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You're all expecting some sort of expletive-encrusted fecal-festival gracing gooey herein html. Bully bullocks are always zipping zazzily towards you fucking alphabetical heads.

To quote Tristan Tzara: Dadadadadaadaaadaadaaa!

Why did humans ever use these cursed compilations of circuits and crunchy capacitors before the Internet? Without this pulsating tendril to connect each of us to that heaping ball of darkness we call the Net, we'd all just be sitting at home, alone and naked, weeping softly into our pillows.

As it so happens, there's this thing called the network, and it's the heart of our businesses, right? These giant high schools we call enterprises are all standing on top of metric fuck-tons of data. There are entire hordes of people who tend the databases. They come from all walks of life. They are small town folks, big town hot shots, and basement dwelling nerdlings. A smattering of swaggering dickheads rounds out an otherwise evenly spaced herd of around 35,000 shwag grabbers.

More after the jump.

The most popular implement of branding was the translucent hand fan with laser-message inscribed on the blades as they spin. Elsewhere, big blue "We're # 1" fingers came out for jousting and slap fighting sessions.

Then, there was Joan Jett, who fucking rocks. She may be older than the milkman, but every DBA in San Francisco woulda fucked her that night at the Cow Palace. One Optio executive threw his tighty whities at her, sparking off a chocolate fondue fight that had to be broken up by the gorilla-sized negroid guards.

The contingent from the Ganges was certainly feeling its thizzle, as they swapped wives and lap-sittings in a dark corner of the Cow Palace: sacred ground. But it was the Altova honkies that had the best night of their lives. Someone handed over extra wrist bands for their hookers, and the group took over the dance floor with crazy tranny-man gyrations.

Oh, to have seen the surprised looks during the unwrapping ceremony that undoubtedly took place later that same evening.

Too bad Larry Ellison couldn't be found at his own party. Undoubtedly, he was in his orbital throne, gazing down from above through those beady samurai eyes. Who knew that business could give a man the 1000-yard stare?