A little over a week ago, Wendy Pastrick (blog | twitter) had a blog post, Attack of the Killer Maintenance Plan, where she crafts a horror story from her experience checking out some maintenance plans designed by a former employee.
After reading this, I was inspired to come up with my own tale, blended with classic American Literature. The irony here is that I hated (and hence did terrible in) all my english and literature classes throughout school. This was especially true for Mr. Miller’s 10th grade American Lit class, where I believe my final grade was a “C-“. Thankfully, he’ll probably never find my blog. Without any further ado, and with my profound apologies to Edgar Allen Poe, I present to you:
Once upon a worknight dreary, while I labored, weak and weary,
O’er a large and poorly designed database for a major store,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping on my office door.
“Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping on my office door –
Only this, and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was only last September,
I inherited this system with its tables, procs, and more.
The designers weren’t so wise; — they knew not how to optimize
All their promises were lies — lies to boost their earnings score —
For the salesman said speed would increase by a factor of four —
Baseless here for evermore.
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately chicken of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my office door —
Perched upon a bust of Ozar just above my office door —
Said “trololo”, and nothing more.
Then this odd white bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, though,” I said, “art sure no Wiccan,
Ghastly grim and ancient chicken wandering from the Nightly shore –
Help me learn to outer join 6 tables so ’tis not a chore!”
Quoth the Chicken, “Such a bore.”
But the chicken, sitting lonely on the dirty desk, clucked only
Those three words, as if his soul in those three words he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered— not a feather then he fluttered —
Till I scarcely more than muttered, “attempts we have made galore —
It takes way too long to store records we will get asked for.”
Then the bird said, “Try quad core.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Nonsense,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store,
From my sleep I will awaken, rise, consume a pound of #bacon
All of this in place had taken in my dreams I was for sure
When done counting #sheep all will be as it was before —
I’ll speak of this nevermore.”
Pinching hard ’til nearly weeping showed me that I was not sleeping,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, soon out loud I started thinking
Why oh why is my brain shrinking? Help me please I do implore —
Where can I find folks that will not my questions ignore?
Quoth the Chicken, “Twitter more”