[video]
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 It was a temp gig working their out of date system while they moved over to a new one, since my knowing MS Dos apparently made me qualified.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.
These are my two favorite stories
IT GOT BETTER
I SALUTE YOU, RED PHONE PERSON
(Source: tastefullyoffensive, via thepainofthesass)
so im at work and bagging for this lady and her little kid and the kids askin me about what its like being a big kid and all that so he goes “do you have a girlfriend? is she pretty?” and i live in a pretty liberal area and it was pretty quiet in the store so i just calmly responded “actually i have a boyfriend, but he’s fairly pretty” and the mom just kinda pauses on her phone and looks down at her son like please dont say anything bad please dont embarrass me but he just gets so fuckin excited and is like “you can do that ???? i didnt know boys were allowed to have boyfriends!!” and hes turns to his mom and is pulling at her phone trying to get her attention and is just really excited like “mom did you know that ? can i have a boyfriend instead of a girlfriend ??” and she just started laughing and was like “if you want sure” and they took their groceries and left and im just standing there like
DID THAT JUST HAPPEN
THAT WAS SO CUTE
(Source: blowjcb, via winjennster)
This whole “trust Tumblr blindly” thing is eventually going to kill someone, as I became pointedly aware of on one occasion I was making fun of how poorly a particular bleach-based drain declogger was working on my sink and got a chorus of really dangerously misinformed people telling me to pour vinegar in after it because all cute little cool kid diy home care blogs they’re following talk about vinegar like it it’s the big secret the cleaning companies don’t want you to know.
And I cringed knowing that someday, some Well Actually expert who read a blog article once is going to give that advice to someone who unfortunately didn’t take high school chemistry and isn’t aware that MIXING VINEGAR AND BLEACH MAKES CHLORINE GAS.
reblog to save a life
(via lupinatic)
psa: the A in LGBTQIA stands for Asexuality, Aromantic, and Agender. Not JUST Asexuality. You may now continue with your regularly scheduled scrolling.
it SOMETIMES also stands for allies as in people who support lgbtq etc
no.
Speaking as someone who doesn’t identify as anything on the LGBTQIA spectrum (although my sexuality is a messy question to be addressed elsewhere), I can confirm: no. We are allies. We do not need a letter.
Speaking as someone who will and has gone to the mat on behalf of gay/trans/insert-identity-of-choice people, I can also confirm: agender, asexual, and aromantic people exist. They need a letter to remind people.
Ally away, folks. Support your friends, your family, your peers, the strangers on the street. But remember that it’s not about you.
(via starwarsisgay)
au where the government incarcerate bucky in a high security secret facility and the avengers just conspire and break him out and when a government official comes to stark tower and is like ‘hey give barnes back’ tony is just like ‘he’s not here’ and the dude is all ‘he is sat right there’ and tony just goes ‘nah thats my cousin sergei’ and the government can’t do anything bc technically bucky barnes has been dead for 70 years and every year the facility gets a christmas card from the tower signed steve, tony, clint, natasha, bruce, thor and ‘cousin sergei’ and the card is just a picture of bucky with reindeer antlers on
i reblog this every fucking time
(Source: officialcaptainrum, via lathori)
“No, you can’t deny women their basic rights and pretend it’s about your ‘religious freedom.’ If you don’t like birth control, don’t use it. Religious freedom doesn’t mean you can force others to live by your own beliefs.” —
President Barack Obama
(via barackobama)
RELIGIOUS FREEDOM DOESN’T MEAN YOU CAN FORCE OTHERS TO LIVE BY YOUR OWN BELIEFS —THANKYOU: BBams.
(via neutral)
(via adelindschade)
so today my ap art history teacher was teaching us about Hapshetsut the only female pharaoh and he was like “have you seen women they can pop out a baby and be like alright let’s go” and then he walked over to this guy and aimed his fist towards his balls and the guy flinched and held his crotch so he was like “men may be stronger but women are tougher” and then he said “so when someone tells you to grow a pair, they mean ovaries”
(via adelindschade)
Wait, let me back up.
Hi, my name is Cara and I’m a 21 year old woman. Every 28 days, give or take, I have a period. And it fucking sucks. Today, was one of those where I take from the 28 day cycle. I wasn’t due for another period for at least a week, but considering that my period is pretty much permanently irregular, I get to wake up a lot of mornings in a pool of my own blood. Hmm. Lovely.
I then proceed to dump my sheets, my underwear, and my pajamas in my laundry room in a tub filled with cold water, with the hopes that this time I haven’t ruined them permanently.
What next? Well, a shower of course! To wipe off the smell of rotting blood from my body! Squeaky clean and towel fresh I have about a two minute window before the volcano of blood begins to erupt again from my vagina.
What will it be today? A piece of chlorinated toilet paper cardboard with a string that I get to shove up my hole wherein the blood will sit and rot until the next time I can shove another piece of chlorinated cardboard up the same hole? Or, a plastic lined toilet paper diaper attached to my underwear that causes rug burn to my vaginal area when I walk? Well the later requires less coordination, and it is early, so I guess I’ll be sitting in a period diaper today. The best ever.
Of course, I could always just get birth control, and lessen this whole shit. But 1) I can’t afford it 2) I can’t ask my dad to pay for it because, guess what? Just like the men who run my government, my father correlates birth control with sexual promiscuity! Thus, sitting on my rotting blood, undergoing severe cramps that have on more than one occasion caused me to black out, it is! (Not that birth control is such a walk in the park either, our bodies have to learn to deal with the hormones and other chemicals and consequences that birth control entails.)
Then, I get to go to class, where I have to pretend that I am not a leaky faucet of blood and tissue. I get to sit in Calculus, and if heaven forbid, I need an additional pad, I have to be discrete about it, so as not to offend the men’s gentle sensibilities to the fact that I am the one dropping tissues and blood from my body through my vagina.
I once asked a male to take me to the pharmacy so that I could pick up (GASP) pads, or as we like to call it “feminine products” (again, so as not to offend the gentlemen’s overly sensitive natures) and had him equate me talking about my period to him talking about his erections.
ARE
YOU
FUCKING
KIDDING
ME
No.
This is nothing like your fucking erection’s. I don’t derive any enjoyment from this. I can’t mentally control any ounce of this entire process. I can’t masturbate my problem away. My period does not end in orgasm.
It stays. For at least five days in my case. Draining blood out of my body. Causing me severe cramps, making me irritable -not because I’m uncomfortable (which mind you, would be reason enough) - but because my hormones are all over the place, bloating me up to two sizes larger than I normally am, I have to actively fight not to smell like a fish market, and on top of that, you want me to be hush-hush about this? Because it’s icky for you?
And this is not an attack on that one man, this is an attack on ALL MEN who on top of sitting on their throne of gender privilege want me to stay quiet and be content about the fact that five days out of every month I get to undergo this happiest of joys.
And then, these very same men have the audacity to get annoyed because we don’t want to listen to their bullshit complaining about traffic? Or whatever other meaningless story they happen to tell us while our bodies are actively fighting against us? Then we get to be the butt of their tired-ass jokes? Sorry, I am most certainly not sorry.
I repeat NO. I say women come out of the period closet and say, “You know what, this happens to me. Every. Fucking. Month. And it’s terrible. LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT MY MORNING.” Because the truth is, if I live in a country where Viagra is covered by medical insurance, but birth control isn’t, I can no longer keep denying that I live in a country that is actively waging a war on women. And if I live in a country that is actively waging war on my sex, the least I am going to do is break patriarchal social propriety to inform anyone and everyone of the shit biological process I was BLESSED enough to be born into.
Hello, my name is Cara, I’m a 21 year old woman, and today I’m on my period. Let me fucking tell you about it.
hello yes this is a good post
Oh top of all that, tampons and pads have sales tax because the government. Does not deem them a necessity for life like food and other products.
Favorite period post ever.
Say it louder I don’t think they heard you in the back
ONE MORE TIME, LADIES AND OTHER PERIOD-HAVERS, LET’S HEAR THAT ONE MORE TIME.
(Source: carazelaya, via yea-lets-do-this-shit)
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