FTP, FTPS and SFTP walk into a bar. And right away there’s a problem, because what is that? Three letters, three letters, four letters. Who named these? Nobody sat down and said “let’s make it easy.” Somebody just kept adding letters until it stopped working.

So FTP goes up to the bartender and says, loudly, in front of everyone, “Hi, my username is admin and my password is hunter2.” The whole bar hears it. The guy in the corner writes it down. The bartender says, “Sir, you don’t have to announce it.” And FTP says, “What’s the problem? I’m just being open.” That’s FTP’s whole personality. He’s open. He’s the guy who tells you his PIN at the ATM and then asks why his account is empty.

Now FTPS is standing next to him, in a trench coat. A trench coat! Indoors! And you look at him and you think, “I know that guy. That’s FTP.” But he says, “No, no. I’m secure. I’m encrypted.” And you say, “You’re the same guy with a coat on.” And he says, “Port 21, AUTH TLS, very different.” Sure. Very different. Same guy, same face, now he’s mumbling.

And here’s the part I don’t understand about FTPS. He needs two connections. Two! One for talking and one for the stuff. Why can’t you do it all in one place? It’s like ordering a sandwich and having to go to a different counter for the bread. The bartender says, “Where do I send the drinks?” And FTPS says, “Oh, that depends. I’ll tell you a random number between 1024 and 65535.” The bartender says, “I’m the firewall. I don’t let random numbers in.” FTPS says, “Then we have a problem.” That’s it. That’s the whole relationship. A problem.

Meanwhile SFTP is sitting at the end of the bar. Calm. Quiet. Drinking something sensible. One connection. Port 22. Nobody’s yelling. No trench coat. And the bartender walks straight over and says, “What’ll you have?” and SFTP says, “Whatever. I’ve got a key.” And the bartender says, “You’ve got a key?” SFTP says, “I’ve got a key, I’ve got a fingerprint, and I know who I’m talking to.” The bartender nearly cried. First honest customer all night.

But here’s the thing about SFTP. You think he’s FTP’s cousin. “Oh, he’s the S one. Secure FTP.” No! No. He’s not related! He just borrowed the name. Same initials, different family. It’s like finding out your accountant and your dentist are both called Dave, and assuming they’re brothers. They’re not. They’ve never met. One does teeth.

So FTP is still going. He’s up on the bar now. “I’d like to upload a photograph!” And he does. But he’s in ASCII mode, so the photograph arrives looking like it was assembled by a raccoon. And FTP says, “What’s wrong with it?” And everyone says, “It’s a photo of your cat, and it’s a bunch of squares.” And he says, “I don’t see the issue.” That’s the thing about FTP. He never sees the issue. He’s got thirty connections open, the server says “421, too many connections,” and FTP says “Why is everyone being so negative?”

Then the manager comes over. The WordPress guy. He says, “Who set the permissions on this place to 777?” And nobody says anything. Because it was FTP. It’s always FTP. 777! You know what 777 is? That’s a house where the front door, the back door and the garage are all open, and there’s a sign on the lawn saying “Please take whatever you like.” And FTP says, “I wanted it to be convenient.” Convenient! For who?

And the manager says, “Did anyone back up the database before they started uploading things?” And again, silence. Because nobody did. Nobody ever does. We all think “it’ll be fine,” and then it’s two in the morning, the site is a white screen, and you’re staring at it, and it’s just staring back. White. Blank. Judgmental. Like a fridge when you’ve opened it for the third time and there’s still nothing in there.

So they all leave. SFTP pays his tab, nicely, with a key. FTPS is still trying to get his data channel through the firewall. FTP is on the footpath saying his password to a stranger.

And the bartender turns to the manager and says, “You know, we could just not let FTP in.” And the manager says, “We can’t. He’s been coming here since 1971.”

1971! That’s older than the guy who wrote the manual! He’s still here! He’s the guy at the bar who’s been there since before the bar was built, and nobody knows how to ask him to leave.

So that’s it. Use SFTP. Take a backup. And if you see a man in a trench coat at port 21, don’t ask him about his data channel.

Credit: Thank you to Claude for writing this filler content. It is an unsupervised learning task.