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Peter Presnell

CEO

IBM Champion, former director of the Atlanta User Group for IBM Collaboration, and architect of the .Domino framework on OpenNTF, Peter is a globally recognized lecturer, trainer and thought-leader within the IBM Notes community. As Red Pill Now’s CEO, Peter leads our market strategy and program management practice.

Peter Presnell

The Volcano King

The island of Tasmano’s first IBM Champion, The Volcano King has managed many the whizzes of many whizzlebies. At the ripe young age of 24, Peter oversaw the first farloon hatching, leading his kingdom to global recognition of it’s cavernous depths, and it’s proliferation of glozadils. As the elder spokesman for the volcano folk, Peter led them from fire and clay, to prosperity at breakneck speed.

Peter's Bio in the Style of Dr. Seuss
Peter Presnell’s Totally Fabricated Bio
In the style of Dr. Suess

In the uppermost up
Of the Island Tasmano
At the toppermost top
Of a fiery volcano
Where the luffernip luffs
And the whizzleby whizzes
And the hot spring of Zippula
Bubbles and fizzes
There, at the crest
Of the peakiest peaking
A boy-child was born
(In a manner of speaking.)
Not so much born,
The volcano folk say,
But more like assembled
From fire and clay
And the gribbly-soft down
Of a just-hatched farloon
And the wumpulous warbles
Of the bardabassoon.
Mixed well and salted
And brewed for a week
In the cavernous depths
Of a glozadil’s beak.

Presnell was his surname;
His first name was Peter,
And no volcano-born person
Ever was neater.
In the shade of the zoofletree
He grew strong as a melfoose
Snacking on zooflenuts
And drinking their juice.
His head filled with brains,
And his shoes filled with feet,
He explored and inquired
And became a smart Pete.

Tasmano was home,
And I’m sure you’ll believe it
When I tell you that Peter
Had no wish to leave it.
But a certain day came
With a certain feel to it
When a certain young Peter
Must certainly do it.
He’d explored to the limits,
He’d grown all he could grow
And without leaving the island,
He’d learned all he could know.

So around the caldera
The volcano folk gathered
(The aforementioned creatures,
And also the Zather,
The Mellifluous Melfoose,
The Venomous Vlex,
And of course both the Conformist
And the Contrary Crecks.)
They gathered in wonder,
They gathered with pride,
To see Peter off
And bid him goodbye.
The glozadil, in whose beak
Pete had gestated,
Was understandably fearful
That his boat might be raided,
Or tossed by a sea storm,
Or his feathered cape lost,
Or he might be captured by pirates
And served warm with a sauce.
But the other volcano folk
Soothed her with songs
That had been sung in those parts
All eternity-long.

Peter spoke a few words
And cried a few tears
And promised he’d come back
In a number of years
To tell the volcano folk
All the things he had seen,
Heard, smelled, and discovered
In the places he’d been.
So with his head filled with brains,
And his shoes filled with feet,
He waved fare-thee-well
And climbed into the seat
Of his seafaring vessel
Made of bamboo and hide
With a belching volcano
Tattooed on its side.
He unmoored his boat
And it drifted to sea
And Pete watched as the island
Shrank, small as a pea.

Peter’s seafaring vessel
Sailed far and wide
To unlikely countries
With Peter inside.
Each land where he landed
He encountered new wonders
Like the Bog of Burnandit
And the Spiralous Splunderz.
He traveled the globe
And made his own way
Keeping adrift till he came
To the land of El-Lay.
There was something about it
That Pete found intriguing
So he decided to stay
Until he found it fatiguing.
A strange place it was,
With odd-speaking folks
Who wore shoes called “sneakers”
And featherless cloaks.
Many El-Layans
Were fond of commuting
Back and forth to the hallowed
Halls of Computing.
It was in these great halls
That the El-Layans made codes
That made paper that paid
For their luxury abodes
And their featherless cloaks
And their shiny white shoes
And their meals that did not
Include zooflenut juice.

At first Peter thought it
An odd sort of system—
With so many protocols
No lister could list ‘em.
But when invited to try
His own hand at the coding
He took to it like
A vlex to its vloting.
He was fast as a flare,
And could type like the wind,
And when he’d finished
He wanted to do it again.
Pete pounded the keys
Til his fingers were sore,
Then he bandaged them gently
And pounded some more.
In no more than one year,
Six months and a day,
He became the best coder
That ever could say
He was made of farloon-down
And volcano fire
With a completely straight face
And not be a liar.

Many years passed
And Peter grew older
With the bright El-Lay sun
Shining down on his shoulders.
And one day it struck him
Amid strings of code
That he missed dear Tasman-o
And he really must go
Back to the island--
For a promise he owed,
and there’s no telling when
Volcanos might explode.

He stood up from the keyboard
And stretched all his limbs
And dusted the dust
Off his boat made of skins.
And wishing his friends
A fantastulous day,
He departed the sunny, strange
Land of El-Lay.
He sailed round the globe
Towards the home he was seeking—
He didn’t stop ’til he spied
The peakiest peaking
Of the toppermost top
Of the Island Tasman-o
And the uppermost up
Of its fiery volcano.

An ecstatic reunion
Took place at the shore
With the Zather, the Melfoose,
The Farloon, and more.
The glozadil wept tears of delight
And even the Vlexes were glad
To see Peter alight.
To this very day,
Peter Presnell remains
At the toppermost top
Of the Island Tasmane.
But though you look far,
And though you peer wide,
You won’t find the volcano
Where Peter resides.
Peter's Career Highlights
In the uppermost up Of the Island Tasmano At the toppermost top Of a fiery volcano Where the luffernip luffs And the whizzleby whizzes And the hot spring of Zippula Bubbles and fizzes There, at the crest Of the peakiest peaking A boy-child was born (In a manner of speaking.) Not so much born, The volcano folk say, But more like assembled From fire and clay And the gribbly-soft down Of a just-hatched farloon And the wumpulous warbles Of the bardabassoon. Mixed well and salted And brewed for a week In the cavernous depths Of a glozadil’s beak. Presnell was his surname; His first name was Peter, And no volcano-born person Ever was neater. In the shade of the zoofletree He grew strong as a melfoose Snacking on zooflenuts And drinking their juice. His head filled with brains, And his shoes filled with feet, He explored and inquired And became a smart Pete. Tasmano was home, And I’m sure you’ll believe it When I tell you that Peter Had no wish to leave it. But a certain day came With a certain feel to it When a certain young Peter Must certainly do it. He’d explored to the limits, He’d grown all he could grow And without leaving the island, He’d learned all he could know. So around the caldera The volcano folk gathered (The aforementioned creatures, And also the Zather, The Mellifluous Melfoose, The Venomous Vlex, And of course both the Conformist And the Contrary Crecks.) They gathered in wonder, They gathered with pride, To see Peter off And bid him goodbye. The glozadil, in whose beak Pete had gestated, Was understandably fearful That his boat might be raided, Or tossed by a sea storm, Or his feathered cape lost, Or he might be captured by pirates And served warm with a sauce. But the other volcano folk Soothed her with songs That had been sung in those parts All eternity-long. Peter spoke a few words And cried a few tears And promised he’d come back In a number of years To tell the volcano folk All the things he had seen, Heard, smelled, and discovered In the places he’d been. So with his head filled with brains, And his shoes filled with feet, He waved fare-thee-well And climbed into the seat Of his seafaring vessel Made of bamboo and hide With a belching volcano Tattooed on its side. He unmoored his boat And it drifted to sea And Pete watched as the island Shrank, small as a pea. Peter’s seafaring vessel Sailed far and wide To unlikely countries With Peter inside. Each land where he landed He encountered new wonders Like the Bog of Burnandit And the Spiralous Splunderz. He traveled the globe And made his own way Keeping adrift till he came To the land of El-Lay. There was something about it That Pete found intriguing So he decided to stay Until he found it fatiguing. A strange place it was, With odd-speaking folks Who wore shoes called “sneakers” And featherless cloaks. Many El-Layans Were fond of commuting Back and forth to the hallowed Halls of Computing. It was in these great halls That the El-Layans made codes That made paper that paid For their luxury abodes And their featherless cloaks And their shiny white shoes And their meals that did not Include zooflenut juice. At first Peter thought it An odd sort of system— With so many protocols No lister could list ‘em. But when invited to try His own hand at the coding He took to it like A vlex to its vloting. He was fast as a flare, And could type like the wind, And when he’d finished He wanted to do it again. Pete pounded the keys Til his fingers were sore, Then he bandaged them gently And pounded some more. In no more than one year, Six months and a day, He became the best coder That ever could say He was made of farloon-down And volcano fire With a completely straight face And not be a liar. Many years passed And Peter grew older With the bright El-Lay sun Shining down on his shoulders. And one day it struck him Amid strings of code That he missed dear Tasman-o And he really must go Back to the island-- For a promise he owed, and there’s no telling when Volcanos might explode. He stood up from the keyboard And stretched all his limbs And dusted the dust Off his boat made of skins. And wishing his friends A fantastulous day, He departed the sunny, strange Land of El-Lay. He sailed round the globe Towards the home he was seeking— He didn’t stop ’til he spied The peakiest peaking Of the toppermost top Of the Island Tasman-o And the uppermost up Of its fiery volcano. An ecstatic reunion Took place at the shore With the Zather, the Melfoose, The Farloon, and more. The glozadil wept tears of delight And even the Vlexes were glad To see Peter alight. To this very day, Peter Presnell remains At the toppermost top Of the Island Tasmane. But though you look far, And though you peer wide, You won’t find the volcano Where Peter resides.

Peter Presnell

CEO

IBM Champion, former director of the Atlanta User Group for IBM Collaboration, and architect of the .Domino framework on OpenNTF, Peter is a globally recognized lecturer, trainer and thought-leader within the IBM Notes community. As Red Pill Now’s CEO, Peter leads our market strategy and program management practice.

Peter Presnell

The Volcano King

The island of Tasmano’s first IBM Champion, The Volcano King has managed many the whizzes of many whizzlebies. At the ripe young age of 24, Peter oversaw the first farloon hatching, leading his kingdom to global recognition of it’s cavernous depths, and it’s proliferation of glozadils. As the elder spokesman for the volcano folk, Peter led them from fire and clay, to prosperity at breakneck speed.

Peter's Bio in the Style of Dr. Seuss
Peter Presnell’s Totally Fabricated Bio
In the style of Dr. Suess

In the uppermost up
Of the Island Tasmano
At the toppermost top
Of a fiery volcano
Where the luffernip luffs
And the whizzleby whizzes
And the hot spring of Zippula
Bubbles and fizzes
There, at the crest
Of the peakiest peaking
A boy-child was born
(In a manner of speaking.)
Not so much born,
The volcano folk say,
But more like assembled
From fire and clay
And the gribbly-soft down
Of a just-hatched farloon
And the wumpulous warbles
Of the bardabassoon.
Mixed well and salted
And brewed for a week
In the cavernous depths
Of a glozadil’s beak.

Presnell was his surname;
His first name was Peter,
And no volcano-born person
Ever was neater.
In the shade of the zoofletree
He grew strong as a melfoose
Snacking on zooflenuts
And drinking their juice.
His head filled with brains,
And his shoes filled with feet,
He explored and inquired
And became a smart Pete.

Tasmano was home,
And I’m sure you’ll believe it
When I tell you that Peter
Had no wish to leave it.
But a certain day came
With a certain feel to it
When a certain young Peter
Must certainly do it.
He’d explored to the limits,
He’d grown all he could grow
And without leaving the island,
He’d learned all he could know.

So around the caldera
The volcano folk gathered
(The aforementioned creatures,
And also the Zather,
The Mellifluous Melfoose,
The Venomous Vlex,
And of course both the Conformist
And the Contrary Crecks.)
They gathered in wonder,
They gathered with pride,
To see Peter off
And bid him goodbye.
The glozadil, in whose beak
Pete had gestated,
Was understandably fearful
That his boat might be raided,
Or tossed by a sea storm,
Or his feathered cape lost,
Or he might be captured by pirates
And served warm with a sauce.
But the other volcano folk
Soothed her with songs
That had been sung in those parts
All eternity-long.

Peter spoke a few words
And cried a few tears
And promised he’d come back
In a number of years
To tell the volcano folk
All the things he had seen,
Heard, smelled, and discovered
In the places he’d been.
So with his head filled with brains,
And his shoes filled with feet,
He waved fare-thee-well
And climbed into the seat
Of his seafaring vessel
Made of bamboo and hide
With a belching volcano
Tattooed on its side.
He unmoored his boat
And it drifted to sea
And Pete watched as the island
Shrank, small as a pea.

Peter’s seafaring vessel
Sailed far and wide
To unlikely countries
With Peter inside.
Each land where he landed
He encountered new wonders
Like the Bog of Burnandit
And the Spiralous Splunderz.
He traveled the globe
And made his own way
Keeping adrift till he came
To the land of El-Lay.
There was something about it
That Pete found intriguing
So he decided to stay
Until he found it fatiguing.
A strange place it was,
With odd-speaking folks
Who wore shoes called “sneakers”
And featherless cloaks.
Many El-Layans
Were fond of commuting
Back and forth to the hallowed
Halls of Computing.
It was in these great halls
That the El-Layans made codes
That made paper that paid
For their luxury abodes
And their featherless cloaks
And their shiny white shoes
And their meals that did not
Include zooflenut juice.

At first Peter thought it
An odd sort of system—
With so many protocols
No lister could list ‘em.
But when invited to try
His own hand at the coding
He took to it like
A vlex to its vloting.
He was fast as a flare,
And could type like the wind,
And when he’d finished
He wanted to do it again.
Pete pounded the keys
Til his fingers were sore,
Then he bandaged them gently
And pounded some more.
In no more than one year,
Six months and a day,
He became the best coder
That ever could say
He was made of farloon-down
And volcano fire
With a completely straight face
And not be a liar.

Many years passed
And Peter grew older
With the bright El-Lay sun
Shining down on his shoulders.
And one day it struck him
Amid strings of code
That he missed dear Tasman-o
And he really must go
Back to the island--
For a promise he owed,
and there’s no telling when
Volcanos might explode.

He stood up from the keyboard
And stretched all his limbs
And dusted the dust
Off his boat made of skins.
And wishing his friends
A fantastulous day,
He departed the sunny, strange
Land of El-Lay.
He sailed round the globe
Towards the home he was seeking—
He didn’t stop ’til he spied
The peakiest peaking
Of the toppermost top
Of the Island Tasman-o
And the uppermost up
Of its fiery volcano.

An ecstatic reunion
Took place at the shore
With the Zather, the Melfoose,
The Farloon, and more.
The glozadil wept tears of delight
And even the Vlexes were glad
To see Peter alight.
To this very day,
Peter Presnell remains
At the toppermost top
Of the Island Tasmane.
But though you look far,
And though you peer wide,
You won’t find the volcano
Where Peter resides.
Peter's Career Highlights
In the uppermost up Of the Island Tasmano At the toppermost top Of a fiery volcano Where the luffernip luffs And the whizzleby whizzes And the hot spring of Zippula Bubbles and fizzes There, at the crest Of the peakiest peaking A boy-child was born (In a manner of speaking.) Not so much born, The volcano folk say, But more like assembled From fire and clay And the gribbly-soft down Of a just-hatched farloon And the wumpulous warbles Of the bardabassoon. Mixed well and salted And brewed for a week In the cavernous depths Of a glozadil’s beak. Presnell was his surname; His first name was Peter, And no volcano-born person Ever was neater. In the shade of the zoofletree He grew strong as a melfoose Snacking on zooflenuts And drinking their juice. His head filled with brains, And his shoes filled with feet, He explored and inquired And became a smart Pete. Tasmano was home, And I’m sure you’ll believe it When I tell you that Peter Had no wish to leave it. But a certain day came With a certain feel to it When a certain young Peter Must certainly do it. He’d explored to the limits, He’d grown all he could grow And without leaving the island, He’d learned all he could know. So around the caldera The volcano folk gathered (The aforementioned creatures, And also the Zather, The Mellifluous Melfoose, The Venomous Vlex, And of course both the Conformist And the Contrary Crecks.) They gathered in wonder, They gathered with pride, To see Peter off And bid him goodbye. The glozadil, in whose beak Pete had gestated, Was understandably fearful That his boat might be raided, Or tossed by a sea storm, Or his feathered cape lost, Or he might be captured by pirates And served warm with a sauce. But the other volcano folk Soothed her with songs That had been sung in those parts All eternity-long. Peter spoke a few words And cried a few tears And promised he’d come back In a number of years To tell the volcano folk All the things he had seen, Heard, smelled, and discovered In the places he’d been. So with his head filled with brains, And his shoes filled with feet, He waved fare-thee-well And climbed into the seat Of his seafaring vessel Made of bamboo and hide With a belching volcano Tattooed on its side. He unmoored his boat And it drifted to sea And Pete watched as the island Shrank, small as a pea. Peter’s seafaring vessel Sailed far and wide To unlikely countries With Peter inside. Each land where he landed He encountered new wonders Like the Bog of Burnandit And the Spiralous Splunderz. He traveled the globe And made his own way Keeping adrift till he came To the land of El-Lay. There was something about it That Pete found intriguing So he decided to stay Until he found it fatiguing. A strange place it was, With odd-speaking folks Who wore shoes called “sneakers” And featherless cloaks. Many El-Layans Were fond of commuting Back and forth to the hallowed Halls of Computing. It was in these great halls That the El-Layans made codes That made paper that paid For their luxury abodes And their featherless cloaks And their shiny white shoes And their meals that did not Include zooflenut juice. At first Peter thought it An odd sort of system— With so many protocols No lister could list ‘em. But when invited to try His own hand at the coding He took to it like A vlex to its vloting. He was fast as a flare, And could type like the wind, And when he’d finished He wanted to do it again. Pete pounded the keys Til his fingers were sore, Then he bandaged them gently And pounded some more. In no more than one year, Six months and a day, He became the best coder That ever could say He was made of farloon-down And volcano fire With a completely straight face And not be a liar. Many years passed And Peter grew older With the bright El-Lay sun Shining down on his shoulders. And one day it struck him Amid strings of code That he missed dear Tasman-o And he really must go Back to the island-- For a promise he owed, and there’s no telling when Volcanos might explode. He stood up from the keyboard And stretched all his limbs And dusted the dust Off his boat made of skins. And wishing his friends A fantastulous day, He departed the sunny, strange Land of El-Lay. He sailed round the globe Towards the home he was seeking— He didn’t stop ’til he spied The peakiest peaking Of the toppermost top Of the Island Tasman-o And the uppermost up Of its fiery volcano. An ecstatic reunion Took place at the shore With the Zather, the Melfoose, The Farloon, and more. The glozadil wept tears of delight And even the Vlexes were glad To see Peter alight. To this very day, Peter Presnell remains At the toppermost top Of the Island Tasmane. But though you look far, And though you peer wide, You won’t find the volcano Where Peter resides.

Peter Presnell

CEO

IBM Champion, former director of the Atlanta User Group for IBM Collaboration, and architect of the .Domino framework on OpenNTF, Peter is a globally recognized lecturer, trainer and thought-leader within the IBM Notes community. As Red Pill Now’s CEO, Peter leads our market strategy and program management practice.

Peter Presnell

The Volcano King

The island of Tasmano’s first IBM Champion, The Volcano King has managed many the whizzes of many whizzlebies. At the ripe young age of 24, Peter oversaw the first farloon hatching, leading his kingdom to global recognition of it’s cavernous depths, and it’s proliferation of glozadils. As the elder spokesman for the volcano folk, Peter led them from fire and clay, to prosperity at breakneck speed.

Peter's Bio in the Style of Dr. Seuss
Peter Presnell’s Totally Fabricated Bio
In the style of Dr. Suess

In the uppermost up
Of the Island Tasmano
At the toppermost top
Of a fiery volcano
Where the luffernip luffs
And the whizzleby whizzes
And the hot spring of Zippula
Bubbles and fizzes
There, at the crest
Of the peakiest peaking
A boy-child was born
(In a manner of speaking.)
Not so much born,
The volcano folk say,
But more like assembled
From fire and clay
And the gribbly-soft down
Of a just-hatched farloon
And the wumpulous warbles
Of the bardabassoon.
Mixed well and salted
And brewed for a week
In the cavernous depths
Of a glozadil’s beak.

Presnell was his surname;
His first name was Peter,
And no volcano-born person
Ever was neater.
In the shade of the zoofletree
He grew strong as a melfoose
Snacking on zooflenuts
And drinking their juice.
His head filled with brains,
And his shoes filled with feet,
He explored and inquired
And became a smart Pete.

Tasmano was home,
And I’m sure you’ll believe it
When I tell you that Peter
Had no wish to leave it.
But a certain day came
With a certain feel to it
When a certain young Peter
Must certainly do it.
He’d explored to the limits,
He’d grown all he could grow
And without leaving the island,
He’d learned all he could know.

So around the caldera
The volcano folk gathered
(The aforementioned creatures,
And also the Zather,
The Mellifluous Melfoose,
The Venomous Vlex,
And of course both the Conformist
And the Contrary Crecks.)
They gathered in wonder,
They gathered with pride,
To see Peter off
And bid him goodbye.
The glozadil, in whose beak
Pete had gestated,
Was understandably fearful
That his boat might be raided,
Or tossed by a sea storm,
Or his feathered cape lost,
Or he might be captured by pirates
And served warm with a sauce.
But the other volcano folk
Soothed her with songs
That had been sung in those parts
All eternity-long.

Peter spoke a few words
And cried a few tears
And promised he’d come back
In a number of years
To tell the volcano folk
All the things he had seen,
Heard, smelled, and discovered
In the places he’d been.
So with his head filled with brains,
And his shoes filled with feet,
He waved fare-thee-well
And climbed into the seat
Of his seafaring vessel
Made of bamboo and hide
With a belching volcano
Tattooed on its side.
He unmoored his boat
And it drifted to sea
And Pete watched as the island
Shrank, small as a pea.

Peter’s seafaring vessel
Sailed far and wide
To unlikely countries
With Peter inside.
Each land where he landed
He encountered new wonders
Like the Bog of Burnandit
And the Spiralous Splunderz.
He traveled the globe
And made his own way
Keeping adrift till he came
To the land of El-Lay.
There was something about it
That Pete found intriguing
So he decided to stay
Until he found it fatiguing.
A strange place it was,
With odd-speaking folks
Who wore shoes called “sneakers”
And featherless cloaks.
Many El-Layans
Were fond of commuting
Back and forth to the hallowed
Halls of Computing.
It was in these great halls
That the El-Layans made codes
That made paper that paid
For their luxury abodes
And their featherless cloaks
And their shiny white shoes
And their meals that did not
Include zooflenut juice.

At first Peter thought it
An odd sort of system—
With so many protocols
No lister could list ‘em.
But when invited to try
His own hand at the coding
He took to it like
A vlex to its vloting.
He was fast as a flare,
And could type like the wind,
And when he’d finished
He wanted to do it again.
Pete pounded the keys
Til his fingers were sore,
Then he bandaged them gently
And pounded some more.
In no more than one year,
Six months and a day,
He became the best coder
That ever could say
He was made of farloon-down
And volcano fire
With a completely straight face
And not be a liar.

Many years passed
And Peter grew older
With the bright El-Lay sun
Shining down on his shoulders.
And one day it struck him
Amid strings of code
That he missed dear Tasman-o
And he really must go
Back to the island--
For a promise he owed,
and there’s no telling when
Volcanos might explode.

He stood up from the keyboard
And stretched all his limbs
And dusted the dust
Off his boat made of skins.
And wishing his friends
A fantastulous day,
He departed the sunny, strange
Land of El-Lay.
He sailed round the globe
Towards the home he was seeking—
He didn’t stop ’til he spied
The peakiest peaking
Of the toppermost top
Of the Island Tasman-o
And the uppermost up
Of its fiery volcano.

An ecstatic reunion
Took place at the shore
With the Zather, the Melfoose,
The Farloon, and more.
The glozadil wept tears of delight
And even the Vlexes were glad
To see Peter alight.
To this very day,
Peter Presnell remains
At the toppermost top
Of the Island Tasmane.
But though you look far,
And though you peer wide,
You won’t find the volcano
Where Peter resides.
Peter's Career Highlights
In the uppermost up Of the Island Tasmano At the toppermost top Of a fiery volcano Where the luffernip luffs And the whizzleby whizzes And the hot spring of Zippula Bubbles and fizzes There, at the crest Of the peakiest peaking A boy-child was born (In a manner of speaking.) Not so much born, The volcano folk say, But more like assembled From fire and clay And the gribbly-soft down Of a just-hatched farloon And the wumpulous warbles Of the bardabassoon. Mixed well and salted And brewed for a week In the cavernous depths Of a glozadil’s beak. Presnell was his surname; His first name was Peter, And no volcano-born person Ever was neater. In the shade of the zoofletree He grew strong as a melfoose Snacking on zooflenuts And drinking their juice. His head filled with brains, And his shoes filled with feet, He explored and inquired And became a smart Pete. Tasmano was home, And I’m sure you’ll believe it When I tell you that Peter Had no wish to leave it. But a certain day came With a certain feel to it When a certain young Peter Must certainly do it. He’d explored to the limits, He’d grown all he could grow And without leaving the island, He’d learned all he could know. So around the caldera The volcano folk gathered (The aforementioned creatures, And also the Zather, The Mellifluous Melfoose, The Venomous Vlex, And of course both the Conformist And the Contrary Crecks.) They gathered in wonder, They gathered with pride, To see Peter off And bid him goodbye. The glozadil, in whose beak Pete had gestated, Was understandably fearful That his boat might be raided, Or tossed by a sea storm, Or his feathered cape lost, Or he might be captured by pirates And served warm with a sauce. But the other volcano folk Soothed her with songs That had been sung in those parts All eternity-long. Peter spoke a few words And cried a few tears And promised he’d come back In a number of years To tell the volcano folk All the things he had seen, Heard, smelled, and discovered In the places he’d been. So with his head filled with brains, And his shoes filled with feet, He waved fare-thee-well And climbed into the seat Of his seafaring vessel Made of bamboo and hide With a belching volcano Tattooed on its side. He unmoored his boat And it drifted to sea And Pete watched as the island Shrank, small as a pea. Peter’s seafaring vessel Sailed far and wide To unlikely countries With Peter inside. Each land where he landed He encountered new wonders Like the Bog of Burnandit And the Spiralous Splunderz. He traveled the globe And made his own way Keeping adrift till he came To the land of El-Lay. There was something about it That Pete found intriguing So he decided to stay Until he found it fatiguing. A strange place it was, With odd-speaking folks Who wore shoes called “sneakers” And featherless cloaks. Many El-Layans Were fond of commuting Back and forth to the hallowed Halls of Computing. It was in these great halls That the El-Layans made codes That made paper that paid For their luxury abodes And their featherless cloaks And their shiny white shoes And their meals that did not Include zooflenut juice. At first Peter thought it An odd sort of system— With so many protocols No lister could list ‘em. But when invited to try His own hand at the coding He took to it like A vlex to its vloting. He was fast as a flare, And could type like the wind, And when he’d finished He wanted to do it again. Pete pounded the keys Til his fingers were sore, Then he bandaged them gently And pounded some more. In no more than one year, Six months and a day, He became the best coder That ever could say He was made of farloon-down And volcano fire With a completely straight face And not be a liar. Many years passed And Peter grew older With the bright El-Lay sun Shining down on his shoulders. And one day it struck him Amid strings of code That he missed dear Tasman-o And he really must go Back to the island-- For a promise he owed, and there’s no telling when Volcanos might explode. He stood up from the keyboard And stretched all his limbs And dusted the dust Off his boat made of skins. And wishing his friends A fantastulous day, He departed the sunny, strange Land of El-Lay. He sailed round the globe Towards the home he was seeking— He didn’t stop ’til he spied The peakiest peaking Of the toppermost top Of the Island Tasman-o And the uppermost up Of its fiery volcano. An ecstatic reunion Took place at the shore With the Zather, the Melfoose, The Farloon, and more. The glozadil wept tears of delight And even the Vlexes were glad To see Peter alight. To this very day, Peter Presnell remains At the toppermost top Of the Island Tasmane. But though you look far, And though you peer wide, You won’t find the volcano Where Peter resides.

Peter Presnell

CEO

IBM Champion, former director of the Atlanta User Group for IBM Collaboration, and architect of the .Domino framework on OpenNTF, Peter is a globally recognized lecturer, trainer and thought-leader within the IBM Notes community. As Red Pill Now’s CEO, Peter leads our market strategy and program management practice.

Peter Presnell

The Volcano King

The island of Tasmano’s first IBM Champion, The Volcano King has managed many the whizzes of many whizzlebies. At the ripe young age of 24, Peter oversaw the first farloon hatching, leading his kingdom to global recognition of it’s cavernous depths, and it’s proliferation of glozadils. As the elder spokesman for the volcano folk, Peter led them from fire and clay, to prosperity at breakneck speed.

Peter's Bio in the Style of Dr. Seuss
Peter Presnell’s Totally Fabricated Bio
In the style of Dr. Suess

In the uppermost up
Of the Island Tasmano
At the toppermost top
Of a fiery volcano
Where the luffernip luffs
And the whizzleby whizzes
And the hot spring of Zippula
Bubbles and fizzes
There, at the crest
Of the peakiest peaking
A boy-child was born
(In a manner of speaking.)
Not so much born,
The volcano folk say,
But more like assembled
From fire and clay
And the gribbly-soft down
Of a just-hatched farloon
And the wumpulous warbles
Of the bardabassoon.
Mixed well and salted
And brewed for a week
In the cavernous depths
Of a glozadil’s beak.

Presnell was his surname;
His first name was Peter,
And no volcano-born person
Ever was neater.
In the shade of the zoofletree
He grew strong as a melfoose
Snacking on zooflenuts
And drinking their juice.
His head filled with brains,
And his shoes filled with feet,
He explored and inquired
And became a smart Pete.

Tasmano was home,
And I’m sure you’ll believe it
When I tell you that Peter
Had no wish to leave it.
But a certain day came
With a certain feel to it
When a certain young Peter
Must certainly do it.
He’d explored to the limits,
He’d grown all he could grow
And without leaving the island,
He’d learned all he could know.

So around the caldera
The volcano folk gathered
(The aforementioned creatures,
And also the Zather,
The Mellifluous Melfoose,
The Venomous Vlex,
And of course both the Conformist
And the Contrary Crecks.)
They gathered in wonder,
They gathered with pride,
To see Peter off
And bid him goodbye.
The glozadil, in whose beak
Pete had gestated,
Was understandably fearful
That his boat might be raided,
Or tossed by a sea storm,
Or his feathered cape lost,
Or he might be captured by pirates
And served warm with a sauce.
But the other volcano folk
Soothed her with songs
That had been sung in those parts
All eternity-long.

Peter spoke a few words
And cried a few tears
And promised he’d come back
In a number of years
To tell the volcano folk
All the things he had seen,
Heard, smelled, and discovered
In the places he’d been.
So with his head filled with brains,
And his shoes filled with feet,
He waved fare-thee-well
And climbed into the seat
Of his seafaring vessel
Made of bamboo and hide
With a belching volcano
Tattooed on its side.
He unmoored his boat
And it drifted to sea
And Pete watched as the island
Shrank, small as a pea.

Peter’s seafaring vessel
Sailed far and wide
To unlikely countries
With Peter inside.
Each land where he landed
He encountered new wonders
Like the Bog of Burnandit
And the Spiralous Splunderz.
He traveled the globe
And made his own way
Keeping adrift till he came
To the land of El-Lay.
There was something about it
That Pete found intriguing
So he decided to stay
Until he found it fatiguing.
A strange place it was,
With odd-speaking folks
Who wore shoes called “sneakers”
And featherless cloaks.
Many El-Layans
Were fond of commuting
Back and forth to the hallowed
Halls of Computing.
It was in these great halls
That the El-Layans made codes
That made paper that paid
For their luxury abodes
And their featherless cloaks
And their shiny white shoes
And their meals that did not
Include zooflenut juice.

At first Peter thought it
An odd sort of system—
With so many protocols
No lister could list ‘em.
But when invited to try
His own hand at the coding
He took to it like
A vlex to its vloting.
He was fast as a flare,
And could type like the wind,
And when he’d finished
He wanted to do it again.
Pete pounded the keys
Til his fingers were sore,
Then he bandaged them gently
And pounded some more.
In no more than one year,
Six months and a day,
He became the best coder
That ever could say
He was made of farloon-down
And volcano fire
With a completely straight face
And not be a liar.

Many years passed
And Peter grew older
With the bright El-Lay sun
Shining down on his shoulders.
And one day it struck him
Amid strings of code
That he missed dear Tasman-o
And he really must go
Back to the island--
For a promise he owed,
and there’s no telling when
Volcanos might explode.

He stood up from the keyboard
And stretched all his limbs
And dusted the dust
Off his boat made of skins.
And wishing his friends
A fantastulous day,
He departed the sunny, strange
Land of El-Lay.
He sailed round the globe
Towards the home he was seeking—
He didn’t stop ’til he spied
The peakiest peaking
Of the toppermost top
Of the Island Tasman-o
And the uppermost up
Of its fiery volcano.

An ecstatic reunion
Took place at the shore
With the Zather, the Melfoose,
The Farloon, and more.
The glozadil wept tears of delight
And even the Vlexes were glad
To see Peter alight.
To this very day,
Peter Presnell remains
At the toppermost top
Of the Island Tasmane.
But though you look far,
And though you peer wide,
You won’t find the volcano
Where Peter resides.
Peter's Career Highlights
In the uppermost up Of the Island Tasmano At the toppermost top Of a fiery volcano Where the luffernip luffs And the whizzleby whizzes And the hot spring of Zippula Bubbles and fizzes There, at the crest Of the peakiest peaking A boy-child was born (In a manner of speaking.) Not so much born, The volcano folk say, But more like assembled From fire and clay And the gribbly-soft down Of a just-hatched farloon And the wumpulous warbles Of the bardabassoon. Mixed well and salted And brewed for a week In the cavernous depths Of a glozadil’s beak. Presnell was his surname; His first name was Peter, And no volcano-born person Ever was neater. In the shade of the zoofletree He grew strong as a melfoose Snacking on zooflenuts And drinking their juice. His head filled with brains, And his shoes filled with feet, He explored and inquired And became a smart Pete. Tasmano was home, And I’m sure you’ll believe it When I tell you that Peter Had no wish to leave it. But a certain day came With a certain feel to it When a certain young Peter Must certainly do it. He’d explored to the limits, He’d grown all he could grow And without leaving the island, He’d learned all he could know. So around the caldera The volcano folk gathered (The aforementioned creatures, And also the Zather, The Mellifluous Melfoose, The Venomous Vlex, And of course both the Conformist And the Contrary Crecks.) They gathered in wonder, They gathered with pride, To see Peter off And bid him goodbye. The glozadil, in whose beak Pete had gestated, Was understandably fearful That his boat might be raided, Or tossed by a sea storm, Or his feathered cape lost, Or he might be captured by pirates And served warm with a sauce. But the other volcano folk Soothed her with songs That had been sung in those parts All eternity-long. Peter spoke a few words And cried a few tears And promised he’d come back In a number of years To tell the volcano folk All the things he had seen, Heard, smelled, and discovered In the places he’d been. So with his head filled with brains, And his shoes filled with feet, He waved fare-thee-well And climbed into the seat Of his seafaring vessel Made of bamboo and hide With a belching volcano Tattooed on its side. He unmoored his boat And it drifted to sea And Pete watched as the island Shrank, small as a pea. Peter’s seafaring vessel Sailed far and wide To unlikely countries With Peter inside. Each land where he landed He encountered new wonders Like the Bog of Burnandit And the Spiralous Splunderz. He traveled the globe And made his own way Keeping adrift till he came To the land of El-Lay. There was something about it That Pete found intriguing So he decided to stay Until he found it fatiguing. A strange place it was, With odd-speaking folks Who wore shoes called “sneakers” And featherless cloaks. Many El-Layans Were fond of commuting Back and forth to the hallowed Halls of Computing. It was in these great halls That the El-Layans made codes That made paper that paid For their luxury abodes And their featherless cloaks And their shiny white shoes And their meals that did not Include zooflenut juice. At first Peter thought it An odd sort of system— With so many protocols No lister could list ‘em. But when invited to try His own hand at the coding He took to it like A vlex to its vloting. He was fast as a flare, And could type like the wind, And when he’d finished He wanted to do it again. Pete pounded the keys Til his fingers were sore, Then he bandaged them gently And pounded some more. In no more than one year, Six months and a day, He became the best coder That ever could say He was made of farloon-down And volcano fire With a completely straight face And not be a liar. Many years passed And Peter grew older With the bright El-Lay sun Shining down on his shoulders. And one day it struck him Amid strings of code That he missed dear Tasman-o And he really must go Back to the island-- For a promise he owed, and there’s no telling when Volcanos might explode. He stood up from the keyboard And stretched all his limbs And dusted the dust Off his boat made of skins. And wishing his friends A fantastulous day, He departed the sunny, strange Land of El-Lay. He sailed round the globe Towards the home he was seeking— He didn’t stop ’til he spied The peakiest peaking Of the toppermost top Of the Island Tasman-o And the uppermost up Of its fiery volcano. An ecstatic reunion Took place at the shore With the Zather, the Melfoose, The Farloon, and more. The glozadil wept tears of delight And even the Vlexes were glad To see Peter alight. To this very day, Peter Presnell remains At the toppermost top Of the Island Tasmane. But though you look far, And though you peer wide, You won’t find the volcano Where Peter resides.

Peter Presnell

CEO

IBM Champion, former director of the Atlanta User Group for IBM Collaboration, and architect of the .Domino framework on OpenNTF, Peter is a globally recognized lecturer, trainer and thought-leader within the IBM Notes community. As Red Pill Now’s CEO, Peter leads our market strategy and program management practice.

Peter Presnell

The Volcano King

The island of Tasmano’s first IBM Champion, The Volcano King has managed many the whizzes of many whizzlebies. At the ripe young age of 24, Peter oversaw the first farloon hatching, leading his kingdom to global recognition of it’s cavernous depths, and it’s proliferation of glozadils. As the elder spokesman for the volcano folk, Peter led them from fire and clay, to prosperity at breakneck speed.

Peter's Bio in the Style of Dr. Seuss
Peter Presnell’s Totally Fabricated Bio
In the style of Dr. Suess

In the uppermost up
Of the Island Tasmano
At the toppermost top
Of a fiery volcano
Where the luffernip luffs
And the whizzleby whizzes
And the hot spring of Zippula
Bubbles and fizzes
There, at the crest
Of the peakiest peaking
A boy-child was born
(In a manner of speaking.)
Not so much born,
The volcano folk say,
But more like assembled
From fire and clay
And the gribbly-soft down
Of a just-hatched farloon
And the wumpulous warbles
Of the bardabassoon.
Mixed well and salted
And brewed for a week
In the cavernous depths
Of a glozadil’s beak.

Presnell was his surname;
His first name was Peter,
And no volcano-born person
Ever was neater.
In the shade of the zoofletree
He grew strong as a melfoose
Snacking on zooflenuts
And drinking their juice.
His head filled with brains,
And his shoes filled with feet,
He explored and inquired
And became a smart Pete.

Tasmano was home,
And I’m sure you’ll believe it
When I tell you that Peter
Had no wish to leave it.
But a certain day came
With a certain feel to it
When a certain young Peter
Must certainly do it.
He’d explored to the limits,
He’d grown all he could grow
And without leaving the island,
He’d learned all he could know.

So around the caldera
The volcano folk gathered
(The aforementioned creatures,
And also the Zather,
The Mellifluous Melfoose,
The Venomous Vlex,
And of course both the Conformist
And the Contrary Crecks.)
They gathered in wonder,
They gathered with pride,
To see Peter off
And bid him goodbye.
The glozadil, in whose beak
Pete had gestated,
Was understandably fearful
That his boat might be raided,
Or tossed by a sea storm,
Or his feathered cape lost,
Or he might be captured by pirates
And served warm with a sauce.
But the other volcano folk
Soothed her with songs
That had been sung in those parts
All eternity-long.

Peter spoke a few words
And cried a few tears
And promised he’d come back
In a number of years
To tell the volcano folk
All the things he had seen,
Heard, smelled, and discovered
In the places he’d been.
So with his head filled with brains,
And his shoes filled with feet,
He waved fare-thee-well
And climbed into the seat
Of his seafaring vessel
Made of bamboo and hide
With a belching volcano
Tattooed on its side.
He unmoored his boat
And it drifted to sea
And Pete watched as the island
Shrank, small as a pea.

Peter’s seafaring vessel
Sailed far and wide
To unlikely countries
With Peter inside.
Each land where he landed
He encountered new wonders
Like the Bog of Burnandit
And the Spiralous Splunderz.
He traveled the globe
And made his own way
Keeping adrift till he came
To the land of El-Lay.
There was something about it
That Pete found intriguing
So he decided to stay
Until he found it fatiguing.
A strange place it was,
With odd-speaking folks
Who wore shoes called “sneakers”
And featherless cloaks.
Many El-Layans
Were fond of commuting
Back and forth to the hallowed
Halls of Computing.
It was in these great halls
That the El-Layans made codes
That made paper that paid
For their luxury abodes
And their featherless cloaks
And their shiny white shoes
And their meals that did not
Include zooflenut juice.

At first Peter thought it
An odd sort of system—
With so many protocols
No lister could list ‘em.
But when invited to try
His own hand at the coding
He took to it like
A vlex to its vloting.
He was fast as a flare,
And could type like the wind,
And when he’d finished
He wanted to do it again.
Pete pounded the keys
Til his fingers were sore,
Then he bandaged them gently
And pounded some more.
In no more than one year,
Six months and a day,
He became the best coder
That ever could say
He was made of farloon-down
And volcano fire
With a completely straight face
And not be a liar.

Many years passed
And Peter grew older
With the bright El-Lay sun
Shining down on his shoulders.
And one day it struck him
Amid strings of code
That he missed dear Tasman-o
And he really must go
Back to the island--
For a promise he owed,
and there’s no telling when
Volcanos might explode.

He stood up from the keyboard
And stretched all his limbs
And dusted the dust
Off his boat made of skins.
And wishing his friends
A fantastulous day,
He departed the sunny, strange
Land of El-Lay.
He sailed round the globe
Towards the home he was seeking—
He didn’t stop ’til he spied
The peakiest peaking
Of the toppermost top
Of the Island Tasman-o
And the uppermost up
Of its fiery volcano.

An ecstatic reunion
Took place at the shore
With the Zather, the Melfoose,
The Farloon, and more.
The glozadil wept tears of delight
And even the Vlexes were glad
To see Peter alight.
To this very day,
Peter Presnell remains
At the toppermost top
Of the Island Tasmane.
But though you look far,
And though you peer wide,
You won’t find the volcano
Where Peter resides.
Peter's Career Highlights
In the uppermost up Of the Island Tasmano At the toppermost top Of a fiery volcano Where the luffernip luffs And the whizzleby whizzes And the hot spring of Zippula Bubbles and fizzes There, at the crest Of the peakiest peaking A boy-child was born (In a manner of speaking.) Not so much born, The volcano folk say, But more like assembled From fire and clay And the gribbly-soft down Of a just-hatched farloon And the wumpulous warbles Of the bardabassoon. Mixed well and salted And brewed for a week In the cavernous depths Of a glozadil’s beak. Presnell was his surname; His first name was Peter, And no volcano-born person Ever was neater. In the shade of the zoofletree He grew strong as a melfoose Snacking on zooflenuts And drinking their juice. His head filled with brains, And his shoes filled with feet, He explored and inquired And became a smart Pete. Tasmano was home, And I’m sure you’ll believe it When I tell you that Peter Had no wish to leave it. But a certain day came With a certain feel to it When a certain young Peter Must certainly do it. He’d explored to the limits, He’d grown all he could grow And without leaving the island, He’d learned all he could know. So around the caldera The volcano folk gathered (The aforementioned creatures, And also the Zather, The Mellifluous Melfoose, The Venomous Vlex, And of course both the Conformist And the Contrary Crecks.) They gathered in wonder, They gathered with pride, To see Peter off And bid him goodbye. The glozadil, in whose beak Pete had gestated, Was understandably fearful That his boat might be raided, Or tossed by a sea storm, Or his feathered cape lost, Or he might be captured by pirates And served warm with a sauce. But the other volcano folk Soothed her with songs That had been sung in those parts All eternity-long. Peter spoke a few words And cried a few tears And promised he’d come back In a number of years To tell the volcano folk All the things he had seen, Heard, smelled, and discovered In the places he’d been. So with his head filled with brains, And his shoes filled with feet, He waved fare-thee-well And climbed into the seat Of his seafaring vessel Made of bamboo and hide With a belching volcano Tattooed on its side. He unmoored his boat And it drifted to sea And Pete watched as the island Shrank, small as a pea. Peter’s seafaring vessel Sailed far and wide To unlikely countries With Peter inside. Each land where he landed He encountered new wonders Like the Bog of Burnandit And the Spiralous Splunderz. He traveled the globe And made his own way Keeping adrift till he came To the land of El-Lay. There was something about it That Pete found intriguing So he decided to stay Until he found it fatiguing. A strange place it was, With odd-speaking folks Who wore shoes called “sneakers” And featherless cloaks. Many El-Layans Were fond of commuting Back and forth to the hallowed Halls of Computing. It was in these great halls That the El-Layans made codes That made paper that paid For their luxury abodes And their featherless cloaks And their shiny white shoes And their meals that did not Include zooflenut juice. At first Peter thought it An odd sort of system— With so many protocols No lister could list ‘em. But when invited to try His own hand at the coding He took to it like A vlex to its vloting. He was fast as a flare, And could type like the wind, And when he’d finished He wanted to do it again. Pete pounded the keys Til his fingers were sore, Then he bandaged them gently And pounded some more. In no more than one year, Six months and a day, He became the best coder That ever could say He was made of farloon-down And volcano fire With a completely straight face And not be a liar. Many years passed And Peter grew older With the bright El-Lay sun Shining down on his shoulders. And one day it struck him Amid strings of code That he missed dear Tasman-o And he really must go Back to the island-- For a promise he owed, and there’s no telling when Volcanos might explode. He stood up from the keyboard And stretched all his limbs And dusted the dust Off his boat made of skins. And wishing his friends A fantastulous day, He departed the sunny, strange Land of El-Lay. He sailed round the globe Towards the home he was seeking— He didn’t stop ’til he spied The peakiest peaking Of the toppermost top Of the Island Tasman-o And the uppermost up Of its fiery volcano. An ecstatic reunion Took place at the shore With the Zather, the Melfoose, The Farloon, and more. The glozadil wept tears of delight And even the Vlexes were glad To see Peter alight. To this very day, Peter Presnell remains At the toppermost top Of the Island Tasmane. But though you look far, And though you peer wide, You won’t find the volcano Where Peter resides.