I needed to quickly stuff a bunch of random music onto a ridiculously small vfat medium. I used this:

#!/bin/zsh
# also released under the gnocchi-ng license
zmodload -i zsh/datetime

zomg_shuffle() {
  declare -A h
  local +h -Z 5 RANDOM=$EPOCHSECONDS
  integer i
  for ((i=1; i <= $#; ++i)) { h[$i.$RANDOM]=$argv[i] }
  reply=( $h )
}

zug=( /pathtomusic/ogg/**/*.ogg )
zomg_shuffle $zug

for i in "$reply[@]"
do
 cp -v "$i" /media/tinyflashdrive/"${${i:t}//[:?\"*]/_}" || { rm -v /media/tinyflashdrive/"${${i:t}//[:?\"*]/_}" ; exit 1}
done

Freshly stolen from Europe:

b() {
  setopt localoptions extendedglob

  if [[ $# -eq 1 ]]; then
    case "$1" in
      ([0-9]##)
    links "http://bugs.debian.org/cgi-bin/bugreport.cgi?bug=$1"
    ;;
      (*@*)
        links "http://bugs.debian.org/cgi-bin/pkgreport.cgi?submitter=$1"
        ;;
      (*)
        links "http://bugs.debian.org/cgi-bin/pkgreport.cgi?pkg=${1%%_*}"
        ;;
    esac
  else
    print "$0 needs one argument"
  fi
}

That was the best cover of the Super Marios Bros. theme song ever.

« As you know, » he said, « I am dating other women, but you are among the front-runners. »

« You have a month, » she retorted.

« A month‽‽ » he sputtered. « I only need like a day! »

My grandmother used to buy frozen liver and fry it. I bet it was atrocious. She only cooked once a week, so the damage was probably limited.

The first time my mother saw chocolate cake, she was a young woman in France. The sight and smell of it made her physically ill. Later on, she fainted from malnutrition in a post office. It is unclear whether she ever regained consciousness.

When my mother was a little girl, my grandfather used to go to the slaughterhouse at 4am and get liver. It was still warm with the heat of mammalian life by the time he got home, but they'd barbecue it anyway. I bet it was delicious. Freshly-killed plants and animals usually are. Fungi and sea salt follow other laws of nature, as they have considerably different souls.

After meeting my grandmother and being disgusted by her fried liver, she also was disgusted by pickled beets.

Coincidentally, I grew up hating liver, pickled beets, and chocolate cake. I managed to get over the first two, but the chocolate cake thing might last forever.

Tell her what's not true. She will fix it.

I spent two hours answering the phone, ribbing the clients affectionately before sending their calls off to different areas in the firm. It was like I couldn't get enough. I had to stop when Carol came back to her desk and demanded to know what the hell I was doing. I rejected the first fourteen answers that came to mind, and instead gave her a shrug, a wink, and a fingersnap. Then like a Carmelob, I scuttled away and strolled back across town to my office.

My dyspeptic boss tapped his foot in a hostile manner. He demanded to know where I had been. I rejected the first three answers that came to mind, and simply responded that I had been answering phones. Also I quit. It seemed the thing to do.

Explaining to my colleagues that I had just freed up a bit of time, I returned to Carol's office, where I found her rocking back and forth in the corner.

I turned off her light. It seemed the thing to do.