seat-safety-switch:

Making new parts is fun. Fixing old parts is less fun. This, in a nutshell, is why at-home fabrication has never been more popular. It turns out if you lock a lot of weirdos inside their houses and tell them that they might die if they talk to another person face-to-face, what they do is immediately go on AliExpress, and type “CNC router” into the little search box. Social scientists are still amazed.

Of course, there are downsides to turning your boring residential home into a scale-miniature version of an actual workplace where trained and experienced professionals work. For one thing, trained and experienced professionals work at a real machine shop instead of an IT department, and as such they have no interest in spending thousands of dollars to run off a crappy bushing adapter at home when they could instead eat dinner, drink a single beer, and think really hard about tolerances.

The other thing is the mess. When you cut up a piece of metal, the shavings don’t just disappear into the ether. What they actually do is turn into a mist of razor-sharp death, which you then cut yourself on a thousand times a week. And don’t think you can clean it up, either: all that swarf will be there when you’ve died of heavy-metal poisoning and your home is passed on to another bunch of suckers. Vacuums can’t touch it, not unless they like to blow out their motor windings, so pro-tier home machinists simply stage an arson when the pile gets too big and move into a new house with the insurance money. Hey, if you tool a little bit of magnesium once in awhile, it’ll be a really pretty fire, too.

Come to think of it, if the fire is big enough, that means you’ll get to buy a whole new set of tools all over again. Which will be really good for the brand new shop layout! No more having to drag heavy tools around because you forgot to put the lathe next to the mill. Which is good: if your friends come over to help you move it, they might breathe on you, and then you’d both die.


Tags:

#storytime #unreality cw #poison cw #illness tw #death tw #I like the juxtaposition here between ”getting fucked over by breathing metal fragments” and ”getting fucked over by breathing viruses” #very dynomight-better-air-quality-is-the-easiest-way-not-to-die.html

seat-safety-switch:

Have you heard that Moderna is testing an even higher dose vaccine now? It’s meant to be the “Omicron version” of the vaccine. They just floored it more. That’s the kind of solution that I would propose. “Use a bigger fucking needle, with more of the good stuff in there.” You have to admire their style.

Folks over at Moderna won’t be happy until it takes you three days to recover from the jab and aerosolized COVID bursts into flames within a 30-meter radius. Just walk directly into the hospital and hear crackling and shrieking from the ECMO ward as the patients remove their masks too early and get a backdraft situation. Walk right up to God and give him back the corpse of his precious virus. Better luck with your next plague, asshole. We knew how to make a number bigger.

Guy stands behind you at the 7-11, gets a little bit too close, breathes on your neck and it just blows his throat open. Headless corpses littered all around the gas station. You’ll be shooting up with Scanners-style boosters between particularly risky visits to Home Depot. Trying to get your range to a full kilometre sitting on the vaccine amplifier. Fuckin’ Professor X, plugged into Moderna’s Cerebro, psychically throwing immunization at the developing world.

Your blood is just incredibly aggressive T-cells, they start disintegrating the sample needles when the WHO kicks down the door looking for the gigavaccine patient zero.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have let it out,” you say as your eyes roll back in your head. Now that it’s loose from the host, it detects traces of other coronaviruses on their feet and legs. Sees the little spikes. Goodbye.

Day Two of containment breach: 100.000000% vaccinated.

Day Three: the T-cells got bored, mutated, and decided to fuck up polio too because it “looks kinda similar.” Average human life expectancy is now 739 years. The earth’s surface is a never-ending roaring hellfire, a Gaian apocalypse. Someone coughs in the subway in Seoul and is immediately reduced to his constituent atoms, mere grist for the immune system.

Moderna stock price goes up nine basis points.


Tags:

#unreality cw #illness tw #covid19 #vaccines #death tw #anything that makes me laugh this much deserves a reblog

quasi-normalcy:

You go onto Tumblr

You see a post from @posts-from-a-darker-timeline

You’re momentarily confused because it sounds like a thing that you just read on a news site

You go onto their blog; every single thing that you read, as far back as you can scroll, is just things that have actually happened. There’s posts about vaccine protesters; posts about NFTs; posts about January 6th; posts about the pandemic; about Trump; about Brexit; about fucking Harambe for God’s sake

You look at the notes on each post; a few of them are people panicking like this is news to them; most of them are variants on “Oh shit, I need to look at the blog name!”

You select a random reblogger, and look at their Tumblr; it’s full of happy, well-adjusted people, but you just can’t seem to reblog any of their posts; every time you try, you get a message that you’ve never seen before:

“You are not authorized to share in this content”

You hit the back button, but it takes you back to the top of posts-from-a-darker-timeline

In mounting trepidation, you check to see if there are any new posts

There’s one: a fake(?) tweet from the leader of your country, lamenting the massive loss of life in the freak storm that just hit your city

You put your phone down

You look out the window

In the distance, you hear the wind starting to blow


Tags:

#storytime #death tw #unreality cw #apocalypse cw #…so what you’re saying is that I get minutes-to-hours-scale advance notice of disasters #(mixed in with some noise about changes to Tumblr’s formatting and other such minor issues‚ but still) #that’s often not enough‚ and it #might turn out not to be enough *this* time in which case I will have no further opportunities to make use of it‚ but… #…like‚ I stand a much better chance of surviving the freak storm now than I would have if I hadn’t read the tweet‚ right? #I don’t have time to evacuate but I’ll get a head start on bunkering down #in the future (if I survive that long)‚ I’ll set up my phone to react to a new posts-from-a-darker-timeline post in a manner #approximating the way it would react to an emergency broadcast #get as many other people as possible to do the same #(the exact details depend on what circumstances allow one to view primeverse Tumblr) #(if we can only get my phone to do it‚ that requires different implementation than if anyone can just point any device at a particular URL) #in fact‚ I should at least dash off a quick post about this immediately‚ in case I *don’t* survive the storm #leave some breadcrumbs for others to investigate #(”you can view primeverse posts but not reblog them” sounds like a job for the fundamental theorem of software engineering) #(can I screenshot them? point a camera at the screen and take a photograph?) #((…honestly‚ ”a friend posts a screenshot of a tweet that hasn’t been written yet and then #immediately dies in the disaster the tweet describes” sounds like a thriller-novel plot hook in itself)) #((maybe I’m just the prologue to *that* story)) #tag rambles #fun with loopholes #101 Uses for Infrastructureless Computers #story ideas I will never write

seat-safety-switch:

Gambling on auto racing is practically unheard of. Horses, yes. Dogs, absolutely. Boats, you bet. NASCAR? Not really. This confused me, until I did a quick web search, and then saw that there were indeed skeezy gambling operations that would take bets on virtually anything under the sun.

This all makes sense. As a bookie, you don’t really care what you are facilitating the betting on, so much as you care that there is a clear winner and a lot of clear losers. It may also be in your best professional interest to not offer betting on things that are considered sacrosanct, such as child beauty pageants, lest the collective anger of society be focussed upon your person.

Autocross, then, is the perfect venue for a bit of money-changing, or at least it would be if anyone bet on it. So, like any other scam, I had to bring in some new blood. Here’s the secret: casinos are full of people who love to gamble, and don’t need much of a push. Certainly it is distasteful, but not particularly illegal, as long as the casino boss doesn’t notice that you are trying to work his flock on his territory. Also, the parking lot is usually full of some really primo mid-1990s Toyotas that are hanging onto life by a thread.

Now, the real secret is to not bet on myself. Although you could argue that this constituted “throwing” an event, investigators soon found that I had no chance in hell of ever getting anywhere close to the top 20 of any event, even those with 19 or fewer competitors. Suckers: through savvy planning and analysis of my foes, I soon made no less than seven dollars profit.


Tags:

#unreality cw #storytime #gambling #anything that makes me laugh this much deserves a reblog

wongbal:

vonbaghager:

REMINDER: You need at least three different Covid vaccines in you if you want to reach the true ending and fight the Moon Presence.

actually some speedrunners have found you can reach it with just Moderna and Pfizer but you have to skip the Elon Musk fight. Basically if you force him into the corner and spam special attack you can actually clip through the wall and the game doesn’t know what the fuck to do so it just teleports you to the final room and assumes you still have the N95 mask.

This also means you skip the part where Bernie Sanders dies, which makes the Suez Canal level wayyyy easier but accidentally turns the ending cutscene hilarious because Cardi B’s clone talks about how she misses Bernie so much while he’s literally standing right next to her


Tags:

#I’ve been waiting to find out the brand of my second dose before reblogging this #turned out to be another Pfizer‚ so I can’t use this strat #but hey‚ booster! #covid19 #vaccines #unreality cw #death mention

seat-safety-switch:

You probably know someone who has checked out of the urban rat-race and gone to live on a farm. I mean, in the non-euphemism way. Your childhood dog’s not coming back, sorry. A lot of folks that I’ve worked with in the past have held various fantasies about just giving up on the entire “career” thing and living a more simple, disconnected life, ideally away from as many people as they can afford. They’re wrong. The real reason to live on a farm is that you get to buy more cool gear.

Sure, inside a city, you can get a little tiny lawn tractor, but it feels bourgeois and unnecessary. Who do you think you are that you can’t get by with a simple push mower instead? It gets you out of the house, doing a calming physical activity.

When you have half an acre, well, you gotta mow it somehow and you don’t have all day, so you can justify getting a full-on Lawnfucker 5000. The same goes for having a barn to work on shit in, a couple old pickup trucks dotting the yard. Maybe a ramshackle shed near the property line that mostly collapsed in 1975 but serves to keep the neighbours from taking a single step too far in your direction. And then there’s the tools. Chainsaws, bandsaws, tree saws… you need to cut a lot of stuff when you’re 30 minutes outside of the nearest city.

Not everyone can afford to quit their office job and move out to the boonies, however. This fantasy remains unattainable for far too many of my fellow citizens. That’s why I’ve bought a bunch of foreclosed rural property and turned it into Farmer-For-A-Day theme parks. Drive out with your family, and come try out the cool gear. Do you think your son is old enough to drive a grain thresher? Then he fucking is. There’s no cops around here, but you will have to sign this thorough series of insurance waivers first.


Tags:

#anything that makes me laugh this much deserves a reblog #(”Lawnfucker 5000”) #death tw #injury cw #unreality cw

seat-safety-switch:

Winter is always this horrific balance. On one hand, it’s too cold to wash a car. You’d have to be stupid to be out there in -20°C, running out of your house with a bucket of boiling water, trying to get to your panels before it instantly freezes solid just from touching the outside air. On the other hand, the city keeps putting road salt down like they own a dividend stake in the abstract concept of salt. You need to wash, and yet you can’t.

Now, I also know what you amateur scientists are going to say. “It can’t rust, it’s too cold for the endothermic reaction of iron oxidation to occur, you’re fine to wait to wash the car when it warms up.” Then it’ll be rusting! Do you also wait for your enemies to wake up before you stab them to death? Don’t answer that. Also, I’m pretty sure I read somewhere that Mars is red because it’s made of rust, and it’s hard to get a lot colder than there, too.

Most “car people” just shrug their shoulders at this problem and buy a cheap winter beater. This vehicle is sacrificial, they say. It does not bother me that it is corroding away before my very eyes, because doing so prevents my nice Lexus from developing spots of rust as well. These people also must have a “parts kid,” just in case something happens to their firstborn, because every car is special and unique and deserves to be preserved. Plus, if they keep buying up and destroying all the $1000 rust buckets, then what am I going to drive?

Last week, I awoke one morning from uneasy dreams to find myself in possession of the answer. I would simply add a sacrificial coating to my vehicle, encasing it in an inch of bulletproof and saltproof epoxy. So far, this method has worked really well. The salt just slides right off it, and onto the car behind me. There’s just one downside: since the doors no longer open, I have to keep the window rolled down all the time so I can get in and out. You might think this is “cool,” like the Dukes of Hazzard, but Bo and Luke never had to deal with trying to get a pregnant raccoon out from the back seat of their Volare.


Tags:

#anything that makes me laugh this much deserves a reblog #unreality cw #this probably deserves some other warning tag but I am not sure what

seat-safety-switch:

One of the vanishingly few benefits you get from living in the frozen North of Canada is that it’s simply too cold for a lot of pesky things. Valley fever? Too damn cold. Poisonous scorpions? Need to be kept above zero at all times, the losers. Subway-sized rats that can take out a schoolyard in less than fifteen minutes? Won’t get fifteen feet before a Dire Owl chucks them into the air to be flash-frozen in the troposphere.

This means that when you buy something especially sketchy from a warmer place, you don’t have to worry too much about disinfecting it. Just leave it outside for a night, and then shake it and watch a cascade of dead roaches fall out. Their pleading eyes (burst from ice forming inside their optic nerves) will look at you guiltily, yes, but it’s not your fault. It’s Mother Nature’s, and if you can’t hang with her, then get out of the kitchen. Or something like that.

Now, this phenomenon hasn’t always worked in my favour. Last summer, I was besieged by an infinite wall of pesky mosquitos. The eggs from these annoying little shitheads can somehow survive the worst of winter, and it’s boring and time-consuming to kill all of them manually, like our ancestors used to.

In a warmer region, these pests are purged by dragonflies the size of an Eaton’s and/or eaten by lizards that sneak into your house and live there, like pets but not. This is simply not possible here, but I foolishly believed I could import a small box of praying mantises sometime around May, when the permafrost covering my driveway just started to break up.

Praying mantises are, in theory, the ultimate badasses, peak predators of nature, invulnerable to anything that the world can throw at them. However, it turns out the shipping company also uses the same technique as me to disinfect packages, making my own efforts largely superfluous. When they got here, all that remained was a box of dead bugs. They didn’t stand a chance. Up here, prayers don’t get answered, because the moisture in your words freezes them solid and they smash to bits on the sidewalk.


Tags:

#anything that makes me laugh this much deserves a reblog #our home and cherished land #storytime #bugs #death tw? #unreality cw #that last line is a hell of a thing