Ángel
@angel@triptico.com
Location: 40.4235492,-3.6617828
101 following, 200 followers
El microrrelato:
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Portada del libro Microterrores XIII, publicado por la editorial Diversidad Literaria
How conservative empathy works:
#Conservatism #Conservatives #MeganMcCain #Maternity #Hypocrisy #USPolitcs
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Emily Peck posted the following:
Meghan McCain had a baby and
now realizes that the US needs paid
maternity leave, she explains on The
View. She says personal experience
helped open her eyes.
Andi Zeisler replied:
The conservative ethos distilled: It's
not a problem unless it happens to
me, and when it does happen to me |
am absolutely outraged that other
people let it happen to me.
#Trump #Memes #Immigration #ICE #USPolitcs
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Mohamad Safa posted:
No immigrant has taken your job.
You were laid off by a capitalist
who required cheap labor and took
advantage of that immigrant to
increase his profits, and nothing
makes him happier than to hear you
blame the immigrant and not him.
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it's a motivation poster titled
SAD ENDING
it features a cheerful person saying: "this is a happy life."
The subtitle says: "Now your worth is measured in gigabytes of RAM"
Those of you near The Sea, you'll know that I envy you. Please, give my regards to the one I love, I will be there, who knows when.
they are idiots...
you can copy and paste the text from some of the epstein files to unredact it...
absolute idiots...
OMG I love Merriam-Webster.
https://www.merriam-webster.com/wordplay/word-of-the-year
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2025 Word of the Year: Slop
Plus 'gerrymander’, "touch grass’, ‘performative’, and other
words that defined the year
Slop
Merriam-Webster's human editors have chosen slop as the 2025 Word of
the Year. We define slop as “digital content of low quality that is
produced usually in quantity by means of artificial intelligence.” All that
stuff dumped on our screens, captured in just four letters: the English
language came through again.
The flood of slop in 2025 included absurd videos, off-kilter advertising
images, cheesy propaganda, fake news that looks pretty real, junky Al-
written books, “workslop” reports that waste coworkers’ time... and lots
of talking cats. People found it annoying, and people ate it up.
PSA
#unix_surrealism #veilid #hacker #poster #comic #hackedbrain
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HACKED BRAIN magazine cover
issue #3
it's a girl with horn holding an old Nokia phone with a laptop bag with SDF, merveilles and 9 stickers patches. She's wearing a sweater with port 70 (gopher).
'early signs your offspring may be a hacker'
"my x201 won't fit in that"
"I miss SUN"
refuses to use school computers
spits every time someone says 'discord'
"hyperthreading is insecure"
talk about wanting to live on a boat
"tell grandma I'm only using veilid now"
has posters of fish and the number 9 all over their room
"ed(1) is the standard editor"
"what license is it under?"
wears strange occult symbols
uses only old tech
"it's not a cult, dad"
limbs
#unix_surrealism #mono #ai #art #glenda
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On a computer.
Suddenly the computer grabs you.
"Mister Computer?"
Bitey
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"Do you remember what you were like when you were younger?" asks one crow to another as they are landing on wet snow. "Bitey" replies the second crow. "Right... but do you remember what it was like to BE you?" "What did you think about? Have you changed fundamentally? How can you really know?" The first crow is pondering. The background is a pattern of blue circles. "I guess I don't bite as much as I used to" answers the second crow. "You bite enough" says the first.
And so - what if I went back in time to my twenties?😆 Same for me. The day of my 20th birthday I was in the army, and I don't miss a thing about that day.No, thank you.
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A drawing by Ángel Ortega of a high building, severed and bleeding, showing its organic interior of bones and guts
'magnetic fields'
boost if you like your diskettes organic
#unix_surrealism #technomage #comic #fediart #mastoart #art #recursion #foss #diskette #floppy #runbsd
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Father floppy farmer carrying a box of freshly harvested floppies looks at his son, somewhat angrily.
Father: "Did you say something?"
Son, box of floppies by his feet, holding a pitchfork, looks at his father innocently.
Son: "N-no, dad..."
Son continues angrily ripping diskettes off their stalks and placing them in the box. The father begins walking away.
Son (to himself): "I hate recursive floppy farming."
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Father floppy farmer carrying a box of freshly harvested floppies looks at his son, somewhat angrily.
Father: "Did you say something?"
Son, box of floppies by his feet, holding a pitchfork, looks at his father innocently.
Son: "N-no, dad..."
Son continues angrily ripping diskettes off their stalks and placing them in the box. The father begins walking away.
Son (to himself): "I hate recursive floppy farming."
Father floppy farmer carrying a box of freshly harvested floppies looks at his son, somewhat angrily.
Father: "Did you say something?"
Son, box of floppies by his feet, holding a pitchfork, looks at his father innocently.
Son: "N-no, dad..."
Son continues angrily ripping diskettes off their stalks and placing them in the box. The father begins walking away.
Son (to himself): "I hate recursive floppy farming."
Alt...
Father floppy farmer carrying a box of freshly harvested floppies looks at his son, somewhat angrily.
Father: "Did you say something?"
Son, box of floppies by his feet, holding a pitchfork, looks at his father innocently.
Son: "N-no, dad..."
Son continues angrily ripping diskettes off their stalks and placing them in the box. The father begins walking away.
Son (to himself): "I hate recursive floppy farming."
Father floppy farmer carrying a box of freshly harvested floppies looks at his son, somewhat angrily.
Father: "Did you say something?"
Son, box of floppies by his feet, holding a pitchfork, looks at his father innocently.
Son: "N-no, dad..."
Son continues angrily ripping diskettes off their stalks and placing them in the box. The father begins walking away.
Son (to himself): "I hate recursive floppy farming."
Father floppy farmer carrying a box of freshly harvested floppies looks at his son, somewhat angrily.
Father: "Did you say something?"
Son, box of floppies by his feet, holding a pitchfork, looks at his father innocently.
Son: "N-no, dad..."
Son continues angrily ripping diskettes off their stalks and placing them in the box. The father begins walking away.
Son (to himself): "I hate recursive floppy farming."
#OverUnder 046 with @stefano
He's a #Unix enthusiast, he hangs out at the #BSD cafe, and write about various systems.
If Unix tips interest you, you should definitely check him out.
Today, he shares his thoughts on #DragonFlyBSD, #AWS, #TuxedoComputers, #zsh, and #Nespresso.
#terminal #shell #opensource #coffee #blog #cloud #Tuxedo #fediverse #mastodon
There is an apocryphal saying that the women of Lemnos stopped worshiping Aphrodite because they were dreaming about a bunch of handsome men on a fancy boat that were to arrive to the island on a humid and sunny day.
Christmas Chainsaw Massacre
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4-panel-comic by War and Peas Panel 1: Santa Claus stands on the roof of a decorated house and asks the Grim Reaper, who is on the ground, "Hey! You're coming to this house, too?" Panel 2: The Grim Reaper responds, "Yeah." Panel 3: Santa Claus, still on the roof, says, "What a shame. They're getting a lot of presents." Panel 4: The Grim Reaper, holding a scroll, says, "Let me guess. One of them is a chainsaw."
Mail is crazy because it's like 99 pieces of straight up garbage and 1 that if you don't reply to you're going to jail.
The Man of MATA pt3 - The first MATA_BOT
previously: https://analognowhere.com/techno-mage/the_man_of_mata/
#unix_surrealism #ai #mata #technomage #comic
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Mata Brother: "Will this work?"
Mata Brother 2: "Pentium-M board? It's not like we have anything better."
Mata Brother 3: "Flashing MATABIOS."
Pentium-M Man: "I was dust in packets. And in the lingering mist I saw rays of light of long extinguished souls. And then I met it. Towering over me."
Spirit of the Machine: "Son of the ancients! You have been chosen. From the scraps of the old world you rise."
Pentium-M Man: "Once more..."
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Pentium-M Man (narration): "I was alive."
Pentium-M Man: "No..."
Mercury: "Fuck me. It talks?"
Pentium-M Man: "Why... have you.. brought me back?"
Mata Brother: "Shhhh."
Pentium-M Man (narration): "From dust to war"
[...] To live longer than forty years is bad manners, is vulgar, immoral. Who does live beyond forty? Answer that, sincerely and honestly I will tell you who do: fools and worthless fellows.Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes from the Underground
Quien todavía esté ahí es cómplice.
Also, Spanish is my mother tongue, so I have the privilege to read Borges' words as he conceived them, without external intrusion, and is a bliss.
She then asks me where the switch is to turn it back on. I have no idea, of course.Of course, as you do computer stuff, anything regarding cables is your expertise and responsability. Been there.
Anyway, as others have already said, this story says something good about the human quality of this person that, after realising their tantrum was inappropriate, called back and apoligized. Even more so if they're going through something.
We live in a very stressing world.
Fish Alpinism
How I make digital art.
https://triapul.cz/_/1765291397
#unix_surrealism #openbsd #alpine #linux #gimp #art #foss
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artist keyboard
"Hello, I would like to meet warden Titus Riccitelli", I said. The guard was a thin, old man that looked very bored. I gave him my business card.
"Miroslav...", he read it, paused, and said "Like the car?"
"What car?"
"The Corvette."
"No. Like the boat, but with a double T."
"A boat with a double what?"
"Is warden Riccitelli on premises? I have an appointment."
After waiting for a long time and crossing a myriad of corridors and annoying check points I finally got to the warden office.
"So you are Miroslav Corbett", said the warden, a bald, sweaty man with a ridiculous mustache. "I got a message from an angry bureaucrat from the government saying that you were about to come here. You have very important friends up there."
"Oh, I don't think so."
"Do you want a drink?"
"I don't do alcohol."
He looked at me with disdain in his face.
"Listen to me, young man. We are very busy here. I'm sure you don't understand the very important job that we..."
I interrupted him.
"I'm sorry, warden Riccitelli. I'm here for a very specific thing. I'd rather not be here, believe me. I don't want to waste your time. I'm only interested in one of your inmates. Just a short interview in her cell."
"What for?"
"As it says on my business card, I document things."
"What kind of things?"
"I keep a log of out-of-place happenings, reality distortions, unexpected presences and such. The duty of my department is to document the bizarre things that happen since the Great Anomaly..."
"Oh don't talk me about the Great Fucking Anomaly."
"I don't want to talk about it neither. I just need to meet a person that is incarcerated here. I just want to talk to Desdemona Dunkelmorgen."
He looked very upset or surprised or whatever.
"What? No way", he said. "She is the most dangerous person here. She is the most dangerous person in the whole fucking world. And I won't risk my resources by putting anyone of them near that damned bitch from hell."
"Do your employees know that you call them 'resources'?"
Warden Riccitelli took a ceramic ashtray from his table and launched it onto the wall. It exploded into pieces.
"Listen to me, little bastard..."
"Mr. Riccitelli," I interrupted him in my quietest voice while browsing my papers, "I know everything. Desdemona Dunkelmorgen, aka the Queen of Deception, aka the Mistress of Disguise, aka One-Trouble-On-Two-Legs. Born in Madrid, Spain. Who would say, bearing that name? Con artist, mischievous robber, ruthless blackmailer, despicable criminal, drinks while driving. Previous warden report: 'Handle with special care. Do NOT listen to her lies. She could be anywhere, anyone. She could be me or she could be you and you will not notice.' I'm not sure to understand what this last quote means."
"Damn. Holy Christ. I won't send my men to her cell because she will trick those dickheads and everything will go to hell again. I don't want another prison break from that motherfucking vixen. I will go there with you personally."
"I'm sure that is a very intelligent decision on your part."
"Come on, let's do it once for all."
He grabbed his own copy of the keys and we went down the belly of the prison. While on our way, I asked:
"Is it true what they say about her?"
"What do they say?"
"That she looks like no other woman in the world."
He took some time to answer. "To be honest, I don't know how she looks like."
"Haven't you seen her?"
"Not personally."
Not personally, I repeated to myself. What a douchebag.
We crossed the threshold to the hyper-ultra-high security block or whatever they called it and finally got to her cell's door.
"Ok, here we are", he said, "Be extremely careful."
"I'll be."
He unlocked the gate and we entered the cell. A small, barred window almost by the ceiling. Grey and dull walls. A dirty toilet. A chair and a table, no features. And nobody to be seen.
"What the fuck...?", he yelled, "But where...?"
He searched for her like crazy while swearing like a sailor: under the table, under the bed, as if she was as small as a mouse. Then he got back at me, his face red and swollen and sweaty:
"Why are you so calm? What the hell is happening here?"
"Have you heard the adage that the highest achievement of the devil was convincing men that he doesn't exist? Well, they don't call Desdemona Dunkelmorgen the Queen of Deception for nothing. She tricked you, all of you, into believing that she was here. She made you believe that you were able to catch her. In fact, it's a little more complicated; the highest achievement of Desdemona Dunkelmorgen was convincing men that she DOES exist. She is a trick of the mind. She is a glitch, a mirage. She is something that isn't and that shouldn't be."
Warden Riccitelli dropped to the floor, crying like a child.
"Oh my. I'm finished. Everybody will laugh at me for years."
"They'll do", I said, "but don't be too mean to yourself. Everybody was mislead. These illogical issues are overwhelming. All we can do is write about how this unfaithful reality is playing with us."
He jumped up in an explosion of rage, ran to the passage and started yelling at everybody.
"What are you doing there? Do something! Find her! Nuke this fucking place from above! It's the only way to be sure!"
"I'm afraid I have to leave", I said, but he was no longer listening to me.
It was a quiet evening out there. The parking lot at Saint Boniface was almost empty. I wrote some ideas on my notebook, not completely sure that I wasn't Desdemona Dunkelmorgen after all.
EMAIL WRAPPED 2025
This year, you received too fucking much email!
Number of emails that found you well: zero
Number of emails that you printed, even though you didn't consider the environment: zero
Number of times an "out of office" autoresponder was immediately followed by the person answering your email: all of the times
Your favorite email was: none of them
Next year, you are considering: are there any countries where email is illegal, and what are their immigration laws?
This morning, as the zfs-send/receive had finished its job during the night, I performed the last sync and moved FediMeteo from the previous 4 euros/month VPS - netcup - to a 4 euros/month VPS - OVH, Milano, Italy.
Thanks to #BastilleBSD and the jail setup, it was easy peasy.
So, the weather forecasts are now broadcast from Italy and the performance has skyrocketed - while still being served by a 4 euro/month VPS.
I suspect the netcup VM had been capped by the provider - but I'll investigate.
So...Ciao, FediMeteo!
In the past few days FediMeteo seemed to be having some performance trouble. I dug into it and only found minor issues, until I realised the VM itself had fallen off a cliff. After several reboots it became clear that both bandwidth and I/O latency had dropped to absurd levels. I suspect the provider slapped a cap on it.
So I took the chance to move everything to another VM and provider, still at 4 euro per month. And starting today, forecasts will be delivered straight from Italy. The performance jump feels like going from a storm to clear skies.
FediMeteo’s mission goes on. More countries are coming (stay tuned!) and we will keep aiming to serve everything from a 4 euro VM. I do have powerful hardware available, but proving that the project can run on tiny resources is still part of the mission.
#FediMeteo #FediMeteoAnnouncements #FediMeteoServices #VM #RunBSD #FreeBSD
Del lat. ad Ephesios 'a los efesios', título de una epístola de san Pablo, por alus. a las penalidades que pasó el santo en Éfeso durante su predicación.Fuente: Palabra del día del diccionario de la lengua española (RAE)
1. 1. m. Persona o cosa ridícula, extravagante o muy fea.
Sin.:
+ esperpento, fantoche, birria, mamarracho, hazmerreír, facha, espantajo.
2. 2. m. Despropósito, disparate, extravagancia. U. m. en pl.
Madrid, Spain
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Chaotic windows in a modern building, Madrid, Spain
In the past few days I’ve seen talk about RAM prices shooting up due to demand from big datacenters.
Today I read that a historic brand like Crucial - I own plenty of their hardware, including SSDs - is dropping consumer products to focus on gear for those same datacenters.
The result (or maybe the intention?) is to push people away from self hosting, undermine the OwnYourData idea and make everyone depend on huge datacenters for life.
So much for owning your data.
So much for decentralisation.
Because taking down one giant datacenter is far easier than taking down thousands or millions of individual nodes.
Friends and colleagues, don’t trade your freedom for a bit of convenience. Once you give it away, getting it back is very hard.
Always Own Your Data.
Meet the Forgotten Female Artist Behind the World’s Most Popular Tarot Deck (1909)
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The Strength tarot card by Colman-Smith shows a figure dressed in a white robe with roses petting a lion.
There is a different telling of this story that says that, when everybody met, nobody had chosen the same verses; because of this, after deletion, the poem was left with only three lines, the ones chosen by Ovid. He was not upset, though, because he saw it coming: the slaughtered text showed Latin words for "My friends are a bunch of hateful motherfuckers".
I'm in a very old house with a wardrobe in each bedroom and I'm checking every single one of them for Narnia access because magic is everywhere and also I really need to get the hell away from these people
No hay respuestas mágicas: si sigues creyendo en esa historia, reescribe el principio. Si ya no, pues al cajón, y a por otra.
DUFF v KORN 2
prev: https://merveilles.town/@prahou/115508225024561937
#unix_surrealism #plan9 #9front #korn #ksh #rc #comic #linux #lo0 #technomage #openblade #openbsd
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Daemon: "I think that looks pretty good! Don't you?"
Kshboy: "Haha, yeah! You made it in troff?"
Daemon: "Yeah!"
Kshboy: "Cool!"
DEAR MISTER DUFF, MY BEST FRIEND AND I WERE WONDERING, IF YOU COULD BEAT KORN IN A FIGHT. WE KNOW OF A GREAT PLACE WHERE YOU COULD DO BATTLE.
Daemon: "We can just swap the names with sed for the other letter!"
Kshboy: "But how do we get it to them? We don't even know where they live..."
Daemon: "I have an idea. Let's rewrite it!"
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Random penguins hand a leaflet to Techno-Mage.
DUFF V KORN
DUEL OF THE AGES
WHEN: NEXT FULL MOON
WHERE: THE BIG HILL OUTSIDE FOSSTOWN
WHOEVER DOESN'T SHOW AUTOMATICALLY LOSES!
PLACE YOUR BEST AT THE DRUNKEN BIRD BARD
OpenBlade: "Oh yeah, I heard about this."
Mage: "You heard about this?"
OpenBlade: "You have a lot of money riding on Korn btw."
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Lo0: "YOU AND I WERE MEANT TO BE!"
Lo0 KORN TRIBUTE practice
Korn: "STOP! That's not what they sounded like..."
Mec: "Sorry, Mister K."
Korn: "Are you? The gig is in a week. Do better!"
Bot_Manager: "YO! CASH MONEY K! Why didn't you tell me about the fight?!"
Korn: "What fight?"
Bot_Manager: "I could get the band to play there!"
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Penguin Postman walks up a mountain.
Penguin: "Mister Duff? Mail!"
Duff: "Vincent! Is it next year already?"
Penguin: "No sir, just some admin stuff regarding your fight."
Duff: "Fight?"
"Stop that Frenchie shit, Skips. What do you want me to tell you?"
"Tell me that I will be able to forget about this."
The room was dark and humid. A bare lightbulb over their heads, brownish stains on the floor. Skips was young and blond and had a gun in his hand; he trembled like a cold lump of lard. Jean-Loup Lamarc, older and unfazed, was nearby. The traitor was tied to a chair, watery eyes, mouth silenced by a dirty cloth. Lamarc was no moron and knew that time was not on their side, but sighed and started talking to confort the younger man because what must be done must be done and the time is now.
"I won't tell you such thing."
"Oh, please, Frenchie. I... I will feel this sorrow for the rest of my life."
"Oh, you won't do that, either."
"I can't..." He really seemed to mean it.
"I will not lie to you and say it will be easy, man. Not even remotely easy. You will wake up in the middle of the night, Skips. You'll swim in a sea of sweat. Many times. You will feel a ghost whispering into one of your funny little ears. Whispering ugly things to you, Skips. You will cry a river, like Julie London sang. But one day, I cannot say if it will be next week or next month or in your sister's wedding, as I say, one day, you will wake up, you will start having your eggs or your cereal or whatever the fuck you use to have for breakfast, and you will realize that you had not remembered this mess for a couple of days. And then you'll be over it. And the next time it won't be a couple days, but four days, or four weeks, or whatever measure of time you can name. Putain, one day you won't even remember the details, or your father's writing, or the fucking dirty money, or the visage of any of these pieces of shit. So just do it. Do it fucking now."
Skips shot the poor scumbag in the head. His face exploded like in a seedy B movie.
"Oh, Skips, sure you've made a pretty cute dish of Chicken Vindaloo here. Now let's run as fast as we can."
Tires screeched nearby.
Say what you will about Debian, but I still have about 2½ years left before I even have to think about Firefox getting AI features.
It is our task to imprint this temporary, perishable Earth into ourselves so deeply, so painfully and passionately, that its essence can rise again “invisibly,” inside us. We are the bees of the invisible.Rainer Maria Rilke, on literature
Madrid, Spain
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A square window and street letters in Madrid
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