Revised Corporate Mottoes for 2025

Bobby Zimmerman, come to the front of the class. The assignment in today's English class was to write an essay on "Five Things I Did Over Summer Vacation." Instead of doing the assignment, you wrote three poems, one with 37 stanzas. Here -- let me read from one -- "Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky With one hand waving free Silhouetted by the sea Circled by the circus sands With all memory and fate Driven deep beneath the waves Let me forget about today until tomorrow"   What sort of nonsense is this? You will never win a Nobel Prize for Literature, I tell you, and right now you're getting a failing grade in my English class.  Now, return to your seat.          What's that you said? "My boogers are blowin' in the wind?"      That's it. Detention for you. Stay after school and I will be calling your mother and the Nobel Prize Committee. Don't think twice, it's alright.

write a playful children's story, in the whimsical style of Dr. Seuss, that weaves in the philosophical ideas of Nietzsche. The title of this story is The Sneetches on the Nietzches. In the blustery bright town of Neener-Neetch Beach Lived a curious crowd known as Sneetches-on-Nietzsches. They were not like the Sneetches you may know from before— These Sneetches were thinkers who thought even more. They wondered and pondered from morning to night About willpower, courage, and doing what's right. They asked giant questions while perched on tall rocks Or while polishing seashells and sorting their socks. One young Sneetch—named Zibby—would tiptoe and sigh, For she carried big questions wherever she'd fly. "Why am I me?" she whispered. "And who decides how? Must I follow the crowd? Must I moo like a cow?" Her classmates just giggled. "Oh Zibby, don't fret! You think far too much. Have you finished lunch yet?" But Zibby just blinked and stared ...

Gather ye round, ye pilgrims of progress, ye seekers of syntax and salvation, for today I bring you not just words—but The Word Made Code . I bring glad tidings of great joy: the Gospel of Open Source. Let he who has eyes, read the README. Let she who has ears, hear the license of the Lord—be it GPL, MIT, or Apache—freely given, freely shared. I. In the Beginning Was the Code And lo, in the early days, the Code was without form and void. Proprietary darkness covered the face of the deep. And the Spirit of Collaboration hovered over the servers. Then came the First Commandment: "Thou shalt not hide thy source, nor bind thy neighbor with licenses of bondage." But some turned from the path. They hoarded their algorithms. They DRM'd their data. They made idols of profit and obfuscated truth with closed binaries. These were the False Coders. II. The Prophet Linus Spake But in the wilderness of Finland arose a prophet. His name was Linus. And he saith unto the people: "I b...

In a crumbling apartment building on the edge of Detroit, seventeen-year-old Malik adjusted the strings of his beaten-up cello. Downstairs, the rattle of pipes and the occasional shout from the street found their way through the thin walls, but inside this room—his grandmother's old sewing room, now converted into a makeshift studio—there was only the cello and the slow breath of silence before music. Malik had discovered the cello by accident, stumbling upon it in a school closet during detention. The music teacher, Mr. Alvarez, had let him take it home "just to see if it fits you." It didn't at first—his fingers were clumsy, his bowing a disaster—but something in the deep voice of the instrument had spoken to a place inside him that words never reached. Across the ocean in a sun-drenched village in southern Italy, 64-year-old Sofia sat on the worn wooden stool in her kitchen, her accordion resting gently on her lap. The kitchen smelled of garlic and lemon zest, and ...

Makers often say they feel something stirring inside them when they sense an unexplored idea. It is not dramatic in the way movies portray discovery—there is no lightning strike, no sudden orchestra swelling. It is quieter and more private, like a tap on the shoulder from a thought that has not fully formed yet but knows exactly whom it wants to visit. The tap can come while they are walking through a hardware store, or stirring their coffee, or half-asleep in the early morning when the world is hushed enough for strange possibilities to slip through. Makers will often say that once this tap happens, they cannot let the idea go. It sits in their mind like a small flame, flickering at first, then growing brighter each time they return to it. That small flame is the beginning of the compulsion—the nearly irresistible pull toward an invention domain no one else has explored. Part of this pull is rooted in curiosity, but curiosity alone does not explain all of it. Plenty of people are curi...

Here is a recipe for Rich Fried Rice , prepared with the bold spirit and sizzling philosophical flair of Friedrich Nietzsche —a dish that refuses to be merely "good," and instead strives to become what it is : a triumphant, self-overcoming skillet of flavor. Rich Fried Rice: A Nietzschean Recipe for Culinary Self-Overcoming Introduction: Fried rice is too often treated as an afterthought—a way to use leftovers, a footnote to a larger meal. But Nietzsche would have none of this timid culinary modesty. This rice must become rich , not merely in flavor but in character . It must surpass its former self, transcending its humble origins, leaping beyond the starchy morality of the herd. This is fried rice that gazes into the abyss of your empty stomach—and the abyss happily gazes back. Let us proceed. Ingredients (Only those with the will to season may enter.) 3 cups day-old rice , cooled (for only the disciplined grain attains greatness) 2 tbsp oil (the eternal recurrence of sizz...

The Three Rivers Branch Library, located in Visalia, California, was modest—two rooms, beige walls, and shelves that smelled of sun-warmed paperbacks. It stood quietly near the Kaweah River, more a gathering place than a building, more heart than institution. Yet in early spring, rumors spread like wildfire through the town: the county was considering closing it down. For many in Three Rivers, this was unthinkable. The library wasn't just about books. It was where children learned to dream, where retirees found company, and where hikers stopped by for maps and stories before heading up to the groves of Sequoia National Park.   So, the townsfolk called a meeting. They packed into the multipurpose room—farmers with dusty boots, artists with paint on their sleeves, shopkeepers, and children still clutching backpacks. The library manager, a thoughtful man named Mr. Alvarez, scribbled notes as the room buzzed with ideas. "Bake sales." "A fundraising gala." "Part...

One of the thing I'm most concerned about is affordable housing for billionaires. Many of them do not have a regular paycheck. They subsist month to month on passive income that flows into their bank accounts like the Niagara River surging after an intense downpour. Many of them have no idea where their next $100 million will come from. Take a moment to look behind the facade of their lives. Underneath their gilded and sparkling trappings lie tales of uncertainty and apprehension, where maintaining an extravagant lifestyle is akin to treading a tightrope suspended over a chasm of financial instability.   Picture, if you will, the bewildering complexities of their predicament. While the rest of society frets over bills, mortgages, and making ends meet, billionaires grapple with an entirely different set of fiscal quandaries.   Their lifeblood, the passive income, ebbs and flows with the volatility of the global economy, subject to the caprices of stock markets, real estate vent...

Once upon a time, in a quiet town, there lived an elderly widower named Henry. His beloved wife had passed away twenty years ago, leaving a void in his life that seemed impossible to fill. But amidst the solitude, Henry found solace and joy in visiting the local public library. Every Saturday, he would make his way to the library, where he would spend hours immersed in the world of books. There, on his favorite couch, he would lose himself in stories and knowledge, feeling a sense of connection to the world. The library had become his sanctuary, a place where he felt a comforting presence even in the absence of his dear wife. However, Henry's Saturdays had become increasingly lonely. His aging body no longer allowed him to drive safely, and he relied on the kindness of library staff who would pick him up and drop him off at home. Despite their companionship during the car rides, he longed for more meaningful connections and a renewed purpose in his life. One Saturday, as Henry sat ...

Working at a public library may seem serene—rows of books, whispered conversations, the soft click of a keyboard—but don't be fooled. This is no place for the faint of heart. It's basically the X Games in cardigans. Consider the adrenaline rush of refiling books during toddler storytime. You've got 26 kids under four hyped up on Goldfish crackers and "The Wheels on the Bus," stampeding past the reference section like caffeinated wildebeest. One wrong move and you're knocked into the biography shelves by a rogue stroller. Or the circulation desk showdown: a line of impatient patrons, each one convinced they returned The Grapes of Wrath three months ago, even though you're holding it in your hands, complete with fresh marinara stains and a receipt from Olive Garden tucked inside. Negotiating overdue fines requires the poise of a diplomat and the reflexes of a ninja. But the most dangerous task—the true Everest of public service—is the printer. "When wo...