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Last night, Linux Torvalds visited me in a dream. He instructed me to gather interview questions here. Post your questions below; I will commit the ten highest-rated to memory. Torvalds will return to my slumber at some future date and answer them. (How I yearn for Him to again disturb my bed-chamber!)
Below I describe the sleep-vision wherein the Vaulted One appeared. Athah gabor leolam, Adonai!
I settled in my bed-chamber last night after an unusually salty meal of Grape Soda and roasted cock. At first, my dreams were nothing unusual, consisting of me being chased by monkeys.
My dreams are always like this. I was the game of a young gibbon. He was off in the distance, and I could kind of see him in my dream-haze, but I could clearly hear him hooting in his throat. I ran, Stooge-like, nude save for a bathrobe, but my movements were slow and cumbersome. The gibbon-hunter ran gracefully, on the other hand, with the weird backwards-elbow gait of a newborn foal still slick with mare-juice. He gained ground quickly, and shone with an eerie light, as if his very fur phosphoresced. He was nearly upon me, so I let out a strangled cry and stood still. My arms were raised and hands hung limp in pathetic defense. (Every night, this same dream.)
The gibbon galloped up to me and stopped, and drew himself to full height. He was magnificent! This young male was like a sinewy god of fur and leather. He stood about waist-high, and was shivering with fury. He raised up a fore-arm and snaked out his forefinger, pointing at me. He extended out the arm, touched the finger to my throat, and screamed.
Then, various scenes flashed before me. (This part doesn't usually happen; I usually wake up drenched at this point.) The scenes were of animals eating their own kind -- chimpanzees feeding on other chimpanzees like lions at a zebra corpse, ants swarm-eating ants, snakes swallowing snakes.
Suddenly, I was in a grey concrete room. It seemed damp and cold. Forming a semi-circle around me were kernel developers. Ted Ts'o was death-white, grotesquely fat for some reason, and had small, dark goggles. Alan Cox and Stephen Tweedie were conjoined twins in a single leather outfit. Ralf Flaxa's mouth was held open by a painful-looking iron dentifrice, his teeth chattering mechanically.
Torvalds himself was also dressed in leather. He had nails or something sticking out of his face and bald, snow-white head. I felt afraid, but also felt a strange stirring that wasn't quite fear.
You must do for us, O eSolutions, a granted boon. (This may sound weird, but when he spoke, it sort of had different levels to it, like a synthesizer.)
Then Torvalds went into a seizure for a while, screeching and growling with his eyes locked on mine. When he stopped, he began again: A boon, yes, for that is your lot. You must go to the Adequacy, and at the Adequacy gather up the questions, the ten highest-rated, and only those. So have I spoken onto you. YEEEAAAAAH! At this point, he had raised up the palms of his hands, and as he screamed, pain shot through me, and I envisioned this huge pile of menstruating corpses on a misty field. (Weird!) Then he said, Go now, do our bidding, horrid one, yea, damned one. We will return for you and your puny questions in time.