Why's Poignant Guide To Ruby RUS: различия между версиями
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Строка 73:
Нет, пожалуйста, не заморачивайся. Тебе с этим луком ничего делать не надо. Отложи лук в сторону, и пусть ''он сам'' сделает что-нибудь ''с тобой''.
Буду откровенен: я хочу заставить тебя плакать. Рыдать. Чувственно хныкать. Эта книга — '''трогательное''' руководство по Руби. Это значит, что исходные коды настолько красивы, что слёзы льются сами по себе. Это значит, что учебник сулит и романтичные сказки, и угрюмые поучения, просто вынуждающие проснуться поутру в объятиях этой книги. Крепко обнимать её весь день. Если надо, смастери себе набедренный чехольчик для ''«(Трогательного) руководства Уая по Руби»'', чтобы постоянно быть в нежном и чувственном обществе этой книги.
Теперь тебе надо всхлипнуть. Или хотя бы похлюпать носом. А если нет, то луковица сделает своё дело.
=== The Dog Story ===
So try this first bit of poignancy on for size:
One day I was walking down one of those busy roads covered with car dealerships (this
was shortly after my wedding was called off) and I found an orphaned dog on the road.
A wooly, black dog with greenish red eyes. I was kind of feeling like an orphan myself,
so I took a couple balloons that were tied to a pole at the dealership and I relocated
them to the dog’s collar. Then, I decided he would be my dog. I named him Bigelow.
We set off to get some Milkbones for Bigelow and, afterwards, head over to my place,
where we could sit in recliners and listen to Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci. Oh, and we’d also
need to stop by a thrift store and get Bigelow his own recliner.
But Bigelow hadn’t accepted me as his master. So five minutes later, the stupid dog
took a different crosswalk than I did and I never caught up. So whereas he had
previously only been lost once, he was now lost twice. I slowed my pace towards the
life of Milkbones and an extra recliner. I had a dog for five minutes
Stupid Benedict Arnold of a dog. I sat on a city bench and threw pinecones at a statue
of three sheep crossing a bridge. After that, I wept for hours. The tears just came. Now
there’s a little something poignant to get you started.
I wonder where he went with all those balloons. That crazy dog must have looked like
a party with legs.
It wasn’t much later that I pulled my own Bigelow. I printed out a bunch of pages on
Ruby. Articles found around the Web. I scanned through them on a train ride home
one day. I flipped through them for five minutes and then gave up. Not impressed.
I sat, staring out the window at the world, a life-sized blender mixing graffiti and iron
smelts before my eyes. ''This world’s too big for such a a little language'', I thought. ''Poor little thing doesn’t stand a chance. Doesn’t have legs to stand on. Doesn’t have arms to swim''.
And yet, there I was. One little man on a flimsy little train (and I even still had a baby
tooth to lose at the time) out of billions of people living on a floating blue rock. How
can I knock Ruby? Who’s to say that I’m not going to happen to choke on my cell
phone and die later that evening. Why’s dead, Ruby lives on.
The gravestone:
''What’s in his trachea? Oh, look, a Nokia!''
Just my luck. Finally get to have a good, long sleep underground, only to be constantly
disturbed by ''Pachelbel’s Canon'' going off in my stomach.
{{рамка}}
==== What I’m Going to Do With the Massive Proceeds from this Book ==
Anyone who’s written a book can tell you
how easily an author is distracted by visions
of grandeur. In my experience, I stop twice
for each paragraph, and four times for each
panel of a comic, just to envision the wealth
and prosperity that this book will procure for
my lifestyle. I fear that the writing of this
book will halt altogether to make way for the
armada of SUVs and luxury towne cars that are blazing away in my head.
Rather than stop my production of the
(Poignant) Guide, I’ve reserved this space as
a safety zone for pouring my empty and vain
wishes.
Today I was at this Italian restaraunt,
Granado’s, and I was paying my bill.
Happened to notice (under glass) a bottle of
balsamic vinegar going for $150. Fairly
small. I could conceal it in my palm. Aged
twenty-two years.
I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about that
bottle. It is often an accessory in some of
these obsessive fantasies. In one fantasy, I
walk into the restaraunt, toss a stack of
greenery on the counter and earnestly say to
the cashier, “Quick! I have an important
salad to make!”
In another, related fantasy, I am throwing
away lettuce. Such roughage isn’t befitting of
my new vinegar. No, I will have come to a
point where the fame and the aristocracy will
have corrupted me to my core. My new
lettuce will be cash. Cold, hard cash, Mrs.
Price.
Soon, I will be expending hundreds for a
block of myzithra cheese.
My imaginations have now gone beyond
posessions, though. Certainly, I have
thought through my acquisition of grecian
urns, motorcades, airlines, pyramids,
dinosaur bones. Occassionally I’ll see
wind-tossed cities on the news and I’ll jot
down on my shopping list: ''Hurricane''.
But, now I’m seeing a larger goal. Simply
put: what if I amassed such a fortune that
the mints couldn’t print enough to keep up
with my demand? So, everyone else would
be forced to use Monopoly money as actual
currency. And you would have to win in
Monopoly to keep food on the table. These
would be some seriously tense games. I
mean you go to mortgage St. James Place
and your kids start crying. In addition, I
think you’ll begin to see the end of those who
choose to use the Free Parking square as
[http://groups.yahoo.com/group/monopoly/message/37 the underground coffers] for city funds.
You’ve got to hand it to fun money, though. Fake money rules. You can get your hands on it so quickly. For a moment, it seems like you’re crazy rich. When I was a kid, I got with some of the neighborhood kids and we built this little Tijuana on our street. We made our own pesos and wore sombreros and everything!
One kid was selling hot tamales for two pesos each. ''Two pesos!'' Did this kid know that the money was fake? Was he out of his mind? Who invited this kid? Didn’t he know this wasn’t really Tijuana? Maybe he was really from Tijuana! Maybe these were ''real'' pesos! Let’s go make more ''real'' pesos!
I think we even had a tavern where you could get totally hammered off Kool-Aid. There’s nothing like a bunch of kids stumbling around, mumbling incoherently with punchy red clown lips.
{{акмар}}
== Примечания ==
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