T ‘was the nite at Zynga and all through the floor, Bugs have run rampant and users could take no more. The programmers were hundled in their cubicles in despair, With hopes that a miracle soon would be there. The players were all nestled all snug in their chairs, While rumors of closing, leave them in fear. When out in the cloud there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my desk to see what was the matter. And what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a super scripter ( with a six-pack of beer ). His laptop glowed with image so rare, It turned out to be a spocklet, he launched with such flair. More rapid than eagles, his scripts they came, And he mumbled and muttered and called them by name. On Gift-a-Nator! On Analyzer! On Days Played! On Robber On Boss Fighter! On Slotmachine! On Repeat Job-ber! His eyes were glazed over, fingers nimble and lean, From weekends and nites in front of three screens. A wink of his eye and a twitch of his head, Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, Turning bugs into code; then turned with a jerk. And laying his fingers upon the save shortcut key, The script came up and worked perfectly. The bug were debugged; the errors, deleted; The enhancements in place, and it even repeated. He tested each script, and could immediately tell, With nary a bomb all had gone well. The script was finished, the uploads were concluded, The users’ last wishes were even included. And I heard him exclaim before he passed out for the night, “Spock On, One and All. Maybe Next Time Zynga will get it Right!” --Pistol Pete
Posted on: Thu, 01 May 2014 22:04:01 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015