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Mac OS X 10.3.6 Update Available
An anonymous reader writes "Apple has released the Mac OS X 10.3.6 update via Software Update as well as their downloads page. List of improvements is available. In short, the improvements are in remote file server issues (AFP, NFS, SMB/CIFS), OpenGL, ATi and NVidia drivers, Safari, Calculator, DVD Player, Image Capture, and also previous stand-alone Security Updates. Hurry up and get the update! ... and tell us if I should go to get it, too. ;)" A Mac OS X Server update is available as well.
Dear Mr. Jobs,
I am a switcher of three months, now a happy Mac user after years of Windows computing that just didn't make sense. I don't miss the General Protection Faults and Blue Screens of Death one bit! I can't believe I waited so long to make the change! I bought a Power Mac G4 with Mac OS Jaguar and haven't looked back since. There's only one small thing missing, however.
Gay shit. I want to be a human toilet. I've been looking for the right nasty little boy who can train me and use me like the brown log shredder that I am sit me under a toilet seat and go to town pumping fudge into my mustachioed maw. I thought that by buying a Mac I'd get into the scene, and make some hot hookups with colons packed to the gills in crap worms. So far, however, I've been disppointed.
Mr. Jobs, I plead with you to release more information regarding getting into the hardcore underground stool swallowing scene. All I can think about is gobbling down an 18" ass-birth fresh from the fart factory. Mac users popping squats over my face and letting loose with a tempest of farts and raining a hail of turds.
I hope you can help me with this issue.
Thank you.
That GNU-Darwin people decides not to link to proprietary libraries is, of course, a result of them using the GNU Public License so extensively and now because of that decision the primary Darwin development platform is no longer supported in this project!
This makes me shake my head and wonder what the fuck? This project is not only shooting itself in the foot by choosing a platform not fully supported by the OS, but is also screwing over the real meat of Darwin's userbase: PowerPC owners. This move is akin to opening a car garage (in America) whose mechanics are all experienced in servicing American cars, and then changing policy months later, stating that the garage will only work on foreign models.
Where is the fucking logic?
Seriously, am I the only one who is wondering who the Hell is in charge at that project? Kool-Aid Man? This move makes so little sense I can't tell if the people at GNU-Darwin are really that stupid, or if I am waking up in alternate realities every damn morning. I almost kind of hope for the latter.
This is the GPL in action, Mac faithful. Get down on your knees and kiss Apple's butt for choosing the BSD license.
It was dark in the Holland, Michigan office nestled deep within Slashdot's Geek Compound. Shifting and moaning, ESR laid sprawled over his filthy desk. Dried spittle stuck several Post-It notes to his cheek. His PC, running Linux, silently printed swap error after swap error to the screen, lighting ESR's sickly form. As he burped several times he attempted to recall the night before that had led to this stupor. Holding his head in his hands, he was interrupted by lights and doors slamming-- someone was in the office!
As Rob "CmdrTaco" Malda walked past ESR, he noticed the several empty bottles of Jägermeister and what appeared to be fecal stains on the floor and walls surrounding the recovering ESR-- nothing new. He also noticed the some semen bubbling in the cracks of ESR's chafed lips.
"Another all-night office orgy, Eric?" Rob asked coyly.
Tilting his head gingerly toward Rob and raising his eyebrows slowly, ESR spoke softly. "Oh shit. Is that what happened last night? I believe I blacked out at some point-- I can't remember anything. Who was here last night?"
"Well, CowboyNeil got there a little late last night, but he said that by the time he got there that Alan, Emad, Jamie, Michael, and Signal 11 were already pretty drunk," Rob said just a little too loudly for ESR's tender head.
Closing and opening his eyes gently, ESR muttered to himself about having not invited Signal 11. He also started sniffing the air and licking his lips. "I can smell dried feces on a dick a mile away. Just where were you last night, Robbie? You get a piece of ass last night and decide to ditch my party?"
"What's it to you? Your breath smells like semen and you don't hear me asking whose it is," Malda shot back.
ESR smiled and swiveled with a gleam in his eyes. "Ah, but you see, this is my own sperm!"
"And it must taste specfuckingtacular!" Rob shot back.
Eric interjected before Rob could go on. "Ah yes. You see, I like to add a shot of Jäger to it to give it a little kick."
"No," Rob replied with anger rising in his voice, "you fucking raging alcoholic. Your semen tastes like old motor oil. I think you may have ruptured both of your testicles and now your colon is shooting diarrhea out of your cock-hole."
"What!? You little fudge-packing piece of shit!" ESR threatened, "Ditch one of my office parties because Hemos calls up and says he's lonely, will you? I bet that's what happened. Well, guess who I'll be recommending we lay off at the next LNUX board meeting? How do you like that, Taco?"
"Whatever, Eric. You don't scare anyone except your parents," Rob said as he stormed out of ESR's office, his green plaid flannel whipping in the wake behind him. "You would be nothing without Slashdot."
ESR stammered and shook. Ever since the LNUX stock had plummeted, things were so tense around the office. Relations were falling apart between he and the Slashdot admins. Last night, Michael and Jamie had pounded each other exclusively, ignoring ESR's crooked, erect penis, and Eric had to convince Emad and Alan to restrain CowboyNeil before he could engage in homosexual intercourse with him.
With a flick of his wrist, ESR popped a dozen extra-strength Bayers down his stinking gullet and washed them down with some Jäger from the bottle he had woken up holding. Depressed, aching, and on the verge of vomiting up the entirety of last night's semen binge, ESR cried silently and went back to sleep at this desk, ignoring the pile of work that sullied the landscape of his desktop.
Clapping twice to darken his office, ESR curled into fetal position as best he could and rested, preparing to do it all over again later that night.
Holy shit! I couldn't wait to get into work today so I could share my latest breakthrough in busting the Kansas City Gay Faggot Sex Empire!!!
As I was driving to work, I passed a road right inside of Kansas City limits! The road had a name: RAINBOW BOULEVARD!!! I consider this incontrovertible proof that Kansas City was not founded on American principles of freedom and liberty but on the turgid platform of depraved homosexual lust and faggotry.
Let's linguistically examine what the cockfiends and perverts had in mind when they engineered this city.
As if Rainbow Boulevard isn't obvious enough already, a deeper look reveals to us a message concerning homosexual recruitment: rave! i do urban blow! entices young hairless boys to come to raves, roll on Ecstacy, and administer blowjobs to the urban dance folk while WHAM! and Culture Club dance remixes pump at a frantic beat.
Another oft-used street in downtown Kansas City is Broadway . The street takes its name from the singing and dancing circuit that is commonly associated with fags who aspire to "make it big" (a reference to hardened penises) performing the arts and letting their souls dance free on stage in front of millions. Quite simply, Broadway is a thinly veiled anagram for Boy Reward : this street attracts members of the boy-slave trade, who kidnap and sell young men into the Gay Faggot Sex Trade on Butt Hill.
The War Memorial , as in Kansas City's giant phallic symbol and the watchtower of the faggot prostitutes of Butt Hill, unveils even more sinister plans crafted by the city's civil engineers: aim lower, ram! is a subliminal message which promotes the correct placement of the penis in the anus, or "ass-cunt," of another male! Likewise, it doesn't take a genius to see the phrase amoral, we rim! , which seems to express the fact that those who give rimjobs in Kansas City (i.e., most everyone) are proud of their existence without morals. And we can't forget rim alarm woe , which is what happens when a lusty boy-twink licks clean an HIV-positive man-bear's asshole. This has to be some kind of sick public service announcement emanating from the War Memorial!
Moving on, we come to Kansas City itself. I almost wanted to cry after unearthing the hidden meanings of this seemingly innocuous city name. The first reveals what is surely the root of Kansas City's homosexuality: Satanic sky . Only the Dark Father, casting his cloud of disease and Hellfire, could cause a city to be as morally repugnant and cock-lusting as Kansas City. Sodom, watch out! The cum flows like water here, and makes even San Francisco look like a good, Christian vacation spot.
Kansas City also translates into a pair of filthy sexual phrases: a stinky sac describes what most men in Kansas City think about all day and would like to have tickling their chins at any given moment, while tick any ass is so obvious it hurts to think no one's spotted this anal anagram for the city's name before now. Thank god I am on the case.
Well, my homosexual boss is breathing down my neck (almost literally) so I'd better get going. I don't want detected by the KC Faggots while I'm trying to bust their Cum Ring. I plan on camping out on Butt Hill to infiltrate their depraved, underground male-sex trade. Hopefully I'll make it out and write of my findings.
It's a well known fact that Apple, since its inception, has been a haven for "free thinkers" and "progressive thought," heralded by none other than famous acid-tripping Steve Jobs and his hippy buddies from California. It was on one of the famous beach parties, notorious for getting out of hand, that Clarus was born.
It was a balmy night in August 1983 that Jobs held yet another beach party, this one with a special theme: who could come up with a mascot for the Mac development team? Of course, the Apple II team was there and tensions, as always, were high. That didn't deter the Mac team from bringing their "pet," Clara, a cow they'd been raising on the Apple campus since birth.
Clara was birthed by the Mac team when they'd held a party on the Apple campus and had hired a bull-breeder as entertainment. All night long, the bull-breeder studded Hercules, his prize bull, with an assortment of cows. As the festivities continued throughout the night, a strange moaning was coming from one of the trailers. One of the cows he'd brought with him was, unbeknownst to the bull-breeder, pregnant! The Mac development team, being the resourceful hackers they were, helped give birth to the calf, the mother losing its life in the process. The bull-breeder was so taken by the Mac dev team's efforts he let them keep the cow, which they named Clara.
Now, at the August 1983 beach party, the Mac team lobbied for Jobs to adopt Clara as the development mascot of the Macintosh. The Apple II team, spurned and bitter because of dwindling sales and neglect at the hand of Jobs, had brought their own mascot-- Cletus, a vicious Rotweiler they'd bought from a ruddy-faced street man in the ghetto of Cupertino for $25. Cletus was a frothing, flea-and-mange ridden terror that barked at the least provocation. The Apple II team fed it raw goat meat and corrupted 5.25 floppies to make it mean. They also kicked it and made sure its chain was too tight at all time. Here at the party was their chance for revenge at Jobs and his favorite Mac development team.
As the night wore on, both the Apple II and Mac teams got drunker and drunker before Jobs called for a company vote on the mascot. What met the company's faces was something none of them could have imagined, however.
In their drunken, stoned stupor, the embittered Apple II team had snuck into Clara's trailer and cut the rear end of off Clara! Drugging her with ether to staunch her cries, they had used an electric chainsaw, cut her back legs and rectum cleanly off, and taken them to the bonfire to cook and eat. They'd even fed some to the drunk Mac dev team! After they'd done this, they forced Cletus into the gaping hole in Clara's rear end. Gnawing away at his first real meal in months, Cletus lodged himself in Clara's colon and couldn't break free. So when the Mac dev team opened Clara's trailer and led their pet down the ramp, they were met with a bloody, gut-strewn mess and a weird, unnatural animal call of "moof!"
The entire company was sickened by this and soon the sand was dotted with puddles of vomit. Cries of "moof, moof!" filled the air as the joined dog-cow trundled terribly along the beach, seizuring with each step, vomiting an icky mass of hair and blood, with a glazed look in its cow eyes. With a final shudder, the dog-cow fell and died, and the partygoers surrounded the putrid mess of bovine/canine flesh. Of course, it didn't take long for the Mac dev team to discover the Apple II team's treachery and a bloody brawl ensued over the death of Clara. By the end of the night, the cow, the dog, and the Apple II team were simple piles of broken, bloody bones.
In light of the events that night, Jobs had no other choice to commemorate the tragic events that had unfurled and therefore made Apple's development mascot the dog-cow, "Clarus," a merging of the two animals names-- Cletus and Clara.
And that, for those who didn't know, is the origin of Clarus the dog-cow. Every time you click on a Mac OS Easter-egg that utters "moof," you can look back to the terrible events that August, 1983 night at the Apple beach party that brought you the Clarus, the Apple dog-cow.
Copy & Paste is empowering, isn't it?
ESR studied the document in his hand with interest. His brow, furrowed into numerous crap lines, was covered by his sweaty red forlock. His hands shook. He mouthed the words "hoooh boy" silently as he began a steady hyperventilation. Finally, after waiting for weeks and weeks, he had what he'd gone to sleep thinking about every night: the first ossue of SCAT!, the magazine for poop fanatics everywhere, had fianlly hit the stands. Eric's heart burst with pride, as he had taken the last of his money made when VA Linux^H^H^H^H^HSoftware had gone public and invested in this private project of the Slashdot staff.
Running quickly to the back bedroom of his one-story shanty (and being careful not to trip on the heavy 386 PC cases or the myriad of cables, cords, dongles, and wires running in various directions across his dirt floor), Eric slammed the door and laid stomach-down on the bed. He opened to the boilerplate and read his pal's names with delights, kicking his feet back and forth against each other. He couldn't believe his dream had come true! But just as he was about to flip to the pictorial section (to examine how the GIMP performed at the cropping and scaling, of course) the phone rang. It was Jon Katz.
"ESR, you sunnuvvabitch! Where the Hell is my story? You promised me you'd publish my story in your God-damned worthless shit-fag mag! You doulbe-crossing--"
ESR interrupted Katz. "Whoa, whoa, I don't know what you're talking about. We agreed that I'd pick an article and have it be the cover story. I never said it would be yours. It just so happens the bois at Slashdot picked mine instead!"
With a strangling, gurgling scream from Katz, ESR hung up the phone and sighed. He scratched his beer belly and thirsted for Jägermeister. Why did people always harass him? From RMS calling and reminding Eric that he was not a good a programmer as he, or Larry Augustin calling emailing death threats regarding petty cash theft from VA's offices after Eric's visits, or the trolls on Slashdot writing about his and his friends' personal lives, the Jäger was his only release. Perhaps after a few fifths of it he'd be calm enough again to dive back into his magazine.
Waking up hours later, ESR realized he'd drank too much (again) and had slept away... Well, what had he slept away? He couldn't even remember what time it was when he'd woken up or fallen asleep last. Between the early Winter Pennsylvania nights and his "hacker's" schedule it was so hard to keep track of what time of day, week, or month it was he might as well have been living in a cave. He remembered when he was, though, and thought warmly of his shanty-- built by hand from 55 gallon drums harvested from his local landfill. Over the drums ESR had filled clay, mixed from a nearby creek, and painted it brown to make it look like a log cabin. How proud he was indeed! Wouldn't you be?
ESR picked up the SCAT! magazine, unzipped his pants, and sat at his kitchen table-- humming with a cluster of 386s running Linux-- and enjoyed the rest of his freetime the way God intended: masturbating furiously to pictures of pale, skinny young men eating turds and smearing shit all over each other.
I'm aware of all that. I was referring to his apparent multiple personality disorder.
oops, shame. lol
;)
but I bet lots of mac geeks watching comments to see if any problems happen
Wow, that's like, paranoia on a whole new level. They must have just graduated from Windows.
I am NOT a number! I am a - oh wait, I'm number 761710. Look! 761710!
Wow, yeah that guy sure is dumb. Shouldn't meta-moderating solve more troll-mods like that? Mindless kids with mod points are all over the place. (and there appears to be two of them!)
;)
Nyah nyah, you can't effect my karma little troll, I'm anonymous.
He's probably running DOS
Slashdot Zealots are retards with too much urine to piss.