The Bastard Operator From Hell
The Bastard Operator From Hell won't stand for interference with his printing systems ...
It's a pleasantly cool morning as I lie back in my armchair and plot the next surprise in the users' lives. Well, it's pleasantly cool for me, anyway - due to a tragic error in the air conditioning system, every other room in the building is alternating between temperatures more normally associated with the arctic and the tropics.
Some of the brighter staff tried jamming the stairwell doors open until a fire alarm was strangely triggered there a couple of times in succession, and security arrived to ensure that their smoke-stop capability wasn't being impaired. It's for their own good.
Because of all this activity my room, which is normally very busy at this point in the publicity year, is fairly quiet right now. Amazingly, my pimply-faced trainee has turned out to be a fiend with a scarcely human face. He's managed to 'persuade' the personnel manager to send him on a 'First principles of management' course... in Paris. Not bad for a non-manager and a newcomer - could it have been something to do with the e-mail filter he placed in the human resources department? Tut, tut - all those young secretaries.
I'm thinking that my whole day will pass by peacefully, without being disturbed by pointless queries. Touch wood.
Too late, the phone rings. It's a user.
"Hi, I'm writing this program to poll our printer to see if ...". I hang up.
It rings again: "Hi, I'm writing ...". I hang up.
Once more it rings: "Hi, I ...". I hang up.
The learning curve of these people is so near to horizontal you could play bowls on it, so I leave the phone off the hook. Ten minutes later the geek's knocking on my door. I just have time to replace the phone on the hook before he comes in.
"Hi, I was trying to ring you but your phone must be broken ...".
I point at the "Console of Hell" and shake my head. "It's the console," I say quietly. "It never breaks."
"Oh, well, then it ..."
"Your phone", I continue, "has a life expectancy of three to five years, but this will be here on judgement day. It'll still be taking calls from dumb users, too".
Geek is momentarily stumped. He manages to recollect his thoughts. The phone rings. "See what I mean?", I say, lifting the receiver.
"My PC's crashed again. It does it every time I try to access my network disk", a user sobs dejectedly.
"Ah," I say, flicking up today's excuse on the calendar. "That'll be TRANSIENT NODE DUPLICATION."
"Well, your machine's crashing because it's seeing duplicate files on the network file server and on your machine".
"Oh. What do I do?"
"Well, your best bet is to just login to the file server and do a remove-rename."
"Do an rm -rf. Which means remove minus rename files. Any non-duplicates won't be renamed."
"Oh. OK, thanks".
"That's OK," I hang up. Geek is still here. "I'm writing a program ...", he retries.
"... to poll the printers", I finish.
"MY printers", I state.
"Ah ... yes".
"Well, I thought that I could poll them every second to see what jobs they were printing and how fast their throughput was".
"To see if there are any network bottlenecks ..."
"Like, for example, a bottleneck caused by a printer having to respond to an 'intelligent' poll once every second?"
"Oh. I hadn't thought of that being a problem".
"No, I didn't think you had", I say, changing the stairwell temperature to zero and cranking up the humidity. "But you've been running your program on the system already, haven't you?"
"Well, maybe once or twice".
"No, more like ..." (I count the red dots showing on the print queue monitor) "17 times by my count. You talk to a printer with a poorly parameterised SNMP message, it doesn't answer you, so you go and run it again on a different printer".
"I ... well, I might have done ..."
"Now MY problem is this: who should I choose to pass YOUR problem on to? Maybe my borderline psychotic trainee, who has been taught to hate unnecessary traffic more than he hates re-runs of Emmerdale Farm? Or perhaps to the programmers who hate cowboys more than they hate working when the pub's open? I tell you what, I'll ask them both".
He's made it out of the room and is planning that six-month holiday in Spain before I've even managed to lift the phone off the hook.
I watch the monitor as he rockets to the stairs to make clean his getaway. Sadly, an amount of condensation has built up on the lino floors of the now chilly stairwell and he slips, bumps and rolls down a couple of floors on his way out of the building, knocking down a group of salivating bean-counters hungry to get back to their sums.
As he limps his way out of the building a thought occurs to me: you just can't plan job satisfaction like this. Well, I guess you can really ...
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