Thursday, November 1, 2012


A true and accurate hysteri of the Rise Of The House Buffalo.

This chronicle begins on the 3rd day of the 7th month in the time of Our Vim where people lived a modal life of happiness and abided the :ex commands with pious fervour and so were blessed with edits most excellent and help abundant. It was a time of peace, prosperity and personal productivity.

Then one fateful day a churlish stranger peddled into town, seated upon a contraption most vile and contemptuous. Perched high atop its mechanical crown he screeched down upon the startled fray: “Tarry not betwixt thy :buffers and switch thee not so slowly as with a :buffer number or partial match thereof! Hark the word of reason and join your wizened brethren in celebration of the wheel! Cycling is thy salvation!” So bold was the orator and so balanced he atop his levered contrivance that several among the crowd, wide eyed and jowls agape, moved toward the wretched apparatus with minds numbed and coveting limbs trembling outstretched in wanton avarice.

Lost were these souls on the dull carousel of endlessly needing to :bnext to their buffers; pitiful prisoners of self-constrained linear, cyclic thinking. Trapped they were in the dungeons of their own device, tormented by the clink of their own chains, damned to traverse the wheel of life for eternity, forever spun without liberation.

Forever, that is, until the mavericks started flying.

Unconvinced by the rhetoric of the Church of the Wheel, various voracious vimmers revolted against the Cyclic Dogma and instead embraced a more direct buffer navigation strategy they dubbed flying. This upstart movement quickly gathered an ardent band of kindred spirits who championed the righteousness of flying over cycling.

Regretfully, the zealous were much harder to shake free from their demonic wheel worship. Skirmishes frequently lead to larger battles, some of which erupted into full blown flame wars involving some very hurtful name calling. Slowly waged this war of ideologies, its opponents forever locked in a struggle for vimmer mindshare.

That all changed when Brother Raimondi rode into town astride a bullock of majestic poise and serious presence. The unassuming fellow dismounted without word, turned to the gathered townsfolk and, lifting his feathered cap in measured civility, said, “I bring you The Buffalo.”

No ordinary ox was this tireless beast! Fast, it was! And nigh on omniscient — inferring your very intention from the merest mumble of your desires. So stunning was the stuff of this beefy buffer bouncer that even acolytes of the Church of the Wheel were leaving the order and forsaking their old cycling ways as sin against good sense and refined taste.

For many millions of clock cycles did the mighty buffalo reign over the land of Vim with an ever brisk gait and unerring (ok, only slightly erring) eye toward buffer discretion. Though happy were the citizens with their bovine bureaucrats, they shared a secret longing for simpler governance, clearer models, a more transparent core. Their collective desires created an exaltation of excellence within the very genes of the tenacious bison herd.

Indeed, the metamorphosis was nothing short of a total paradigm shift. Thus dawned the era of the formidable SkyBison — a wondrous hoofed though winged beast, swooping down from aloft in clean and graceful yet swift and precise arcs of buffer selection. May the SkyBison reign righteously and with longevity.

The buffalo is dead; long live the buffalo! All hail the SkyBison!

And if you’re still cycling when you should be flying… may SkyBison gorge on your artless cud.

Note This is a work of fiction only. Any semblance to peoples either living, dead or pretending to be so is purely coincidental and should not be taken as pertaining to them in any way whatsoever. Unless you feel flattered by the events described herein, in which it’s totally about you. Don’t mention it. You’re welcome. You’re worth it.