Real Programmers dont eat quiche. They like Twinkies, Coke and palate scorching Szechwan food.
Real Programmers dont comment their code. If it was hard to write, it should be hard to understand and harder to modify.
Real Programmers dont document. Documentation is for simpletons who cant read listings or the object code from the dump.
Real Programmers scorn Floating Point Arithmetic. The decimal point was invented for pansy bedwetters who are unable to think big.
Real Programmers programs never work right the first time. But if you throw them on the machine they can be patched into working order in only a few 30-hour debugging sessions.
Real Programmers dont read manuals. Reliance on a reference is the hallmark of the novice and the coward.
Real Programmers dont write application programs. They program right down on the bare metal. Application programming is for the dullards who cant do systems programming.
Real Programmers dont write in RPG. RPG is for gum-chewing dimwits who maintain ancient payroll programs.
Real Programmers dont write in COBOL. COBOL is for COmmon Business Oriented Laymen who cant run a business, not a real program.
Real Programmers dont write in FORTRAN. FORTRAN is for wimp engineers who wear white socks. They get excited over finite state analysis and nuclear reactor simulation.
Real Programmers dont write in PL/I. PL/I is for insecure anal retentives who cant choose between COBOL and FORTRAN.
Real Programmers dont write in BASIC. Actually, no programmers write in BASIC after puberty.
Real Programmers dont write in APL unless the whole program can be written on one line.
Real Programmers dont write in LISP. Only faggot programs contain more parenthesis than actual code.
Real Programmers dont write in Pascal, BLISS, Ada or any of those other sissy computer science languages. Strong typing is a crutch for people with weak memories.
Real Programmers dont write specs. Users should be grateful for whateverthey get; they are lucky to get any programs at all.
Real Programmers dont do flowcharts. Flowcharts are, after all, the illiterates form of documentation. Cavemen drew flowcharts; look how much good it did them.
Real Programmers never work 9 to 5. If any Real Programmers are around at 9 AM, its because they were up all night.
Real Programmers never write memos on paper. They send memos via MAIL.
Real Programmers like vending-machine popcorn. Coders pop it in microwave ovens. Real Programmers use the heat given off by the CPU. They can tell which jobs are running just by listening to the rate of popping.
Real Programmers disdain structured programming. Structured programming is for compulsive neurotics who were prematurely toilet-trained. They wear neckties and carefully line up sharp pencils on an otherwise clear desk.
Real Programmers dont play tennis, or any other sport which requires a change of clothes. Mountain climbing is OK, and Real Programmers wear climbing boots to work in case a mountain should suddenly spring up in the middle of the machine room.
Real Programmers dont like the Team Programming concept. Unless, of course they are the Chief Programmer.
Real Programmers have no use for managers. Managers are a necessary evil. They exist only to deal with personnel bozos, bean counters, senior planners and other mental defectives.
Real Programmers dont drive clapped-out Mavericks. They prefer BMWs, Lincolns, or Pickup trucks with floor shifts. Fast motorcycles are highly regarded.
Real Programmers dont believe in schedules. Planners make up schedules. Managers firm up schedules. Frightened coders strive to meet schedules. Real Programmers ignore schedules.
Real Programmers know every nuance of every instruction and use them all in every Real Program. Candyass architects wont allow Execute instructions to address another Execute as the target instruction. Real Programmers despise petty restrictions.
Real Programmers dont bring brown-bag lunches. If the vending machine sells it, they eat it. If the vending machine doesnt sell it, they dont eat it. Vending machines dont sell quiche.
During the French Revolution, three professionals were arrested and convicted of having bourgeois values. They were a doctor, a lawyer, and an engineer.
They were to be led to the guillotine one by one. The crowd was roaring with anticipated pleasure.
First up was the doctor. How dare he enrich himself through other peoples illnesses? Access to basic health care is a right, right?
The doctor was placed in the guillotine, and the lanyard was yanked. The blade started on its massive, implacable way down. And lurched to a stop.
The official in charge declared that it would be inhumane to make the doctor suffer this way more than once, so he was setting the doctor free. The crowd howled.
The executioner checked his equipment. All was in order. He put a small tree branch in, and successfully lopped it in half. He re-sharpened the blade.
Next up was the lawyer. Who needs an excuse to wish such a lying, cheating scoundrel dead? The crowd was thunderous in its applause.
The lawyer was placed in the guillotine, and the lanyard was yanked. Again, the blade stopped part-way down! The presiding official once again said that he would set this prisoner free because of the unusual circumstances. The crowd screamed in frustration.
Now came the engineer, a man whose innovations and devices were costing jobs. The crowd fell silent. The executioner checked and re-checked his equipment.
As the engineer was marched up to the guillotine, he looked carefully at it, and said, Wait. I see your problem.
A guy walks into a post office one day to see a middle-aged, balding man standing at the counter methodically placing Love stamps on bright pink envelopes with hearts all over them. He then takes out a perfume bottle and starts spraying scent all over them. His curiosity gets the better of him and he goes up to the balding man and asks him what he is doing.
Im sending out 1,000 Valentine cards signed, Guess who?"
But why? asks the man.
Im a divorce lawyer."
Yo mama has so many teeth missing, it looks like her tounge is in jail.
Q: How many dyslexics does it take to bulb a light change?
A: 10, one to change the light bulb and 9 to misread the manual.
Q: How many Canadians does it take to change a lightbulb ?
A: Four. One to spray green paint onto the bulb so noone bashes it with a big stick, one to change it, one to suggest they all roll a log down a hill to celebrate, and one to invite all the others round to his log cabin so they can all watch his moose moult.
Año 500 a.C.: Ven aquà y come esta raÃz que sanarás.
Año 1000: Esa raÃz es cosa de ateos, reza esta oración a Dios que está en el Cielo.
Año 1792: Dios no está en el cielo, la que rige es la razón. Ven aquà y bebe esta pócima.
Año 1917: Esa pócima es para engañar a la gente, te sugiero que tomes esta pÃldora.
Año 1960: Esa pÃldora es anticuada y en desuso. Llegó el momento de tomar un antibiótico.
Año 2000: Los antibióticos te dejan débil y desanimado. Éste es un tratamiento nuevo, consiste en comer esta raÃz.
Esto es una pareja de recién casados que tras haber hecho el amor el dÃa anterior, la mujer le dice al marido:
Pepe, yo estoy embarazada.
¿Cómo vas a estar embarazada, MarÃa?
Que sÃ, Pepe, que se me ha hinchado la barriga de una forma que no es normal y muy rápido; eso sólo puede ser un embarazo.
Bueno, vamos al médico.
Y Pepe y MarÃa van al médico, y tras hacerle las pruebas a MarÃa les comenta:
Pues usted no está embarazada, lo único que tiene es aire en la barriga. No sé cómo se le ha metido pero tiene aire.
Al mes, Pepe y MarÃa vuelven a hacer el amor y al dÃa siguiente otra vez se le hincha la barriga y creyéndose embarazada van otra vez al médico; éste les vuelve a decir:
No está embarazada, es sólo aire.
Al mes, otra vez lo mismo:
Es sólo aire. No sé como lo haces, Pepe, pero le metes aire en la barriga al hacerle el amor.
En eso, que se entera todo el pueblo de lo que le pasaba a Pepe, y cuando éste andaba por la calle le decÃan:
Hola, ventoso. Adiós, ventoso. ¿Qué te cuentas ventoso? Mira por ahà va el ventoso.
Después de un mes aguantando esto, Pepe va por la calle y cuando se lo vuelven a decir, contesta pegando voces para que se enterara todo el pueblo:
Mira, me voy a comprar una pistola y al próximo que me diga ventoso le pego dos tiros.
Dicho y hecho, Pepe se compró la pistola y eso llegó a los oÃdos del párroco del pueblo, quien lo llamó para que fuera a hablar con él. Cuando Pepe va a la iglesia, el cura le amonesta:
Pepe, ¿es verdad lo que me han comentado: que le vas a pegar dos tiros al próximo que te diga ventoso?
SÃ, padre, ya me he comprado la pistola; es más, la llevo en el bolsillo.
Al escuchar eso, el párroco trató de convencer a Pepe para que no lo hiciera; tras dos horas de conversación Pepe le dijo:
Bueno, está bien, padre, cuando me vuelvan a decir ventoso me aguantaré y no le pegaré dos tiros.
Tras hacerle prometerlo, se despide de Pepe. Pero, instantes después de que Pepe se fuera de la iglesia escucha dos tiros. El religioso sale corriendo a la puerta de la iglesia gritando:
¡Hay que ver Pepe lo que ha hecho! ¡Y me acababa de prometer que no le iba a pegar dos tiros a nadie, aunque le dijeran ventoso!
Afuera de la iglesia se observa a un ciclista con dos balazos en el cuerpo y su bicicleta tirada en el suelo.
¡Pepe, qué has hecho, no me acababas de prometer que aunque te dijeran ventoso no le ibas a pegar dos tiros a nadie!
Mire, padre, que me digan ventoso, vale. Pero que me cojan la picha para inflar la rueda de la bicicleta, no.
Se casa el famoso torero Manolete con la sensual y siempre bella Pilarica, la bailarina de Mouline Rouge.
Se llega la noche de bodas. Pilarica (como siempre), tirada en la cama con un simple babydoll. Manolete, por su parte, sentado sobre la cama tratando de quitarse las botas, pero un poco preocupado.
Qué te pasa? pregunta Pilarica, un poco deseperada.
Contesta el torero: Pilarica, quiero confesarte algo, pero espero que me entiendas.
Dime, mi amado esposo, que es lo que aflige y te acongoja?, contesta ella.
Él, un poco apenado le dice: quiero confesarte que solo tengo un testÃculo…
No te preoucpes, yo también quiero decirte que ya no soy virgen.
Él, muy encabronado le reclama: Oye reputa, pero si lo mio fue una cogida.
Y Ella le dice despreocupada: ¿Y qué crees, que lo mÃo fue una pedrada?
Women who seek to be equal to men lack ambition.