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OpenID Fan Club Is Shrinking
A.B. VerHausen writes "Even though there's a whole new Web site devoted to understanding and using OpenID, some companies are dropping the login method altogether. OStatic is reporting that the 'free Web site network Wetpaint announced recently that it will no longer support OpenID as a login option for its wiki, citing low usage and high support costs as reasons.' Apparently, fewer than 200 registered users bothered with OpenID, and the extra QA and development time doesn't make it worthwhile to support. This can't come as welcome news on top of the internal issues the article mentions the OpenID Foundation is having now, too." I've actually been quite happy with OpenID, since I have spawned far too many username/password pairs over the last 20-plus years, but it's a major chicken-and-egg problem. Hopefully someone out there will build a better mousetrap ...
Cracks are visible on the exterior of a suburban house in a lower middle- class neighborhood outside of Detroit. During the day, the house is mostly quiet save the occasional noise of babies' cries competing with shrill, high-pitched African female voices. At night, the music of a handful of artists known as the "Three T's" - Tupac Shakur, Too Short, and Trick Daddy - blares from the domicile with aging blue-gray paint and bars on all of its windows. It is impossible to see into the house from outside because all of the windows are covered with aluminum foil. One window was broken but promptly taped together with the duct tape in the tell-tale pattern of brownian motion.
The interior of the house is barren save the sparse arrangement of old, unmatched furniture purchased(or, more likely, stolen) from an inner-city thrift shop; the centerpiece of it all being the stained, chintzy sofa peppered with the burns of marijuana and tobacco cigarettes. The stench of dirty diapers, burned cooking oil, and the by-products of a metabolism so powerful it could fuel the outrunning of gazelles or a successful fistfight against 4 police officers at once.
It may be mentioned in passing that this house's inhabitants are an assortment of African men, women, and children who live and sleep in intervals diametrically opposite to those of each other so that each inhabitan's productivity is maximized -- everybody in the house has their own role in a setup strikingly similar to the Smurfs' villiage or some other Socialist paradise. A circular design of red, yellow, and brown was painted on the wall -- "Krylon on drywall" being the medium -- by the teenage male who is but one part of the small collective known as the Ubuntu developers. The adult males do the brunt of the work. One bedroom of the house, the master bedroom, is the development studio. The whole outfit is the brainchild of Marcus Ubuntu, first-generation African immigrant who studied computer science at the university of Zimbabwe before fleeing the armed rebellion. At his left sit Reggie Omoko, associate programmer; and at his right sit Shawn James, graphic designer(it should be noted here that Shawn is the one who designed and painted the Ubuntu logo, reportedly gleaning inspiration from the color scheme and the shape of various public toilets).
The 2 women of the house serve as breeders and foragers, collecting the welfare and child support money and then buying copious amounts of food, drink, and dope in support of operations. The children of the house, in turn, support the women, though it is difficult to determine how exactly many children are in the house as they come and go as they please with some leaving permanently, some returning days or even years later.
The primary tools of this trade are an assortment of cutting-edge but stolen laptop and desktop computers. The Ubuntu operating system is coded in object-oriented C compiled on GCC(because it's free), a language Marcus learned at university because he didn't know that somebody had already invented C++. Years of crack and malt liquor-fueled hard work have transformed Ubuntu from a meager startup into the world's most popular open -source operating system.
I sat naked on the bench in the health club locker room, staring at the tiles on the floor between my feet, but really looking at nothing. I was waiting for Jamal to decide to come up ant talk to me. He was this muscular teenage nigger who frequented the club and had ruined my life in the last few weeks. I was ordered to sit naked on the bench without a towel or anything to cover my nakedness. I had to keep my legs spread and my cock and balls visible for the anyone In the locker room who wanted a look. I knew instantly that it had been a mistake to sign up at the inner city health club which was eighty percent black, but It was near my house and cheap which was even more important.
The harassment had started on my first visit. Dark skinned, muscular black boys bouncing around the locker room with their huge dicks and pendulous sacks of balls swinging, high fiving each other and laughing and rapping, and there I was, this moderately built white guy of thirty two.
I will never forget coming back from the shower and one chocolate skinned thug of about eighteen let out a "weeeeeeeow" kind of sound and then said very loudly to me, loudly enough for all his pals to hear, "White man, how the hell can you fuck wit such a small dick?" They all roared with laughter and I turned bright red. Before I left that first time, I med Jamal. He eased up to me while I was packing my gym bag. He is one good looking darkie, I will say that for him. He flashed me a big white toothed smile and said he hoped I wasn't thinking of quitting the club. He said he was friends with the manager and they had my address and shit, and it would be really unfortunate if I decided to quit. Then he laid one large basketball player sized hand on my shoulder and said that he would see me at the same time the next day.
Well, that's how it started. It got worse each time I went to the club. Jamal and the other niggers got me to get towels for them, had me scrub their backs in the shower, even made me pick their dirty stinking jock straps up off the floor. They sent their filthy jocks and socks home with me to wash for them.
Now let me state here once and for all, that I am in no way at all gay. I don't think I ever even had a gay thought. So all of this really repulsed me. They would brush up against me so their big fat black dicks rubbed my body. They would make constant jokes about me being a faggot.
So I had it out with Jamal. I told him I was a single parent with a thirteen year old daughter and in no way gay, and I wanted to quit the club. That mention of my daughter was the biggest mistake of my life. Jamal demanded to see a photo of her. Her name is Crissy. After that, all they talked about was "Crissy the Cunt" in the locker room.
"Some fourteen year old school boy probably shoving his dick in her right now while you is at da club."
They would say things like that. Jamal would ask, "Do you suppose she had ever sucked black dick?" I told them she was totally innocent, and they should keep their foul mouths to themselves. They beat the shit out of me.
I didn't go to the club for a week. All the windows were broken on my car, and my newspaper was stolen, and somebody pissed all over our door. I received a package at work, and when I opened it, there was a pile of shit in a box. I was going nuts with anguish. I thought of going to the police, but I knew I would face even worse if I did. So I went back to the club. That was two months ago. A lot had happened in those two months.
Now I sat waiting for Jamal to speak with me. He walked up, stark naked. The first thing I saw were his huge brown feet next to me. I looked up at his long muscular legs. How could I miss the seven inch flaccid dick, thick as a flashlight and the ball sack that looked like it had oranges in it. It was fucking obscene. His stomach was hard and tight. His ass was one of those round tight nigger bubble butts. His chest well defined with large nipples. He had a killer smile, thick nigger lips, and dark flashing eyes that often looked