Vidisms

Our Tarot deck Sefirot got picked up by a publisher and just got released with a new version worldwide!

You can grab a copy here ✨

Sure! They’re very weird.

My dad regularly sings to my mom about how much he loves her while standing exactly in the way of whatever she’s trying to do

My parents didn’t marry until I was 4 and they regularly forget that they’re spouses. They generally refer to themselves as partners

My mom proposed to my dad by yelling at him from a room away that her taxes were fucked and they had to get married to which my father replied “this is how I always dreamed you’d ask me!” and pretending to swoon

My dad appears as an actor in the movie Swoon, supposedly an important piece of queer cinema 

My parents were both punks in their youth

When I came home for thanksgiving with a mohawk, unannounced, my mom started crying because I looked “so handsome” and “just like your dad” and kept petting my head 

My dad only says “that’s my boy” to me when I say something gay about men

My mom and dad have the same taste in women but opposite taste in men

One time we were watching a movie set in Chicago and my mom turned to my dad, and in the most sentimental mom voice, said “Chicago honey! We haven’t been there since the anarchist convention!” 

I gotchu, bro:

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 you’d get connected to them, so I just launch right into my “Harvard University and NPR blah blah blah” thing and then there’s this long pause and I think the person’s hung up even though I didn’t hear a click

And then I hear “you shouldn’t be able to call this number.”

So I apologize and go into the preset spiel about because we aren’t selling anything, etc. etc. and the answer I get is

“No, 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.”

I explain that it’s randomly generated and I’m very sorry for bothering him, and go to hang up. And before I can click terminate, I hear:

“Ma’am, this is a matter of national security.”

I accidentally called the director of the FBI.

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. 

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. 

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. “This is a holdover from the cold war.” They said. “It isn’t going to come up, but here’s 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.”

So my third night there, it’s around 2am and there’s a ringing sound. 

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 by…

“Uh… Is Shantavia there?”

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 corporation’s command center in the mid-west United States.

There’s another pause, and the guys over in the main data room are cracking up. The overnight site head is saying “I think you have the wrong number, ma’am.” and I’m standing there having faced the specter of nuclear annihilation before I was old enough to legally drink.

Seriously, this is legit.

In December 1955, Sears decided to run a Santa hotline.  Here’s 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 wasn’t just any number at NORAD.  Oh no no no.

Terri remembers her dad had two phones on his desk, including a red one. “Only a four-star general at the Pentagon and my dad had the number,” she says.

“This was the ‘50s, this was the Cold War, and he would have been the first one to know if there was an attack on the United States,” Rick says.

The red phone rang one day in December 1955, and Shoup answered it, Pam says. “And then there was a small voice that just asked, ‘Is this Santa Claus?’ ”

His children remember Shoup as straight-laced and disciplined, and he was annoyed and upset by the call and thought it was a joke — but then, Terri says, the little voice started crying.

“And Dad realized that it wasn’t a joke,” her sister says. “So he talked to him, ho-ho-ho’d and asked if he had been a good boy and, ‘May I talk to your mother?’ And the mother got on and said, ‘You haven’t seen the paper yet? There’s a phone number to call Santa. It’s in the Sears ad.’ 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.”

“It got to be a big joke at the command center. You know, ‘The old man’s really flipped his lid this time. We’re answering Santa calls,’ ” Terri says.

And then, it got better.

“The airmen had this big glass board with the United States on it and Canada, and when airplanes would come in they would track them,” Pam says.

“And Christmas Eve of 1955, when Dad walked in, there was a drawing of a sleigh with eight reindeer coming over the North Pole,” Rick says.

“Dad said, ‘What is that?’ They say, ‘Colonel, we’re sorry. We were just making a joke. Do you want us to take that down?’ Dad looked at it for a while, and next thing you know, Dad had called the radio station and had said, ‘This is the commander at the Combat Alert Center, and we have an unidentified flying object. Why, it looks like a sleigh.’ Well, the radio stations would call him like every hour and say, ‘Where’s Santa now?’ ” Terri says.

For real.

“And later in life he got letters from all over the world, people saying, ‘Thank you, Colonel,’ 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,” she says. “You know, he was an important guy, but this is the thing he’s known for.”

“Yeah,” Rick [his son] says, “it’s probably the thing he was proudest of, too.”

So yeah.  I think that might be the best wrong number of all time.

Halloween papercraft of this gorgeous artwork by @catadromously. I love the idea of chickens holding a seance and accidentally summoning their dinosaur ancestor.

Have to confess, I got an hour into those little feather and bone details and seriously reconsidered all my life choices, but I am so happy with how it turned out. <3

Thanks again to catadromously for permission!

I go through the drive through at the taco bell. This is the same taco bell that, three years prior, asked us how many sauces we wanted. My roommate responded with "we'd like to get lost in the sauce."

To which he said "lost in the sauce. Ok boss!"

And gave us an entire brown bag full of sauce packets that we are still working through to this day.

So our conclusion is that this store is operated by stoners, which is on par for a taco bell.

But anyhow, 2021, all I want is a burrito.

Pull up in the drive thru, order burrito. Compliment the cashier's nails, take the bag without checking, drive off.

I get home. I carry the bag all the way to the kitchen and set it down. The sound it makes is not the sound of a beefy five layer burrito. It rattles.

I realize now that something is wrong.

I look inside.

I find this:

Which I realize now in 2022 after hanging out with potheads that this is considerably more than 100$ of THC products but that's unimportant. I sit there for a few moments and just kind of stare at them asking myself

WHY does this KEEP HAPPENING to me?

Girlfriend comes in and sees this.

"Did someone pay you in smokeables again?"

"No, this is the new beefy 5 layer burrito from taco bell. Obviously."

I could keep them, but what would I DO with them? I didnt know any smokers at the time that I could sell them to. You cant really... pawn THC products in my state because it's a consumable and uhhhh... possession of such products is probably illegal? Fucking I dont know, if there's a law about it everyone seems to be ignoring it.

And I cannot stress this enough: I dont smoke! And yet people keep handing me these things for some reason.

But more importantly: it is now 6:00, I am starving, and I did not get my burrito. So i make a decision and i grab the bag of vape carts and I go back to get the food I ordered.

I go inside and stand at the counter. I quietly tell the cashier that I ordered a beefy five layer burrito, and I got this instead. I lift the bag. I gently drop the bag. It makes the very non beefy burrito rattle sound.

The cashier knows by sound what is in the bag. Her eyes go wide.

"I'm not mad," I tell her. "I dont want anyone in trouble. I'm just very hungry and would like the food I ordered."

She very quietly takes the bag beneath the counter and produces six coupons for a free taco. "We'll get your order to you in a moment, thank you for your patience."

I am... containing my urge to burst out in laughter because this urban legend stuff. This is 'that happened to my friends cousin' kind of story material and I'm just... waiting for my burrito.

The manager on duty approaches me and says:

"I understand you received something uhh.. other than your order." She thinks I'm gonna tell corporate. This shit is too funny for corporate. I am not telling corporate.

"I dont want anyone in trouble," I repeated. "I'd just like to make sure it gets back to its owner and make sure I get the burrito I ordered."

"Right. Right. Right away."

She gives me six more free taco coupons.

It is deathly quiet back there and I am trying so hard not to laugh at the absurdity of all of this. Like... how did I get here? What happened back there to lead me to this awkward situation? What farcical theater piece am I now a minor character in? Will I exit left persued by a bear?

The cashier returns with a bag. "Once again, I'm REALLY sorry."

I take the bag. I check it this time.

This is indeed a burrito.

"No need, all is well."

The FIRST time... hold on this one is pretty long and I'm used to telling it orally.

The year is 2019 and me and my girlfriend have been accepted to vend at a queer-focus pop culture convention in NYC. But the story isnt about NYC, it's about Ohio.

We need to raise funds to get there and one of the girls I worked with at the flower shop says that theres a show coming up and the guy running it says vending is free. It would make decent funding for the trip. The girl, Cadence, will be there doing her fire-swallowing act with her troupe of misfits.

It's at a bar. And drunk people love tarot readings. So I go, set up my table and my deck of cards and my sign and I wait for someone to bite.

My audience is a majority of regular bar-goers. It's a little slow. The entertainment begins. It's a comedian whose entire schtick is that he's from Cincinnati and he smokes weed, which isnt really funny or interesting or novel. Like the worst thing you can be as a comedian is mediocre and he got dead center of it.

So they get him off the stage before he hurts himself trying to be funny and brings on Cadence's band of misfits. Her fire act is usually the finale and they have one of the other performers (a drag queen) warm up the crowd with:

Audience Participation

I'm bored as hell, so I volunteer for the drunk games.

"We need one more volunteer from the audience!"

A hand shoots up and a woman in a long black ballgown bracketed by two men in Marine formal uniforms wobbles up onto the stage.

"And your name," asks the drag queen.

"Christine!" A chorus of woops and hollers from her friends in the crowd.

And now we have even teams for the game, which is the drag queen balancing a bowl on her face and us trying to land little plastic army men into either the bowl or her mouth.

I cant remember who won.

So anyway, after the game I went back to my card table waited for the night to end.

Christine swishes her way to my table and says

"Oh my god you do tarot!!!???"

"Yup."

"Tarot me up, baby!" She is so very drunk.

"Aight."

She gets the World card, the two of coins, and I forget what else, but it was generally a good sign. And I told her my interpretation, which was that shes on the right track in life, she just needs to take some time for herself.

This is the most benign reading I have ever done in my life.

"Oh my god,oh my god, you are so right," she begins. Does she stop? She does not. "You are so so so so right. I come from a long long line of supernaturally sensitive people and when the sun and the moon are out at the same time it FUCKS with me! I am so in tune with the stars and shit, you dont even know! But lately I've gotten this feeling that I real FEEL people, you know? I really FEEL them. And I know in my heart I'm on the right path. And I was at this military ball just now-"

Ah. That explains the dress and the marines.

"And I had this epif... epif.... epifff-"

"Epiphany?"

"That one! I had one of those that should become a life coach!"

She's kind of yelling. One of the marines walks over to make sure she's okay, and to give her her cigarettes. She holds his hand for a moment. "Dave... Dave... this person says I should become a life coach."

I look at Dave. Dave looks at me. I choose not to correct her. He has decided that I am not a threat. He leaves.

She rambles for a bit longer, about the sun, the moon, the stars, and multi-level-matketing. Slaps 5$ down on my table and says "ugh. Best 5$ I ever spent."

My rates are a but higher than that, but I'm not going to correct her today. But as shes leaving I notice she left her smokes.

"Christine, wait."

She twirls around, completely spooked.

"How did you know my name??"

"Uh... magic. You left your smokes."

She softens. She sits back down. I'm afraid shes going to go on another rant. She pulls out two cigarettes and presses them firmly in my palm. She then grabs my face and says:

"You're beautiful."

Well. I'm flabbergasted. I say nothing.

"You know what, you're right. If you're gonna give someone two smokes you might as well give them four." And gives me two more.

She finally leaves. I have four cigarettes and five dollars and a lot of questions that wont have answers.

The man running the show comes to check on his vendors to make sure we're all doing fine. In his hand are two cigarettes. He sees the four sitting on my card table.

"I presume these are yours."

"No," I said distantly. "No, I think I just got paid in cigarettes."

"Hm," he says. "Ah."

"You know somethin', Matt?"

"What's that?"

My brain IMMEDIATELY began scripting a screwball comedy in which a broke millennial who desperately want to finish his long-abandoned degree but is drowning in student debt pretends to be a senior citizen in order to attend college for free.

I’m picturing someone Channing Tatumesque, applying age makeup every morning before he heads off to class. It’s sort of a cross between 21 Jump Street and Mrs. Doubtfire. He keeps forgetting which hip is supposed to be his bad one. His classmates laugh every time he uses slang. There’s definitely a scene where he attends a college party and busts it up on the dance floor.

Our Hero is stuck in a job where he keep seeing people get promoted past him because they have a 4-year degree and he doesn’t. He can’t afford to go back to school until he finishes paying off his student loans for the degree he’s one semester from completing. If he got the promotion he wants he could pay them off a lot quicker. But he can’t get the promotion without the degree.

Along comes a clerical error in his almost-alma mater’s records which lists his birth year as 1948 instead of 1984. He gets a call from them about their “free tuition for seniors” program. “Wow, that sounds amazing!” he says. “I’ll be sure to tell my, uh, grandpa, as soon as he gets home.”

It’s one semester. If he can keep up the charade, he’ll have the degree, get the promotion, pay off the student loans. Hell, if they figure it out after the fact and come after him for the tuition, he’ll be able to afford it by then. He just needs to pass as a 70-year-old until graduation. How hard could it be?

These types are almost exclusively men. You don’t get hilarious, idiotic women being lorded as icons of our culture. Diane Abbott is dismissed as a cretin while Boris Johnson is a joker.

Which begs the question: is conscious male incompetence a form of misogyny?

If you labour the point that you can’t cook, then chances are that you won’t be made to cook. If you make a hash out of doing the laundry or hoovering, you’re forcing someone else to take over.

Few have the patience to watch someone do a job badly over and over again and so often, they’ll just take it upon themselves to do your chores as well as their own. Emotional labour is doubled when you’ve got an incompetent clown on your hands.

I was recently listening Semi Circles, a BBC radio comedy starring Paula Wilcox, first broadcast in 1989.

It’s about a housewife who recently wakes up to the fact that she’s spent the past eight years being a slave to her kids and nice-but-emotionally-dim husband.

Part of this awakening is the realisation that she does all the housework because her husband is crap at it. Left alone, he makes inedible food. He lets the kids stay up well beyond their bedtime. He leaves the house a tip. 

He doesn’t even try to do a good job because he fears that if he’s too good at these jobs, his wife will make him do more of them.

https://metro.co.uk/2017/11/01/male-incompetence-is-a-subtle-form-of-misogyny-7046248/

He literally puts his mere convenience over her actual well being. This guy thought up and executed a plan where she has to do *all* the work (because of course it wasn’t just this one specific thing) while he watches her tire herself out from the sidelines. Imagine this going on for *years*. …now imagine this with kids. You think this guy cares if she gets off during sex? Would he take care of her if she were to get sick? Would he ever lift a finger if he could get away not doing it? 

I want to add some of OP’s further comments on the thread she made:

“To be fair, I have pretty high standards for cleanliness and his idea of clean vastly differs from mine and honestly, that’s okay! But now I’m starting to seriously wonder if he sabotaged cleaning, too, just to get me to do it. Dishes, for instance. He will wash half and leave a nasty sink full of the rest, claiming he’ll do them later. This drives me nuts, so I just do them. Often he will leave crusted on shit on then, too, so okay, I’ll just do them, right? Now because of the egg business, I’m seeing it as malicious.”

→ The husband is lazy. He seemingly commits to housework, only to bail partway through, and doesn’t even put in the effort required to do the job right in the first place.

“Yes, he sucks at dishes and laundry to the point he is banned from doing them. He will leave clothes in the washer overnight and doesnt separate anything to the point I’ve had many white clothes ruined. My favorite white brassiere is now pink due to his bullshit.”

→ The husband is inconsiderate of his wife’s property, even that which is well-loved. Could his repeated failure to learn how to do this task have been a ruse? Did he anticipate his banishment from laundry duty? OP now has to genuinely wonder about this.

“I’m starting to think he does things wrong on purpose now just to get me to do it. Another example! My car. For a while my driver side door wouldn’t open from the outside, so I had to crawl through the passenger side. He ordered a handle and kept putting it off for WEEKS. Finally, he says his hands are too big to do it, so I had to do it.”

→ The husband makes excuses for himself that cast him as an unwitting victim to fate, with the implication that he would totally do [action], if only he could. He distances himself from any possibility of blame.

Obviously, anonymous forum posts are taken with a grain of salt — we, as readers, will never know for sure if OP is real. That’s not a concern for me, though. Like I don’t care. The fact is that if one assumes this is all true, it is very obvious that the poster’s husband is a perfect example of maliciously feigned incompetence. He’s manipulative and lazy to the point of cruelty, expecting his wife to work while he fails to lift a single functioning finger. The statement that “he likes her eggs better” isn’t cute like some have stated in the replies to this post; it’s just another excuse that walls him off from criticism, a bullshit reason he pulled out of his ass to make her feel guilty and unreasonable for being upset.

The absurdity of the situation when taken at face value — lying about eggs, getting mad about making eggs, even just the reality of deviled eggs (an inherently silly prep style) being someone’s favorite food — extends an air of the absurd to the wife’s concerns, and to others’ warnings. I have noticed several comments to the tune of, “These people are all mad about eggs? What a joke! How oversensitive. That’s just how men are; this is just what marriage looks like.”

It’s fucked up, is what it is.