December 4, 2006
This is the assignment for our group presentation due on the 12th:
A company that produces computer games had to recall at least 100,000 units of a game it had shipped, because someone added a file to the master disk that contained a very offensive song. Analyze the action of the person who put the file on the master disk. Is it reasonable to assume the person did it intentionally? If the person is identified, what action should the company take against him or her? What management procedures should be implemented to reduce the chances of a similar event in the future?
Here are some things to consider. What are the issues, problems, risks entailed in this scenario? Use analogies and similar cases where appropriate. List a variety of actions that might be taken. Which are ethically acceptable? Which are not? Why? Which are ethically obligatory?
Anyway, really, the only thing I can think of is about Grand Theft Auto …
… so, any help would be appreciated. I type this preparing to dive back into paper writing. Not many of those left …
So, today was “school lunch day”, where I get to bust ass taking three large deliveries up to the big Christian private school in the northwestern section of our delivery area. Thankfully, I make ten bucks a trip, turning these rare Mondays into quite a cash cow for me. Today was also nice because I had a handful of deliveries in addition to the “school lunch” (which is, often, the only deliveries I will have before I leave at three).
One of those deliveries came in right after we opened. I was bagging up the pies for the school lunch, but Greg forgot to load one, so as it cooked he told me to run up to S. Mill and drop off the 12″ pie a woman had called in. So I jumped in my car, made a left onto Jarrettsville Pike, ran not a mile north, bolted up the drive, and rapped hard on the door.
… and it opened on a person I haven’t seen in several years. I recognized her instantly, but I don’t know if she recognized me. Or at least, while it appeared she may have had some idea that she’d once known me, I don’t think it clicked for her like it did for me. (Thinking on it, maybe she was just creeped out that she opened the door and the pizza guy did a double take and said “Jen!”)
I knew Jen S. from Towson University, my first time through, several years ago. We were both English majors, so over the course of several semesters we had a few classes together. She would come to class babbling about Buffy: The Vampire Series (before I appreciated that show) or some other thing. She was very sweet and we were at least friendly with each other. I remember once out front of Linthicum Hall after class talking with her when her phone rang. “Here, answer it,” she told me, flipping the phone to me. I answered and pretended to be a police detective at a murder scene. Jen’s friend, who had also gotten out of class and was the one calling her, sounded at first confused, then worried, then when she saw me standing next to Jen, I do believe punched me and called Jen names. (But, time has a way of erroding memories).
As it was, I was relieved when I handed her the pizza and she closed the door. I was inwardly bracing myself for those questions I shudder at: “What have you been doing?” “Why are you delivering pizzas?” I have this internal calendar that I imagine people from my past on, and I hate thinking that I’m not “measuring up” — what do I mean by that? Y’know. Degrees. Relationships. Jobs. I’m almost at the point where I feel I’ll be making real progress in my life, on the career front, anyway. But I still can’t escape this feeling of shame for being where I am, instead of having pushed myself harder when I was younger.
(PS, Jen: I still have a copy of that paper you wrote for Dr. Dugas on the legacy of the Vampire Hunters — from van Helsing to Buffy — somewhere).
I bet getting charged with impersonating a police officer will slow him down, or at the very least encourage him to use the public transportation system.
HT: Presence.
I’m sitting at Brooks Huff Hunt Valley, logged into the Hunt Valley Saab Dealership’s wireless. These are across York Road from each other, and I’m looking at the rush-hour traffic on York Road and thinking, “Do these people know my internet is passing through them?” Because, when you think about it, it is.
Sorta.
I had this very interesting conversation with this old dude waiting on a new tire. He just moved up from Texas and we got to talking about languages. When I say “we got”, I mean “he got”, and finally I put my laptop away to be polite, because it was getting interesting. His family were German immigrants who came down through Canada, and his parents spoke French when they didn’t want him understanding what they were saying. He speaks fluent English, German, and French. In addition, he studying Latin and studied several other Romance languages, as well as Russian. He lectured me on the spread of cultures across the Mediteranean region, and how when he was in the Armed Forces, he was the most popular guy in his unit because he could use his knowledge of Russian to read the signs on the Greek shops to figure out which ones were bars — the two share an alphabet and their languages are similar.
In his opinion, Spanish is the easiest language to learn because everything is pronounced as it appears written. Apparently, the Castillian dialect around Madrid occured because the King had a lisp and everyone immitated it. Eventually, that became the norm.
***
I have two days of classes left. I’m working my normal schedule until Saturday at four — once I’m off work Saturday, I’m only working a half-shift Monday until Friday. Here’s to a good chunk of a week to relax, vacation, and … well, yes, I’m taking the time off for finals. Hooray, finals.
I’m a little late to the punch on this story, from this past October:
In a statement obtained Tuesday by The Associated Press, police in Jerseyville, about 40 miles north of St. Louis, said 17-year-old Roger Holyfield would not acknowledge officers who approached him and he continued yelling, “I want Jesus.”
Police tried to calm the teen, but Holyfield became combative, according to the statement. Officers fired the stun gun at him after he ignored their warnings, then fired again when he continued struggling, police said.
Holyfield was flown to St. Louis’ Cardinal Glennon Hospital after the confrontation Saturday; he died there Sunday, police said.
Apparently, Jesus wanted Roger Holyfield too.
So Saturday night, which I’ve now been working at the Indy, was very unique. First, big man Robin was out, so I worked a rare closing shift with Gary. This new kid, G., was hired. At one point, he was trying to argue with Gary that smoking marijuana is better than smoking tabacco cigarettes. He might’ve proved his point if he hadn’t left a sub in the hopper for, oh, long enough to burn to a crisp. “What was it you were saying?” Gary asked a little pissed because at this point the customer had arrived and wanted his food.
At one point, I was trying to teach G. how to take a phone order. G. needs to stop smoking weed and pay attention. I nearly ripped his head off after hanging up the phone on a delivery without having gotten a phone number, even though I’d been telling him, over and over, “Get a phone number.” “But,” he attempted to protest, “it’ll be on caller ID!” Wrong, numbnuts! Caller ID only works on line one, not line two! Fuckwad.
Anyway, so it was slammin’ busy from about five until eight. I was one of two drivers, and took thirteen deliveries — one of those was a remake, where G. totally fucked up this dude’s order — regular customer, generous tipper — and overcharged him by like $15. Gary had told me to help G. out making it, and I took one look at the handwritten ticket, couldn’t understand anything on it — jesus christ, this kid is a real fucking tard — and let him handle it. MY MISTAKE.
Right. So, the last orders trickle in around eight pm. The store got cleaned up, I swept and mopped the back, swept and mopped the lobby, and was sweeping the kitchen when the phone rang. Lady wanted four pizzas for pickup at 9:45. No prob, I told her, and Gary got to work making the pizzas. Well, her 16″ bacon cheeseburger is in my fridge, her 12″ PSB NO CHEESE is in my dumpster, and her other two 16″ pies are in Gary’s fridge or stomach. Long story short, she did a no-show at 9:45, said she was “on her way” when I called her at ten, and at 10:30, when we’d finally got fed up waiting for her to show the fuck up, we’d determined to shove a big tree up her ass if she showed. Of course, we were long gone if she ever did.
Sunday’s answer could have been an STD, but the two I was looking for were poison ivy or a thorn.
You know the drill:
What the king seldom sees
What God never sees
We see every day
What that now?
Now answer! Don’t cheat, bitches.
