Hubby has a very mangled 8" floppy in a very fancy glassed-in framed case on his wall. Like his diplomas and awards.
The disk has been twisted with obvious white-mark folds, and the brown disk material has slices and cut-outs in it, plus a jagged tear with a piece dangling outside the casing.
“It’s my Training Badge Of Dishonor,” he says.
He received a late-night phone call from a client’s night-shift computer operator who said the floppy drive wasn’t accepting the nightly backup disk. He told her “Get a new one, not a big deal.” It happens once a month or so.
Then he casually said, “Sometimes, I wish I could tear those open and slice out all the bad sectors…”
They talked about the rest of the night’s operations. Nothing big, no big deal, same ol’, same ol’…
Six hours later, well past midnight, his phone rang again and it was an enraged, screaming IBM repairman who’d driven 4 hours to this customer site to repair a “blown up disk drive” for that bank’s federally mandated nightly-backups.
“Did you tell this operator to cut up the floppy and stick it back into the system?!!” he screamed.
No, of course not, Hubby insisted. Then he thought, “Well, gee, I made a joke about ME doing that sometime…”
But this not-well-versed computer operator thought this was a possible idea. She sliced and peeled open the floppy’s cover, pulled out the disk itself (“See? That’s her fingerprints!”) and then found scratches and pitmarks and proceeded to take scissors from the middle hole outward and slice out every “bad sector”.
Then she found an iron, heated it up, reglued and resealed the floppy casing, and stuck the floppy back into the computer to continue nightly backups - which promptly lost its Read-Write heads among the tears and holes, crunching everything to a dead halt. Federal Regulations and all.
IBM was required - by law - to get there and fix it. Wee hours of the night or not. From Midland, Texas to Presidio. 250 miles of small, winding desert State and County roads after midnight, southwest, past the Big Bend, onto the edge of the Rio Grande with Mexican cliffs on the other side. “End of the world” is not too much of a stretch.
That IBM Repairman transferred away, shortly thereafter, to Nome, Alaska. No kidding. From the frying pan into the deep freeze.