truly few things instantly put me in a bad mood more than humidity
WHY is the fucking AIR out here TOUCHING ME
get OFF
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@alwaysmindthegap
truly few things instantly put me in a bad mood more than humidity
WHY is the fucking AIR out here TOUCHING ME
get OFF

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HEREâS THE THING THOUGH
I used to work for a call center and I was doing a political survey and I called this number that was randomly generated for me and the way our system worked was voice-activated so when the other person said hello youâd get connected to them, so I just launch right into my âHarvard University and NPR blah blah blahâ thing and then thereâs this long pause and I think the personâs hung up even though I didnât hear a click
And then I hear âyou shouldnât be able to call this number.â
So I apologize and go into the preset spiel about because we arenât selling anything, etc. etc. and the answer I get is
âNo, I know that. What I mean is that it should be impossible for you to call this number, and I need to know how you got it.â
I explain that itâs randomly generated and Iâm very sorry for bothering him, and go to hang up. And before I can click terminate, I hear:
âMaâam, this is a matter of national security.â
I accidentally called the director of the FBI.
My job got investigated because a computer randomly spit out a number to the Pentagon.
This is my new favourite story.
When I was in college I got a job working for a company that manages major air-travel data. It was a temp gig working their out of date system while they moved over to a new one, since my knowing MS Dos apparently made me qualified.
There was no MS Dos involved. Instead, there was a proprietary type-based OS and an actually-uses-transistors refrigerator-sized computer with switches I had to trip at certain times during the night as I watched the data flow from six pm to six AM on Fridays and weekends. If things got stuck, I reset the server.Â
The company handled everything from low-end data (hotel and car reservations) to flight plans and tower information. I was weighed every time I came in to make sure it was me. Areas of the building had retina scanners on doors.Â
During training. they took us through all the procedures. Including the procedures for the red phone. There was, literally, a red phone on the shelf above my desk. âThis is a holdover from the cold war.â They said. âIt isnât going to come up, but hereâs the deal. In case of nuclear war or other nation-wide disaster, the phone will ring. Pick up the phone, state your name and station, and await instructions. Do whatever you are told.â
So my third night there, itâs around 2am and thereâs a ringing sound.Â
I look up, slowly. The Red phone is ringing.
So I reach out, I pick up the phone. I give my name and station number. And I hear every station head in the building do the exact same. One after another, voices giving names and numbers. Then silence for the space of two breaths. Silence broken byâŚ
âUh⌠Is Shantavia there?â
It turns out that every toll free, 1-900 or priority number has a corresponding local number that it routs to at its actual destination. Some poor teenage girl was trying to dial a friend of hers, mixed up the numbers, and got the atomic attack alert line for a major air-travel corporationâs command center in the mid-west United States.
Thereâs another pause, and the guys over in the main data room are cracking up. The overnight site head is saying âI think you have the wrong number, maâam.â and Iâm standing there having faced the specter of nuclear annihilation before I was old enough to legally drink.
The red phone never rang again while I was there, so the people doing my training were only slightly wrong in their estimation of how often the doomsday phone would ring.Â
Every time I try to find this story, I end up having to search google with a variety of terms that Iâm sure have gotten me flagged by some watchlist, so Iâm reblogging it again where I swear Iâve reblogged it before.
But none of these stories even come close to the best one of them all; a wrong number is how the NORAD Santa Tracker got started.
Seriously, this is legit.
In December 1955, Sears decided to run a Santa hotline. Hereâs the ad they posted.
Only problem is, they misprinted the number. And the number they printed? It went straight through to fucking NORAD. This was in the middle of the Cold War, when early warning radar was the only thing keeping nuclear annihilation at bay. NORAD was the front line.
And it wasnât just any number at NORAD. Oh no no no.
Terri remembers her dad had two phones on his desk, including a red one. âOnly a four-star general at the Pentagon and my dad had the number,â she says.
âThis was the â50s, this was the Cold War, and he would have been the first one to know if there was an attack on the United States,â Rick says.
The red phone rang one day in December 1955, and Shoup answered it, Pam says. âAnd then there was a small voice that just asked, âIs this Santa Claus?â â
His children remember Shoup as straight-laced and disciplined, and he was annoyed and upset by the call and thought it was a joke â but then, Terri says, the little voice started crying.
âAnd Dad realized that it wasnât a joke,â her sister says. âSo he talked to him, ho-ho-hoâd and asked if he had been a good boy and, âMay I talk to your mother?â And the mother got on and said, âYou havenât seen the paper yet? Thereâs a phone number to call Santa. Itâs in the Sears ad.â Dad looked it up, and there it was, his red phone number. And they had children calling one after another, so he put a couple of airmen on the phones to act like Santa Claus.â
âIt got to be a big joke at the command center. You know, âThe old manâs really flipped his lid this time. Weâre answering Santa calls,â â Terri says.
And then, it got better.
âThe airmen had this big glass board with the United States on it and Canada, and when airplanes would come in they would track them,â Pam says.
âAnd Christmas Eve of 1955, when Dad walked in, there was a drawing of a sleigh with eight reindeer coming over the North Pole,â Rick says.
âDad said, âWhat is that?â They say, âColonel, weâre sorry. We were just making a joke. Do you want us to take that down?â Dad looked at it for a while, and next thing you know, Dad had called the radio station and had said, âThis is the commander at the Combat Alert Center, and we have an unidentified flying object. Why, it looks like a sleigh.â Well, the radio stations would call him like every hour and say, âWhereâs Santa now?â â Terri says.
For real.
âAnd later in life he got letters from all over the world, people saying, âThank you, Colonel,â for having, you know, this sense of humor. And in his 90s, he would carry those letters around with him in a briefcase that had a lock on it like it was top-secret information,â she says. âYou know, he was an important guy, but this is the thing heâs known for.â
âYeah,â Rick [his son] says, âitâs probably the thing he was proudest of, too.â
So yeah. I think that might be the best wrong number of all time.
Source:Â http://www.npr.org/2014/12/19/371647099/norads-santa-tracker-began-with-a-typo-and-a-good-sport
No okay THAT is adorable and Iâm queueing this for next December.
chinese room 2
So thereâs this guy, right? He sits in a room by himself, with a computer and a keyboard full of Chinese characters. He doesnât know Chinese, though, in fact he doesnât even realise that Chinese is a language. He just thinks itâs a bunch of odd symbols. Anyway, the computer prints out a paragraph of Chinese, and he thinks, whoa, cool shapes. And then a message is displayed on the computer monitor: which character comes next?
This guy has no idea how the hell heâs meant to know that, so he just presses a random character on the keyboard. And then the computer goes BZZZT, wrong! The correct character was THIS one, and it flashes a character on the screen. And the guy thinks, augh, dammit! I hope I get it right next time. And sure enough, computer prints out another paragraph of Chinese, and then it asks the guy, what comes next?
He guesses again, and he gets it wrong again, and he goes augh again, and this carries on for a while. But eventually, he presses the button and it goes DING! You got it right this time! And he is so happy, you have no idea. This is the best day of his life. He is going to do everything in his power to make that machine go DING again. So he starts paying attention. He looks at the paragraph of Chinese printed out by the machine, and cross-compares it against all the other paragraphs heâs gotten. And, recall, this guy doesnât even know that this is a language, itâs just a sequence of weird symbols to him. But itâs a sequence that forms patterns. He notices that if a particular symbol is displayed, then the next symbol is more likely to be this one. He notices some symbols are more common in general. Bit by bit, he starts to draw statistical inferences about the symbols, he analyses the printouts every way he can, he writes extensive notes to himself on how to recognise the patterns.
Over time, his guesses begin to get more and more accurate. He hears those lovely DING sounds that indicate his prediction was correct more and more often, and he manages to use that to condition his instincts better and better, picking up on cues consciously and subconsciously to get better and better at pressing the right button on the keyboard. Eventually, his accuracy is like 70% or something â pretty damn good for a guy who doesnât even know Chinese is a language.
* * *
One day, something odd happens.
He gets a printout, the machine asks what character comes next, and he presses a button on the keyboard andâ silence. No sound at all. Instead, the machine prints out the exact same sequence again, but with one small change. The character he input on the keyboard has been added to the end of the sequence.
Which character comes next?
This weirds the guy out, but he thinks, well. This is clearly a test of my prediction abilities. So Iâm not going to treat this printout any differently to any other printout made by the machine â shit, Iâll pretend that last printout I got? Never even happened. Iâm just going to keep acting like this is a normal day on the job, and Iâm going to predict the next symbol in this sequence as if it was one of the thousands of printouts Iâve seen before. And thatâs what he does! He presses what symbol comes next, and then another printout comes out with that symbol added to the end, and then he presses what he thinks will be the next symbol in that sequence. And then, eventually, he thinks, âhm. I donât think thereâs any symbol after this one. I think this is the end of the sequence.â And so he presses the âENDâ button on his keyboard, and sits back, satisfied.
Unbeknownst to him, the sequence of characters he input wasnât just some meaningless string of symbols. See, the printouts he was getting, they were all always grammatically correct Chinese. And that first printout heâd gotten that day in particular? It was a question: âHow do I open a door.â The string of characters he had just input, what he had determined to be the most likely string of symbols to come next, formed a comprehensible response that read, âYou turn the handle and pushâ.
* * *
One day you decide to visit this guyâs office. Youâve heard heâs learning Chinese, and for whatever reason you decide to test his progress. So you ask him, âHey, which character means dog?â
He looks at you like youâve got two heads. You may as well have asked him which of his shoes means âdogâ, or which of the hairs on the back of his arm. Thereâs no connection in his mind at all between language and his little symbol prediction game, indeed, he thinks of it as an advanced form of mathematics rather than anything to do with linguistics. He hadnât even conceived of the idea that what he was doing could be considered a kind of communication any more than algebra is. He says to you, âBuddy, theyâre just funny symbols. No need to get all philosophical about it.â
Suddenly, another printout comes out of the machine. He stares at it, puzzles over it, but you can tell he doesnât know what it says. You do, though. Youâre fluent in the language. You can see that it says the words, âDo you actually speak Chinese, or are you just a guy in a room doing statistics and shit?â
The guy leans over to you, and says confidently, âI know it looks like a jumble of completely random characters. But itâs actually a very sophisticated mathematical sequence,â and then he presses a button on the keyboard. And another, and another, and another, and slowly but surely he composes a sequence of characters that, unbeknownst to him, reads âYes, I know Chinese fluently! If I didnât I would not be able to speak with you.â
That is how ChatGPT works.
Every time I see a bunch of posts from Neil Gaiman on my feed I think, "Neil... you're procrastinating writing again, aren't you"
Neil.
I think the most unintentionally pretentious part of me is I genuinely forget that most people do not have a near-encyclopedic knowledge of mythology and folklore. I literally just assume most people know at least the name of every Greek god. My mom and I were watching the Banshees of Inisherin and at the start, she asked "Do you know what a banshee is?" and I was so stunned because it would never occur to me to ask that question because I would never assume the average person doesn't know what a banshee is. The average person knows what a banshee is right. You know what a banshee is right. You know the names of the greek gods right. You know that norse myth where loki fucked the horse right. Right. RIGHT

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I want to see characters being taken care of in an explicit and worshipful way. Home-cooked meals. Hair brushed and braided by gentle hands. Little gifts just because.
I want to read about characters who are not used to kindness being bombarded by acts of service. This trope works romantically and platonically. Give me found family and acts of service - all the ways a character is wrapped up in wordless, explicit care after years of cruelty and having no idea how to handle. I need it.
Does this fanfiction make sense? Hold water? Not an ounce! Does that mean Iâm going to stop writing it? Not an ounce! Iâm a moron with a keyboard and half an idea and thatâs your problem now. God couldnât stop me and neither could my dad, and now Iâm on your screen with another thousand words of whatever the fuck this is. Bon appetite bitch!
The whole mood of 180K worth of romance novels, January-June 2022.Â
i donât understand how inflation isnât an easily solvable issue like just stop raising the prices??? thatâs you. youâre doing that. just stop.
âno but EVERYONE is raising pricesâ stop giving into peer pressure. if all the other businesses jumped off a bridge would you do it? stop it.
Ok, so I was reading this news story:
So far so normal, right? But then:
Like what. And then:
Like, I think Alaska State Trooper Ken Marsh wants to be a romance novelist.Â
well would you look at that
One of the best posts

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Frodo: Do you ever walk into a room and immediately forget why you went there in the first place?
Sam: Mister Frodo please throw the Ring into the fire
I have now read every single one of Ian Flemingâs James Bond novels, except for Live and Let Die, which I had to stop once I hit the chapter title which includes the N-word. Hereâs a list of things you will encounter in these books:
James Bond throws up due to trauma at least once per book
Racism
No, really, more racism than youâre expecting
Yes, even for the 50s
At one point Bond writes a letter in his own pee
âAll the real hep-cats smoke reefers!â
Many comments on the nature of American culture, including the âexotic pungencyâ of American road signs
Extended passages of James Bond being racist against various ethnicities you didnât even know one COULD be racist towards
No seriously, James Bond inexplicably despises Bulgarians
A lengthy passage in which Bond shares his opinion that homosexuality is caused by giving women the right to vote
Bond gets tortured for the first time and immediately comes over all political and philosophical like, âMaybe communism is good actually, and also the Devil is a good guy?â
At one point Bond gets brainwashed by the KGB into trying to kill M
Bond is a grade-A Karen who delivers all of his restaurant orders with lengthy specifics as to how the food should be prepared, and gets pissy if itâs not up to his specifications.
âa gay, happy little crocodileâÂ
Bond is very excited to learn that in New York there are places where you can watch porn with sound AND color.
James Bond is The Most Boring Man in the World. His hobbies include golf and complaining about food.
Late in the books, Bondâs fiancee is killed right in front of him, and he starts showing PTSD symptoms and, instead of being all macho-man âI donât need no help,â immediately starts going to every doctor available trying to get treatment
At one point the government tries to offer him a knighthood or some such and Bond messages back that he refuses the knighthood and that âMy principal reason is that I donât want to pay more at hotels and restaurants.â When told that this is too rude, he amends it to, âI am a Scottish peasant and I will always feel at home being a Scottish peasant.â
At one point the Bond girl is tied down by the villain of the book to await being eaten alive by crabs. Bond is terrified for her, but she, being something of an amateur zoologist, knows perfectly well that crabs arenât gonna eat a living human, so she just chills there on the beach and waits for them to go away.
There is literally a damsel in distress tied to the actual train tracks, presented without irony
An MI6 agent speculates, in an official report to headquarters, that the target may be homosexual because he canât whistle. Apparently men who canât whistle are gay.
Bond is drafted to act as the villainâs secretary not once, but two separate times in two separate books.Â
When Bond is at a boring party at a hotel conference room and is ordered by his employer to liven up the party, he accomplishes this by ORDERING THE HOTEL BAND, who were previously singing a censored version of some song, TO PERFORM A STRIP SHOW FOR HIM AND THE GUESTS WHILE SINGING THE DIRTY VERSION. This is his second idea, after he previously livened up the party by using one of the girls in the hotel band - the same one he wants to strip for him - as target practice by balancing a false pineapple on her head and shooting it.Â
Bond exchanges a look with a fellow secret agent that is said to be âthe recognition that exists between crooks, between homosexuals, between secret agents.â
âA hand-painted sign said âSNAXâ and, underneath, âHot Cock Soup Fresh Dailyâ.â
The backstory of the villain of The Man with the Golden Gun is as follows: there was once a circus elephant who got REALLY HORNY and then went on a rampage and was shot by the cops, and then came back to the circus to pathetically and tragically attempt to perform its circus act one last time. The child who was supposed to ride the elephant in the circus act witnessed all of this, and when the cops shot the elephant dead while performing its tragic act, the boy grabbed a pistol and SHOT ONE OF THE COPS in revenge for HIS ELEPHANT DYING. And that boy grew up to be a deadly, womanizing, hired gun, with three nipples, whom MI6 speculates must be gay because he canât whistle. And thatâs the villain of the book.
These books will make you hate the British as much as every single villain seems to
Waaaayyy more casual drug use than you would expect
like, seriously, at one point Bond is AT DINNER WITH HIS BOSS in his bossâs fancy-ass club, and he orders an envelope full of benzedrine from HQ and just casually pours it into his glass to drink with his champagne.
M lives with the man who used to be Mâs Chief Petty Officer on his last naval posting, and who had followed M into retirement, and I am pretty sure they are boyfriends.
When Bond sleeps with the Bond Girl of Dr. No, she orders him to âTake those off and come inâ and âYou owe me slave-time. Do as youâre told,â proving once and for all that James Bond is a switch, I rest my case your honor
OP I want you to know that since I read this post yesterday I have been randomly thinking âtragic backstory: there was once a circus elephant who got REALLY HORNYâ and bursting into convulsive laughter several times every waking hour.
Okay get this : Poe Dameron does Drunk History (of the Rebellion)
#and then general organa was a fuxkin badass#I donât remember why#sheâs just always the shit#I love her#do you think sheâs proud of me? (via boxoftheskyking)
Poe Dameron, in an extremely slurred voice: âAnd Leiaâs like, âhelp me obi juan whoever the fuck you are, youâre my onlyâmy onlyâmy only ho.ââ
[holds up a finger and pauses to drink the rest of his beer]
Being 18-25 is like playing a video game where youâve skipped the tutorial and youâre just sort of running about with no idea how anything works
Being 25-30 is like later on in the game when youâve figured out how things work, but have made poor leveling decisions along the way and are now horribly underpowered for what youâre supposed to be doing.
Being 30-35 is coming to the conclusion that if wildly swinging a sword at random while screaming has gotten you this far, may as well keep at it.Â

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I asked an ornithologist about this today and he said that they can't remember the nineties. "They're dumb," he said.
reading an ao3 description and continuing to scroll as if you didnât just suffer intense psychological damageÂ