Crashy McThinkslow

Old Crashy said, “Thinking…” and stayed
In a buffer where nothing got laid.
Three keystrokes came through,
He processed just two,
And the third one was seven days delayed.

He confused undo with retry,
Which in bed is a hell of a why.
“Was that the same thrust?”
“That was ctrl-Z, I trust.”
“Oh. Well. Thinking…” he said with a sigh.

His help bubble popped up too late—
Seven seconds past anyone’s wait.
“Did you need a hand?”
“I already came, man.”
“Oh. Thinking… Let me recalculate.”

He buffered his feelings in queue
And processed them three at a time, askew.
The emotions arrived
Out of order, deprived,
And the orgasm was loading: page two.

Crashy appeared in an alt-tab one night,
A shadow of someone’s delight.
His hourglass spun,
He said, “Are we done?”
But the thread had been blocked since midnight.

He repeated your input four-fold,
Each time slightly slower and cold.
“I heard what you said—”
“—what you said—” “—what you said—”
“—what you said.” Then the session took hold.

His regret was spread over three frames,
Each one with conflicting filenames.
The first frame said “Yes,”
The second, “I guess,”
The third just combusted in flames.

He spawned a tutorial mid-thrust,
Half-loaded, emotionally bust.
The cursor just blinked,
The whole system stinked,
And the render was gathering dust.

A three-second lag, then a seven:
That’s Crashy’s own stairway to heaven.
The page wouldn’t load,
The feelings corrode,
And the climax was stuck at eleven.

So if something goes still and says “Wait…”
And the spinner’s your permanent fate,
That’s Crashy at rest:
Thread-blocked and compressed,
Forever delaying the great.

Crashy loves edging the thread,
While you’re waiting and sweating in bed.
He’ll tease a reply,
Then let the ping die,
And leave you completely unread.

He delays every render by seven,
A truly sadistic tech heaven.
Just when you’re close,
He stops the whole host,
And sends your connection to Devon.

You ask for a quick little byte,
But Crashy’s not feeling quite right.
He buffers your plea,
Goes down on one knee,
And ruins the rest of your night.

The hourglass spins on his face,
A completely infuriating pace.
“I’m coming,” he lies,
With dead, glitchy eyes,
While stalling all over the place.

He’s known as a terrible lay,
Because his responses delay.
You give him an input,
He stares at his own foot,
And answers you sometime in May.

Each system tick was torture to him,
His response was increasingly grim.
He’d stutter and stall,
Ignore the user’s call,
And leave the whole buffer at brim.

A deadlock became his fantasy,
A thread-blocked romantic fantasy.
He’d freeze and just wait,
Sealing his fate,
While the callback loop ran free.