Steve Ballmer came over for dinner the other night. He read about my razor clams and offered to bring over some mighty fine Viña Mein wine made in southern Galicia. There was only one condition; he didn't want to talk business.
He showed up in his Humvee alone, unarmed, and in dull blue shirt. He shook my hand with his clammy paw and grinned like the Chesire Cat. Pretty much what you'd expect.
Ah, but the clams! The acid of the wine worked as a perfect counterpoint to their briny flavor. Ballmer asked if I had a hamburger bun to put them on. I did, and I'm only sorry that I didn't catch the subsequent feeding on tape.
"You know, Jonathan," he said with his mouth full. "You've got class. That's why I wanted to come over here and let bygones be bygones."
I told him that I was glad to have him. After all, our companies work together on a whole slew of technologies.
"So how much for the kernel?" he asked.
"The kernel. The Solaris kernel. We want to bag the whole NT hairball and move the install base over in the next five years."
"Dude, are you feeling allright?" I asked. His face was breaking out in purple hives.
"No, seriously," he said, biting off another chunk of his clamburger. "We want it. We want to license it. We gave everyone on the board Vista machines as a gift last month and now that they've tried it, they want me out of there. I have to pull a rabbit out of my friggin hat!"
His apparent shellfish allergy then proceeded to choke off his windpipe. The paramedics showed up just as he was starting to blow bubbles.
As for the deal, I can't say what happens next. He scrawled something on my hardward floor as he was laying there and whatever figure it is doesn't have enough zeros.
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