As you are aware, ships have long been characterized as being female (e.g., "Steady as she goes", or "She's listing to starboard, Captain!"). Recently, a group of computer scientists (all males) announced that computers should also be referred to as being female. Their reasons for drawing this conclusion follow:
Five reasons to believe computers are female:
1. No one but the Creator understands their internal logic.
2. The native language they use to communicate with other computers is incomprehensible to everyone else.
3. The message "Bad command or file name" is about as informative as, "If you don't know why I'm mad at you, then I'm certainly not going to tell you".
4. Even your smallest mistakes are stored in long-term memory for later retrieval.
5. As soon as you make a commitment to one, you find yourself
spending half your paycheck on accessories for it.
However, another group of computer scientists (all female) think that computers should be referred to as if they were male. Their reasons follow:
Five reasons to believe computers are male:
1. They have a lot of data, but are still clueless.
2. They are supposed to help you solve problems, but half the time they are the problem.
3. As soon as you commit to one you realize that, if you had waited a little longer, you could have obtained a better model.
4. In order to get their attention, you have to turn them on.
5. Big power surges knock them out for the rest of the night.
WARNING: Very Contagious to Adults!!
Symptoms: Continual complaint as to need for names, dates, and places. Patient has blank expression, some times deaf to spouse and children and grandchildren. Has no taste for work of any kind except feverishly looking through records at libraries and court houses. Has compulsion to write letters. Swears at mailman when he doesn't leave mail. Frequents strange places, such as cemeteries, ruins, and remote desolate country areas. Makes secret night calls. Hides phone bill from spouse. Mumbles to self. Has strange faraway look in eyes.
NO KNOWN CURE: Medication is useless. Disease is not fatal but gets progressively worse. Patient should attend genealogy work-shops, subscribe to genealogy magazines and be given a quiet corner in the house where they can be alone.
REMARKS: The usual nature of this disease is "The Sicker the patient gets, the more they enjoy it".
The dining room table with clutter was spread
With pedigree charts and with letters which said...
"Too bad about the data for which you wrote;
Sank in a storm on an ill-fated boat."
Stacks of old copies of wills and such
Were proof that my work had become too much.
Our children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugarplums danced in their heads.
And I at my table was ready to drop
From work on my album with photos to crop.
Christmas was here, and such was my lot
That presents and goodies and toys I'd forgot.
Had I not been busy with grandparents' wills,
I'd not have forgotten to shop for such thrills,
While others bought gifts to bring Christmas cheers,
I'd spent time researching those birthdates and years.
While I was thus musing about my sad plight,
A strange noise on the lawn gave me such a great fright.
Away to the window I flew in a flash,
Tore open the drapes and yanked up the sash.
When what with my wondering eyes should appear,
But an overstuffed sleigh and eight small reindeer.
Up to the house top the reindeer they flew,
With a sleigh full of toys and 'ole Santa Claus, too.
And then in a twinkle, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of thirty-two hoofs.
As I drew in my head, and bumped it on the sash,
Down the cold chimney fell Santa--KER-RASH!
"Dear" Santa had come from the roof in a wreck,
And tracked soot on the carpet, (I could wring his short neck!)
Spotting my face, good 'ole Santa could see
I had no Christmas spirit you'd have to agree.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work
And filled all the stockings, (I felt like a jerk).
Here was Santa, who'd brought us such gladness and joy:
When I'd been too busy for even one toy.
He spied my research on the table all spread
"A genealogist!" He cried! (My face was all red!)
"Tonight I've met many like you," Santa grinned,
As he pulled from his sack a large book he had penned.
I gazed with amusement--the cover it read
Genealogy Lines for Which You Have Plead.
"I know what it's like as a genealogy bug."
He said as he gave me a great Santa hug.
"While the elves make the sleighful of toys I now carry,
I do some research in the North Pole Library!
A special treat I am thus able to bring,
To genealogy folk who can't find a thing."
"Now off you go to your bed for a rest,
I'll clean up the house from this genealogy mess."
As I climbed up the stairs full of gladness and glee,
I looked back at Santa who'd brought much to me.
While settling in bed, I heard Santa's clear whistle,
To his team, which then rose like the down of a thistle.
And I heard him exclaim as he flew out of sight,
"Family history is Fun! Merry Christmas! Goodnight!"
(Author Unknown)
You hyperventilate at the sight of an old cemetery.
You would rather browse in a cemetery than a shopping mall.
You would rather read census schedules than a good book.
You are more interested in what happened in 1697 than 1997.
Savage, Torry, and Pope are household names, but you cannot remember what to call the dog.
You can pinpoint Hawkhurst, Kent, but can't locate your state capitol on the map.
You think every home should have a copier and a microfilm reader.
You know every register of deeds in the state by name, but they lock the doors when they see you coming.
You store your clothes under the bed, because your closet is full of books and papers.
All your correspondence begins "Dear Cousin".
You have traced every one of your ancestral lines back to Adam and Eve, have it documented, and still don't want to quit.
Way back in ancient history times,
In foreign land and distant climes.
From them grew trunk and branching limb,
That dated back to times so dim.
One seldom knows exactly when
The parents met and married then,
Nor when the twigs began to grow
With odd named children row on row..
Though verse like this is made by me,
The end's in sight as you can see.
'Tis not the same with family trees
That grow and grow through centuries!
Author unknown --
