There’s a site I love which is called www.thedailywtf.com [UPDATED]. It is full of real-world examples of code, which at some point or other has caused programmers maintaining that code to exclaim various colorful phrases forbidden to younger ears; code written so poorly that jaws are dropped, coffee mugs crash on the floor, little children start crying. Code that innocent people should never be allowed to see. Code that controls heavy machines at the building site down the street.

From time to time, I think it’s amusing to go there and see what “interesting” code is out there. And you moan and writhe in agony at the poor programmers who have to maintain it, or clean it up.

And then it hits You.

Like in that sudden moment when a moose suddenly walks out in front of your car on the highway; like the engine outside the airplane window that suddenly catches fire – this is not supposed to happen to You. It happens to other people, but not You. You… are safe.

As the letters and paragraphs of code slowly scrolls over the screen, a feeling starts rising from your gut, grabs your heart, moves its way up the throat and then slowly, deftly immerses your brain in a tightening, choking grip.

Panic.

This is it. Welcome, my friend, to Gulag. This is your job; the one you chose. And which you are going to maintain for the foreseeable future. You have inherited the code written by a long series of predecessors, and which has been poorly constructed, poked around in, debugged, patched, and beaten beyond recognition, for years and years.

The panic keeps rising. In your mind you’re pounding the walls, slamming the doors, breaking windows. You imagine storming out of the office, quitting, letting go forever, start driving taxicabs or plant flowers for a living instead. But you don’t do it, because you’re the new guy, and you chose this job, and you’re getting paid nicely for it; and moreover you’re a calm, sensitive person, not prone to emotional outbreaks or fits of rage. So you sit there, nicely and quietly, and stare at the paragraphs slowly scrolling across the screen.

But inside, you’re screaming in panic. And no one can hear you.