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@goingonseventeen
the king’s (semi-wet rag) many ways of sitting upon his throne (a hole in the sand we dug together)
gamerbros be like “im not a transphobe but if you acknowledge that trans people exist in your game i will absolutely refuse to play it or stop immediately if i am currently playing it”
Is the post about that one boomer game reviewer who was seething over a game’s dlc having a scene with 2 10 pixel sized pride flags?
This one
You left out the best part
Days since the Brits were at it again: 0
Aww, Lads….Not again.
May I ask why the British government has any say in what epitaph one is allowed to choose for their late relatives?
okay i have to say something now that i read an article more in depth & holy shit is this fucking disgusting. taken from this bbc article ;
“Given the passions and feelings connected with the use of Irish Gaelic, there is a sad risk that the phrase would be regarded as some form of slogan or that its inclusion without translation would, of itself, be seen as a political statement,” said Judge Stephen Eyre, QC, chancellor of the Diocese of Coventry.
he basically said that the entirity of the irish language is a political statement, that speaking it is a political act & putting these totally heartfelt worlds on the gravestone of an irish catholic woman who completely assimilated to english culture but wanted some memoriam of her culture in her children’s wishes, is a political act.
Untranslated Irish words would be “unintelligible to all but a small minority of readers”, he ruled in his judgment for the Church of England consistory court on 6 May. He authorised a memorial which included a translation of the phrase in English.
why does every passer by need to understand the words on a gravestone of somebody they don’t know? why was this even taken into account?
& you wanna know why it would be unintelligible to all but a small minority of readers? bc its IRISH ; a language the english tried for CENTURIES to wipe out. they punished people for speaking our culture’s language, they killed people for it. the amount of irish people who know their own culture’s language is horrifically small & it’s entirely because of the racist onslaught the english perpetrated against us when they decided to try & wipe out our culture. also, why does it matter to anyone but the family what words are on THEIR MOTHER’S GRAVESTONE?
also, this battle has gone on for TWO YEARS. two years where this poor family has not been able to grieve properly for their beloved lost mother, where they can’t honour her with their culture & their language that they have probably fought to keep alive.
i’m so fucking disgusted.
Almost three fucking years after she died, her family is finally allowed to put her national language on her gravestone.
everyone point and laugh
As funny as this is, it's absolutely disgusting that one person, one single human being, can lose the GDP of a reasonably productive country (according to 2 minutes of googling, Greece sits just outside the top 50 in terms of GDP) and still be one of the two or three richest people in the world, with a 12-digit net worth.
Please be aware though, re-posting art work without credit to the artist is NOT anarchist, anti-capitalist, or in any way punk.
I searched Google for "firing all the billionaires into the sun comic", found the image ---> used it to search for a nicer one and lo and behold found a link to their own Twitter. This took about 5 minutes. Slower than a 5 second reblog but still fast - and also much more important.
The creator is First Dog on The Moon and what makes this version^ so much worse to spread around is that the original HAD the author's handle on it but it was cropped out.
Anyway. If anyone would like to follow the artist here's their Twitter.
If you reblogged the uncredited version I recommend taking 5 seconds to edit your post with their link and handle. It helps artists IMMENSELY.
Stay punk.
toxic mothers are wild they'll really be like "I never said that" like ma'am yes you did cause it's been ingrained in my head since I was twelve
“If it sucks hit da bricks” isn’t just a useful litany it’s also a skill you have to train. You gotta start with small stuff like leaving boring parties and refusing minor obligations to get the guts for the big stuff like quitting garbage jobs, cutting off a shitty relationship and getting out of a bad situation. Know what your time is worth
this is what my phone recommended to me ....
HERE’S 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 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.
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.
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.
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.
Every time I try to find this story, I end up having to search google with a variety of terms that I’m sure have gotten me flagged by some watchlist, so I’m reblogging it again where I swear I’ve 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. 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.
Source: 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 I’m queueing this for next December.
Really wanting all of @ljross_author books to be made into a television series. 👌🏻 #ljross #dciryan #northumberland #books #bookworm https://www.instagram.com/p/B2ow1T8HHEd/?igshid=1o8w8twusqoc1
Deixa eu contar uma história pra vocês. Esse aí é o seu José, mais conhecido como Zé Careca ou, como eu o chamava, Vovô Careca. Era impossível ficar sério perto dele, sempre tinha um caso pra contar. Um desses casos que eu ouvi diversas vezes durante a vida foi o de que uma cigana o disse que ele viveria até os 90 anos. E assim foi. Hoje, dia de Reis, seu Zé Careca foi, sereno, para outro plano. Que honra ter fotografado sua última festa de aniversário pré pandemônio, ver o vovô cercado de gente que o amava. Leva esse sorriso pra eternidade, vovô. Descanse em paz, vovô ❤️ https://www.instagram.com/p/CYY-VtaL2kZ/?utm_medium=tumblr