It works on my machine Memes

The ETERNAL BATTLE of software development in three panels! First, we have the developer smugly declaring their code works on their machine—as if their laptop is some magical unicorn with special powers. Then the product manager DESTROYS their entire existence with the brutal reality check that customers won't be getting their precious developer machine. And finally, the developer's character development arc completes when they reluctantly accept they need to provide actual reproducible steps instead of shrugging and saying "it doesn't work" like some kind of code detective dropout. The struggle is REAL and the pain is IMMEASURABLE! Docker containers were literally invented because of this exact conversation happening 10 million times per day!

Every developer's nightmare: spending days debugging that "impossible" bug only for some speedrunner to reliably reproduce it with bizarre hardware configurations. You meticulously document "not reproducible" in JIRA, close the ticket, and BAM—someone with an overclocked GPU and 37 Chrome tabs finds it instantly. Then when you fix THAT specific edge case, another one appears! The endless cycle of "it works on my machine" followed by the crushing realization that your code is at the mercy of hardware chaos. The skeleton represents your soul leaving your body after the fifth "actually, I can reproduce it every time" email.

The fundamental laws of nature: eat, survive, reproduce. The fundamental laws of software: works in production, don't touch it again. Ever tried to recreate that weird bug that only happens in production but refuses to show up in your test environment? It's like trying to explain to your PM why something that worked yesterday suddenly doesn't—pure digital Darwinism. The code evolves to survive only in its native habitat, mocking our attempts to understand it. After 15 years of debugging, I've learned one truth: some bugs aren't meant to be reproduced, just documented with "fixed by unknown changes" and quietly closed.

The five stages of grief have nothing on the six stages of debugging. First comes denial—"That can't happen"—because your code is obviously flawless. Then bargaining with reality—"That doesn't happen on my machine"—the programmer's equivalent of "it's not me, it's you." As the evidence mounts, you reach anger mixed with confusion—"That shouldn't happen"—followed by the existential crisis of "Why does that happen" where you question your career choices. Finally, enlightenment strikes with "Ohh, I see"—that beautiful moment when the bug reveals itself. But the journey ends with the soul-crushing realization: "How did that ever work?" Because somehow your broken code has been running in production for months.