Bytes? BYTES?
We had bits, and we felt lucky.
Our father woke us up at one o'clock, two hours before we went to sleep, murdered us in cold blood, made us install Computer Associates middleware before eating a breakfast of cold gravel, then sent us t' mine via Lotus Notes. In the hot inky blackness of the netherworld we'd wind individual bytes of memory with razorwire, whilst the Foreman read aloud from a selection of early PHP code. Then at ten o'clock they'd kill us by flooding the mine with SPX packets as the salespeople played illegal copies of DOOM. Our corpses would float up, where they'd revive us and make us fix a field full of HP Laserjets with "PC Load Letter" errors. At the end of week, we'd be expected to pay a shilling for privilege.
And you try telling that to the kids of today. They won't believe you!
Biting the hand that feeds IT
