"Now me," said Ike, "I just love jumping men . .
"I'll bet you do."
". . . and grabbing on to their peckers," said Ike.
"I though we were talking about . .
"You like jumping old men's peckers?"
I shook my head.
"I reckon we'll have to remedy that." Ike lifted his right leg and let go another tremendous fart. "He said, "We best be getting to work."
That summer of 1941 was a more innocent time. I learned most of the sex I knew from those little eight pager cartoon booklets of comic-page characters going at it. Young men read them in the privacy of an outside john, played with themselves, by themselves and didn't brag about it. Sometimes, we got off with a trusted friend and helped each other out.
Under the greenhouse glass, the temperature some times climbed over the hundred degree mark. I had worked stripped to the waist since April and was as brown as a berry. On only his second day on the job and in the middle of August, Ike wore old fashioned overalls. Those and socks in his high-top work shoes was every stitch he wore. When he bent forward, the bib front billowed out and I could see the white curly hairs on his chest and belly.
"Me? I just love to eat pussy!" Ike licked his lips from corner to corner then sticking his tongue out far enough that the tip could touch the end of his nose. He said, A man's not a man till he knows first hand, the flavor of a lady's pussy."
"People do that?"
He winked. "Of course the taste of a hard cock ain't to be sneezed at neither. Now you answer me, yes or no. Does a man's cock taste salty or not?"
"I never . .
"Well, old Ike's willing to let you find out."
"No way."
"Just teasing," said Ike. "But don't give me no sass or I'll show you my ass." He winked. "Might show it to you anyway, if you was to ask."
"Why would I do that?"
"Curiosity, maybe. I'm guessing you never had a good piece of man ass."
"I'm no queer."
"Now don't be getting judgmental. Enjoying what's at hand ain't being queer. It's taking pleasure where you find it with anybody willing." Ike slipped a hand into the side slit of his overalls and I could tell he was fondling and straightening out his cock. "Now I admit I got me a hole that satisfied a few guys."
I swallowed, hard.
Ike winked. "Care to be asshole buddies?"
***
We worked steadily until noon. Ike drew a worn pocket watch from the bib pocket of his loose overalls and croaked, "Bean time. But first its time to reel out our limber hoses and make with the golden arches before lunch."
I followed Ike to the end of the greenhouse where he stopped at the outside wall of the potting shed. He opened his fly, fished inside, and finger-hooked a soft white penis with a pouting for
Functional languages operate on functions as their unit of data. They pass, create, return, and operate on functions.
;-)
d /tutfct nl.htm
:-(
Procedural languges pass numbers, text, etc, instead of functions.
Functional programming feels like functional manipulation in mathematics, wheras procedural feels like a little machine scribbling on paper bits
Do a google search. Here's an example link.
http://www.freenetpages.co.uk/hp/alan.gaul
The name isn't intuitive, but if your CS professor _really_ calls C a functional language, she or he is just plain wrong, and you might want to inform him or her about this.
Oh, and the great-grandparent post which brought this up here is wrong on about another 30 issues as well. Please mod it down.
-josh