Re: ChatGPT
I asked Gemini to write me a long story about the BOFH and got this
The fluorescent lights buzzed a low drone in the server room, casting an eerie green glow on Simon, the BOFH. A particularly dense email from Doris, the Marketing Director, sat on his screen, demanding immediate action on "slow internet speeds hindering our brand synergy." Simon snorted. Brand synergy. Right.
Suddenly, the network went haywire. Printers began spewing gibberish, screens flickered wildly, and a chorus of panicked user calls flooded the help desk. A virus, Simon thought, his fingers flying across the keyboard. But this wasn't your average malware. This one seemed to target specific users – the ones who'd annoyed Simon the most. Doris's inbox was flooded with spam emails singing the praises of rival companies. The CEO's calendar displayed a series of appointments with clowns.
As Simon delved deeper, he discovered the culprit was none other than the Pimply-Faced Youth (PFY), his perpetually acne-ridden apprentice. Turns out, PFY had gotten hold of a script he found online, a "harmless prank" according to him. Except, the script had a hidden payload that targeted specific user profiles.
"You absolute donut!" roared Simon, sending a rogue stapler clattering across the floor. PFY, wide-eyed and sweating, looked like a cornered hamster. This was bad. Really bad. Simon knew he had to fix the mess before the CEO discovered his clown calendar.
He spent the next few hours in a caffeine-fueled frenzy, battling the virus and its after-effects. He rerouted emails, sanitized infected systems, and even managed to rewrite the CEO's calendar with "important meetings" (which were actually just reruns of 80s sitcoms playing in Simon's office). When the dust settled, the network was back online, (mostly) unscathed.
But Simon wasn't done. He needed revenge, sweet revenge. He subtly reconfigured Doris's computer so every time she typed the word "synergy," it autocorrected to "hamster." He set up an automatic email forwarder for the CEO, directing all emails from Doris to a spam folder titled "Marketing Nonsense." Finally, he planted a whoopee cushion on the CFO's chair, just for good measure.
The next few days were filled with delightful chaos. Doris fumed about her "synergy" problem, the CEO wondered why he kept getting spam from clowns (a side effect of the virus Simon "accidentally" left unfixed), and the CFO blamed his sudden flatulence on a dodgy curry.
Simon, meanwhile, enjoyed a smug satisfaction with his work. He'd not only fixed the mess, he'd also taught a valuable lesson – don't mess with the BOFH. The server room echoed with a low chuckle as he popped open a cold beer, the flickering lights seeming to dance in approval.