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Cake day: July 2nd, 2023

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  • Okay, the permission error is almost certainly because the Samba process inside the container doesn’t have the right Linux permissions for the host directory /mnt/my_ext_hdd/my_dir/my_subdir.

    On your server running docker, find the numeric UID and GID for that directory: ls -ln /mnt/my_ext_hdd/my_dir/my_subdir

    you likely need to set PUID=<uid_from_step_1> and PGID=<gid_from_step_1> in the environment: section of your docker-compose.yml file for the Samba service.

    Recreate the container (docker compose up -d --force-recreate).

    WARNING: This assumes you are only accessing Samba from within your secure local network. Never expose Samba directly to the internet. Doing so is a major security risk and makes you a target for attacks.


  • You’re running into that permission error because of how Docker handles file permissions between the host and the container. It’s by design for security reasons. The user inside the container likely doesn’t have access to the mounted directory unless the UID and GID match what’s on the host. You can work around it, but it’s locked down intentionally.

    Also, what’s the use case here? What do you need file sharing via Samba in a Docker container for? If it’s just about moving files in and out, docker cp or docker exec -it container /bin/bash might be easier.




  • So, this question is very difficult to answer. I don’t want you to be discouraged though.

    I can’t answer you because I don’t know your goals. Since we’re in /c/selfhosted, I assume you’re experimenting with some self-hosted setups, which is awesome! But what exactly are you hoping to do with OpenWRT? And what’s the plan for the switch? Are you aiming for better network control, VLANs, firewall rules, or are you just looking to have network area storage?

    If you can share more about what you’re trying to accomplish, folks here will be much better equipped to help you figure out your next steps.




  • If I keep posting this every time there are egg related political news stories, maybe it’ll come true?

    I put together a little short story about how I would like to see Donald Trump meet his demise. Drowning in eggs:

    The Eggsecution.

    The once-proud leader, now stripped of title and dignity, stands in the center of the barren, concrete abyss. The abandoned Olympic swimming pool—thirty feet deep, dry as bone—has become their final stage. Above, the gathered masses stretch in every direction, a writhing sea of anticipation.

    They do not jeer. They do not boo.

    They simply chant.

    “Eggs. Eggs. Eggs.”

    It starts as a murmur, a low thrum of human voices vibrating in unison. Then it grows, swelling into a deafening roar that rattles windows, that shudders in the bones of every person present. A chant as ancient as it is absurd, a single-minded invocation of punishment.

    The first egg arcs high overhead, tracing a lazy curve before splattering against the fallen leader’s shoulder. The yolk bursts, oozing down his baggy, ugly, now-useless suit. A streak of yellow, the first of many.

    Another egg. Then another.

    Then dozens.

    The first impacts make them flinch, stagger—hands raised in a futile shield. But soon there are too many to dodge, too many to deflect. They curl inward as the sky rains viscous judgment. The chant never stops.

    “Eggs. Eggs. Eggs.”

    Shells crack. Yolk drips. The scent of sulfur and shame thickens in the stagnant air. It coats their skin, their hair, their pride, turning them into something less than human. Something… egg-like.

    At the top of the pit, a child—no older than seven—steps forward. They hold their egg with both hands, cradling it like something precious. Reverent. With a deliberate motion, they lob it downward. It strikes the leader square on the forehead, exploding with an almost musical plap. The crowd erupts into a fresh crescendo of cheers, but the chant never falters.

    “Eggs. Eggs. Eggs.”

    No escape. No reprieve. The pit is smooth concrete, slick now with raw egg and humiliation. They can do nothing but stand there, endure, become part of the ritual.

    Somewhere in the throng, a vendor hawks boiled eggs. Another sells cartons to the unprepared. A man in a chicken suit waves encouragingly at the crowd.

    The night wears on, but the spectacle does not end.

    It cannot end.

    Not until the last egg is thrown. Not until the last voice is hoarse.

    Not until the world is rid of this one, failed leader, broken not by swords or exile, but by the inescapable weight of public yolk and scorn.

    “Eggs. Eggs. Eggs.”





  • foggy@lemmy.worldtoMemes@lemmy.mlcloudfare bad
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    1 year ago

    That’s the thing about not respecting you – I don’t value any of your opinions.

    Being so willing to pontificate about something you know so little about, I don’t think any one will value your opinion in this thread. At least, they shouldn’t lol.