Had a laugh this morning usually associated with psychological breakdowns of the “too much pure mathematics, too fast!” kind.
A puzzling email. Told me my mailbox had exceeded its limit (oh my, and it was a limit of 20 GB!), and I was asked to re-validate my box by sending my full name, email ID, password and date of birth in reply.
Don’t worry; I didn’t.
Where our dear fisherman crook went wrong, where he sent his request to the Pit of Watuf (“mouth-opening of wavering”; in Arabian that is written without the vowel marks, i.e. wtf), where he failed even the chance of hitting the Crevasse of al-Gull’Iblis Idjit (in French, Gullibel Iz de Idjeet), was in his guess at the expansion of the acronym of my academic organization, whose addresses he was spamming.
Turns out my dear university acronyms the same as a major sports organization; and when someone claiming to be a system administrator over on Big Sports Overhead Division tells me my mail account is oversize… I boggle for a bit, and then explode in peals of laughter and keep on chuckling all day long. Me, the Foe of Sport? Me, the aggressive enemy of that un-entertainment? Sure! I should request the dept office for cards with just the acronym, and go round bothering this brand of sporters in the name of “quality testing”! Jump the hoops, kick the balls, pass the Nudie test (“Er, what’s the Nudie test?” — “Physical endurance. Do you have any field with about crotch-high grass or grain anywhere round here? Also, I’d be needing some superglue.”) …and I the officer of the Acronym will certify your team!
(“Hey, M-of-Eris. Why’re you telling me, your advisor, this? I thought you didn’t like sport… and now you’re reporting on the lap-running speed of the local team. Is this another evil scheme of yours? And what do you mean, can I write a certificate for them? For what, sticking to an integer number of balls?”)