Zirak/blockingJS2.php

## blockingJS2.php
<?php
header('Content-Type: text/javascript');
sleep(4);
?>

console.log('2');

## blockinsCSS.php
<?php
header('Content-Type: text/css');
sleep(4);
?>
body {
	 color : gray;
	 background : black;
}

## blockinsJS1.php
<?php
header('Content-Type: text/javascript');
sleep(4);
?>

console.log('1');

## index.html
<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
	<head>
		<title>Blocking</title>
		<script src="blockingJS1.php"></script>
		<link href="blockingCSS.php" rel="stylesheet" />
		<script src="blockingJS2.php"></script>
	</head>
	<body>

<h2>
      CHAPTER 1. Loomings.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Call me Ishmael. Some years ago&mdash;never mind how long precisely&mdash;having
      little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on
      shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of
      the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the
      circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever
      it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself
      involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear
      of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an
      upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me
      from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking
      people's hats off&mdash;then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon
      as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical
      flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship.
      There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men
      in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings
      towards the ocean with me.
    </p>
    <p>
      There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves
      as Indian isles by coral reefs&mdash;commerce surrounds it with her surf.
      Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme downtown is
      the battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by
      breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the
      crowds of water-gazers there.
    </p>
    <p>
      Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears
      Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall, northward. What do
      you see?&mdash;Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand
      thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some
      leaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking
      over the bulwarks of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as
      if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all
      landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster&mdash;tied to counters,
      nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the green
      fields gone? What do they here?
    </p>
    <p>
      But look! here come more crowds, pacing straight for the water, and
      seemingly bound for a dive. Strange! Nothing will content them but the
      extremest limit of the land; loitering under the shady lee of yonder
      warehouses will not suffice. No. They must get just as nigh the water as
      they possibly can without falling in. And there they stand&mdash;miles of
      them&mdash;leagues. Inlanders all, they come from lanes and alleys,
      streets and avenues&mdash;north, east, south, and west. Yet here they all
      unite. Tell me, does the magnetic virtue of the needles of the compasses
      of all those ships attract them thither?
    </p>
    <p>
      Once more. Say you are in the country; in some high land of lakes. Take
      almost any path you please, and ten to one it carries you down in a dale,
      and leaves you there by a pool in the stream. There is magic in it. Let
      the most absent-minded of men be plunged in his deepest reveries&mdash;stand
      that man on his legs, set his feet a-going, and he will infallibly lead
      you to water, if water there be in all that region. Should you ever be
      athirst in the great American desert, try this experiment, if your caravan
      happen to be supplied with a metaphysical professor. Yes, as every one
      knows, meditation and water are wedded for ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      But here is an artist. He desires to paint you the dreamiest, shadiest,
      quietest, most enchanting bit of romantic landscape in all the valley of
      the Saco. What is the chief element he employs? There stand his trees,
      each with a hollow trunk, as if a hermit and a crucifix were within; and
      here sleeps his meadow, and there sleep his cattle; and up from yonder
      cottage goes a sleepy smoke. Deep into distant woodlands winds a mazy way,
      reaching to overlapping spurs of mountains bathed in their hill-side blue.
      But though the picture lies thus tranced, and though this pine-tree shakes
      down its sighs like leaves upon this shepherd's head, yet all were vain,
      unless the shepherd's eye were fixed upon the magic stream before him. Go
      visit the Prairies in June, when for scores on scores of miles you wade
      knee-deep among Tiger-lilies&mdash;what is the one charm wanting?&mdash;Water&mdash;there
      is not a drop of water there! Were Niagara but a cataract of sand, would
      you travel your thousand miles to see it? Why did the poor poet of
      Tennessee, upon suddenly receiving two handfuls of silver, deliberate
      whether to buy him a coat, which he sadly needed, or invest his money in a
      pedestrian trip to Rockaway Beach? Why is almost every robust healthy boy
      with a robust healthy soul in him, at some time or other crazy to go to
      sea? Why upon your first voyage as a passenger, did you yourself feel such
      a mystical vibration, when first told that you and your ship were now out
      of sight of land? Why did the old Persians hold the sea holy? Why did the
      Greeks give it a separate deity, and own brother of Jove? Surely all this
      is not without meaning. And still deeper the meaning of that story of
      Narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting, mild image he
      saw in the fountain, plunged into it and was drowned. But that same image,
      we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans. It is the image of the
      ungraspable phantom of life; and this is the key to it all.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, when I say that I am in the habit of going to sea whenever I begin to
      grow hazy about the eyes, and begin to be over conscious of my lungs, I do
      not mean to have it inferred that I ever go to sea as a passenger. For to
      go as a passenger you must needs have a purse, and a purse is but a rag
      unless you have something in it. Besides, passengers get sea-sick&mdash;grow
      quarrelsome&mdash;don't sleep of nights&mdash;do not enjoy themselves
      much, as a general thing;&mdash;no, I never go as a passenger; nor, though
      I am something of a salt, do I ever go to sea as a Commodore, or a
      Captain, or a Cook. I abandon the glory and distinction of such offices to
      those who like them. For my part, I abominate all honourable respectable
      toils, trials, and tribulations of every kind whatsoever. It is quite as
      much as I can do to take care of myself, without taking care of ships,
      barques, brigs, schooners, and what not. And as for going as cook,&mdash;though
      I confess there is considerable glory in that, a cook being a sort of
      officer on ship-board&mdash;yet, somehow, I never fancied broiling fowls;&mdash;though
      once broiled, judiciously buttered, and judgmatically salted and peppered,
      there is no one who will speak more respectfully, not to say
      reverentially, of a broiled fowl than I will. It is out of the idolatrous
      dotings of the old Egyptians upon broiled ibis and roasted river horse,
      that you see the mummies of those creatures in their huge bake-houses the
      pyramids.
    </p>
	<h2>...</h2>
	</body>
</html>

## results.txt
[Fri May 16 15:34:37 2014] 127.0.0.1:55657 [200]: /
[Fri May 16 15:34:19 2014] 127.0.0.1:55653 [200]: /blockingJS1.php
[Fri May 16 15:34:23 2014] 127.0.0.1:55654 [200]: /blockingCSS.php
[Fri May 16 15:34:27 2014] 127.0.0.1:55655 [200]: /blockingJS2.php

Page was shown as loading and appeared blank until everything loaded (only when 2 was logged, content appeared). It should be noted that the request order changed:

[Fri May 16 15:30:26 2014] 127.0.0.1:55569 [200]: /
[Fri May 16 15:30:30 2014] 127.0.0.1:55570 [200]: /blockingCSS.php
[Fri May 16 15:30:34 2014] 127.0.0.1:55571 [200]: /blockingJS1.php
[Fri May 16 15:30:38 2014] 127.0.0.1:55572 [200]: /blockingJS2.php

The former appeared to be the more common one, the latter only appeared when I just added blockingJS1 and blockingJS2, so it could be some caching thing.

Tested on Chrome 34 and Firefox 29.
	<?php
	header('Content-Type: text/javascript');
	sleep(4);
	?>

	console.log('2');
	<?php
	header('Content-Type: text/css');
	sleep(4);
	?>
	body {
	color : gray;
	background : black;
	}
	<!DOCTYPE html>
	<html>
	<head>
	<title>Blocking</title>
	<script src="blockingJS1.php"></script>
	<link href="blockingCSS.php" rel="stylesheet" />
	<script src="blockingJS2.php"></script>
	</head>
	<body>

	<h2>
	CHAPTER 1. Loomings.
	</h2>
	<p>
	Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having
	little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on
	shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of
	the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the
	circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever
	it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself
	involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear
	of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an
	upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me
	from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking
	people's hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon
	as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical
	flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship.
	There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men
	in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings
	towards the ocean with me.
	</p>
	<p>
	There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves
	as Indian isles by coral reefs—commerce surrounds it with her surf.
	Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme downtown is
	the battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by
	breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the
	crowds of water-gazers there.
	</p>
	<p>
	Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears
	Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall, northward. What do
	you see?—Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand
	thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some
	leaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking
	over the bulwarks of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as
	if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all
	landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster—tied to counters,
	nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the green
	fields gone? What do they here?
	</p>
	<p>
	But look! here come more crowds, pacing straight for the water, and
	seemingly bound for a dive. Strange! Nothing will content them but the
	extremest limit of the land; loitering under the shady lee of yonder
	warehouses will not suffice. No. They must get just as nigh the water as
	they possibly can without falling in. And there they stand—miles of
	them—leagues. Inlanders all, they come from lanes and alleys,
	streets and avenues—north, east, south, and west. Yet here they all
	unite. Tell me, does the magnetic virtue of the needles of the compasses
	of all those ships attract them thither?
	</p>
	<p>
	Once more. Say you are in the country; in some high land of lakes. Take
	almost any path you please, and ten to one it carries you down in a dale,
	and leaves you there by a pool in the stream. There is magic in it. Let
	the most absent-minded of men be plunged in his deepest reveries—stand
	that man on his legs, set his feet a-going, and he will infallibly lead
	you to water, if water there be in all that region. Should you ever be
	athirst in the great American desert, try this experiment, if your caravan
	happen to be supplied with a metaphysical professor. Yes, as every one
	knows, meditation and water are wedded for ever.
	</p>
	<p>
	But here is an artist. He desires to paint you the dreamiest, shadiest,
	quietest, most enchanting bit of romantic landscape in all the valley of
	the Saco. What is the chief element he employs? There stand his trees,
	each with a hollow trunk, as if a hermit and a crucifix were within; and
	here sleeps his meadow, and there sleep his cattle; and up from yonder
	cottage goes a sleepy smoke. Deep into distant woodlands winds a mazy way,
	reaching to overlapping spurs of mountains bathed in their hill-side blue.
	But though the picture lies thus tranced, and though this pine-tree shakes
	down its sighs like leaves upon this shepherd's head, yet all were vain,
	unless the shepherd's eye were fixed upon the magic stream before him. Go
	visit the Prairies in June, when for scores on scores of miles you wade
	knee-deep among Tiger-lilies—what is the one charm wanting?—Water—there
	is not a drop of water there! Were Niagara but a cataract of sand, would
	you travel your thousand miles to see it? Why did the poor poet of
	Tennessee, upon suddenly receiving two handfuls of silver, deliberate
	whether to buy him a coat, which he sadly needed, or invest his money in a
	pedestrian trip to Rockaway Beach? Why is almost every robust healthy boy
	with a robust healthy soul in him, at some time or other crazy to go to
	sea? Why upon your first voyage as a passenger, did you yourself feel such
	a mystical vibration, when first told that you and your ship were now out
	of sight of land? Why did the old Persians hold the sea holy? Why did the
	Greeks give it a separate deity, and own brother of Jove? Surely all this
	is not without meaning. And still deeper the meaning of that story of
	Narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting, mild image he
	saw in the fountain, plunged into it and was drowned. But that same image,
	we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans. It is the image of the
	ungraspable phantom of life; and this is the key to it all.
	</p>
	<p>
	Now, when I say that I am in the habit of going to sea whenever I begin to
	grow hazy about the eyes, and begin to be over conscious of my lungs, I do
	not mean to have it inferred that I ever go to sea as a passenger. For to
	go as a passenger you must needs have a purse, and a purse is but a rag
	unless you have something in it. Besides, passengers get sea-sick—grow
	quarrelsome—don't sleep of nights—do not enjoy themselves
	much, as a general thing;—no, I never go as a passenger; nor, though
	I am something of a salt, do I ever go to sea as a Commodore, or a
	Captain, or a Cook. I abandon the glory and distinction of such offices to
	those who like them. For my part, I abominate all honourable respectable
	toils, trials, and tribulations of every kind whatsoever. It is quite as
	much as I can do to take care of myself, without taking care of ships,
	barques, brigs, schooners, and what not. And as for going as cook,—though
	I confess there is considerable glory in that, a cook being a sort of
	officer on ship-board—yet, somehow, I never fancied broiling fowls;—though
	once broiled, judiciously buttered, and judgmatically salted and peppered,
	there is no one who will speak more respectfully, not to say
	reverentially, of a broiled fowl than I will. It is out of the idolatrous
	dotings of the old Egyptians upon broiled ibis and roasted river horse,
	that you see the mummies of those creatures in their huge bake-houses the
	pyramids.
	</p>
	<h2>...</h2>
	</body>
	</html>
	[Fri May 16 15:34:37 2014] 127.0.0.1:55657 [200]: /
	[Fri May 16 15:34:19 2014] 127.0.0.1:55653 [200]: /blockingJS1.php
	[Fri May 16 15:34:23 2014] 127.0.0.1:55654 [200]: /blockingCSS.php
	[Fri May 16 15:34:27 2014] 127.0.0.1:55655 [200]: /blockingJS2.php

	Page was shown as loading and appeared blank until everything loaded (only when 2 was logged, content appeared). It should be noted that the request order changed:

	[Fri May 16 15:30:26 2014] 127.0.0.1:55569 [200]: /
	[Fri May 16 15:30:30 2014] 127.0.0.1:55570 [200]: /blockingCSS.php
	[Fri May 16 15:30:34 2014] 127.0.0.1:55571 [200]: /blockingJS1.php
	[Fri May 16 15:30:38 2014] 127.0.0.1:55572 [200]: /blockingJS2.php

	The former appeared to be the more common one, the latter only appeared when I just added blockingJS1 and blockingJS2, so it could be some caching thing.

	Tested on Chrome 34 and Firefox 29.