Adieu To The Fuckers

mooneymannyinthesky:

sassypenryn:

inoticeyoureanerdfighter:

eeriie:

“Sometime during the night of August 16th, 1952, the small town of Ashley, Kansas ceased to exist. At 3:28am on August 17th, 1952, a magnitude 7.9 earthquake was measured by the United States Geological Survey. The earthquake itself was felt throughout the state and most of the midwest. The epicenter was determined to be directly under Ashley, Kansas. When state law enforcement arrived at what should have been the outskirts of the farming community, they found a smoldering, burning fissure in the Earth in the earth measuring 1000 yards in length and approximately 500 yards in width. The depth of the fissure was never determined. After twelve days, the state-wide and local search for the missing 679 residents of Ashley, Kansas, was called off by the Kansas State Government at 9:15pm on the night of August 29th, 1952. All 679 residents were assumed to be dead. At 2:27am on August 30th, 1952, a magnitude 7.5 earthquake was measured by the United States Geological Survey. The epicenter was situated under what used to be the location of Ashley, Kansas. When law enforcement investigated at 5:32am, they reported that the fissure in the Earth had closed.

In the eight days leading up to the disappearance of the town and its 679 residents, bizarre and unexplainable events were reported by dozens of residents in Ashley, Kansas and law enforcement from the surrounding area.

On the evening of August 8th, 1952, at 7:13pm, a resident by the name of Gabriel Johnathan reported a strange sight in the sky above Ashley. The town itself, having no official branch of law enforcement, called into the police station of the neighboring town of Hays. Gabriel reported what appeared to be a “small, black opening in the sky.” Within the next fifteen minutes, the Hays police station became overwhelmed with dozens of phone calls all reporting the same phenomenon. The phenomenon was never reported by any neighboring communities. A decision was made to send a trooper to Ashley to investigate the matter the following morning.

At 7:54 am on the morning of August 9th, 1952, Hays Police Officer Allan Mace radioed the Hays Police Station. He reported that, despite following the one way road leading into Ashley, he had become lost. According to his report, the road “continued along its normal path, but somehow ended up back in Hays.” Officer Mace went on to add that the road never curved, or bent in any direction. At 9:15am, seven of the town’s 10 police cars were sent to investigate the situation, and all members of the team came to the same conclusion. The only road leading into Ashley stopped leading into Ashley, but instead led back to Hays. Phone calls continued to pour into the Hays Police Station, all reporting that the black opening in the sky continued to grow in size. All callers were advised to remain inside, and to not travel outside unless absolutely necessary. At 8:17pm, Mrs. Elaine Kantor reported her neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Milton, and their two children, Jeffery and Brooke, missing. According to Mrs. Kantor’s phone call, the Milton’s attempted to leave town in their family car earlier in the evening. They never returned. Law enforcement officals from Hays never reported the car, or individuals, coming up the one way road.

At 7:38am on the morning of August 10th, 1952, phone calls from Ashley into the Hays Police Station reported that the town was in total darkness. The sun had never risen. At 10:15am, at the request of Hays Law Enforcement, a helicopter from Topeka, Kansas flew over the region in which Ashley, Kansas stood. The town was never observed from air.

At 12:43pm on the afternoon of August 11th, 1952, Ms. Phoebe Danielewski called into the Hays Police Station. She reported that her daugter Erica had begun to have conversions with her father, who died three years prior in a drunk driving accident. To add to her concern, Ms. Danielewski reported that Erica was attempting to go outside into the dark, to “join them.” Over the course of the next twelve hours, a reported 329 phone calls were placed into the Hays Police Station all describing similar phenomenon with the children of the town.

The following morning of August 12th, 1952, the sitation became dire. During the middle of the night, all 217 children in the town of Ashley, Kansas disappeared. A reported 421 phone calls were placed into the Hays Police Department. Unable to be of any useful assistance, Hays Law Enforcement instructed all callers to remain inside and to avoid any and all attempts at finding the missing children.

At 5:19pm on the evening August 13th, 1952, Ashley elderly man Scott Luntz reporting a growing, distant fire to the south. According to his description, the fire seemed to turn the distant black into “bright red and orange [that] seemed to extend high into the sky.” Throughout the rest of the day, calls continued in, stating that the fire, in addition to moving north, now seemed to “come out of the black sky.” No fire was ever witnessed by any of the neighboring communities or law enforcement officials.

The reports continued until 12:09am on the morning of August 14th, 1952. The last phone call, placed by a Mr. Benjamin Endicott, reported that the fire in the sky had grown so intense that it began to appear as daytime over the town. The phone call ended abruptly: (FROM THE PHONECALL PLACED BY BENJAMIN SHERMAN ENDICOTT)

Benjamin: Just hold on….wait…

(CONTINUED SILENCE)

Benjamin (con’t): Yeah, yeah I see something. It’s to the south. It looks like-

[END PHONECALL]

The next phone call wouldn’t be placed until the following evening.

The following is the entire transcript of the final phonecall to be received by the Hays Police Department out of the town of Ashley, Kansas. It was placed at 9:46pm on the evening of August 15th, 1952. In this recorded phonecall, the officer on duty is Officer Peter Welsch. The caller has been identified as Ms. April Foster.

[BEGIN PHONECALL]

Officer Welsch: Hays Police Department.

(Muffled static).

Officer Welsch: Hello?

Foster: YES…yes, hello?

Officer Welsch: Ma’am, who am I speaking with.

Foster: My name is April, April Foster. (Coughs) Please, sir. Please help me.

Officer Welsch: What is happening, ma’am?

Foster: Last night….last night they came back.

Officer Welsch: Ma’am, I’m going to need you to -

Foster: LAST NIGHT THEY CAME BACK! (Cries)

Officer Welsch: Ma’am, I’m going to need you to calm down, and speak clearly. What happened? Who came back?

Foster: (Sobbing). Everyone.

Officer Welsch: Everyone?

Foster: They all came in the fire.

Officer Welsch: What do you mean everyone?

Foster: My son…..I saw my son last night. He was walking… he was walking down the street. He was burned. Jesus Christ HE WAS BURNED.

Officer Welsch: Ma’am I -

Foster: He died last year. I raised him since he was a baby….it was just me and him. I told him to watch for cars when he rode his bike. But he never wanted to listen.

Officer Welsch: Ma’am, what you’re saying isn’t making any sense. You said everyone came back?

Foster: ARE YOU FUCKING LISTENING TO ME? EVERYONE. Everyone came back. Everyone who died, or went missing, they’re back. And they’re looking for US! (Cries). He…he said: “Mommy, I’m okay now! See, I can walk again! Where are you, Mommy? I want to see you!”(Sobs).

Officer Welsch: ….Ma’am, where are you now? Are you safe?

Foster: I’m hiding. Just like everyone else. We saw them coming through the fields….and….some people opened their doors for them. God, the SCREAMING. (Pause). I don’t know what happened to them. But their houses caught fire and they….caved in. I have my curtains drawn. I’m hiding in the closet right now and- (Silence).

Officer Welsch: Ma’am, is everything alright, are you okay?

Foster: (Silence).

Officer Welsh: Ma’am?

Foster: (Glass Breaking). Oh…oh my God.

Officer Welsh: Ma’am?

Foster: Something just came in. (Muffled cries).

Officer Welsch: Ma’am, stay as quiet as you can. Don’t make a sound.

Foster: (Muffled: “Mommy…..mommy?”). (Sobbing). He came inside.

Officer Welsch: Stay absolutely still. Don’t leave.

Foster: (Sound of muffled footsteps. Muffled: “Mommy? Mommy, where are you hiding?”)

Officer Welsch: Stay quiet.

Foster: (Sound of heavy footsteps. Laughter. Muffled: “I found you, MOMMY!”) (Indiscernable screaming and noise).

Officer Welsch: Ma’am? MA’AM??

[End phonecall].

The following morning, at 6:55am, the law enforcement officals of the Hays Police Department arrived at the location of Ashley, Kansas. A smoldering, burning fissure in the Earth was all that remained.”

I was reading this alone in the dark and had to flip the light on halfway through because I was so freaked out.

this is one of the scariest things I have ever read omfg im never sleeping again holy carp

fucking hell i thought the picture was of a bunch of furbies at first

(via sweetstriderass)

(via lettersiarrange)

The faux red carpet had been laid out for the famous and the wannabe-famous. Politicians and journalists arrived at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner, bedazzled in the hopes of basking in a few fleeting moments of fame, even if only by osmosis from proximity to celebrities. New to the Washington scene, I was to experience the spectacle with my husband, a journalist, and enjoy an evening out. Or at least an hour out. You see, as a spouse I was not allowed into the actual dinner. Those of us who are not participating in the hideous schmooze-fest that is this evening are relegated to attending the cocktail hour only, if that. Our guest was the extraordinarily brilliant Oscar-nominated director of Beasts of the Southern Wild, Benh Zeitlin. Mr. Zeitlin’s unassuming demeanor was a refreshing taste of humility in a sea of pretentious politicians reeking of narcissism.

As I left the hotel and my husband went to the ballroom for the dinner, I realized he still had my keys. I approached the escalators that led down to the ballroom and asked the externally contracted security representatives if I could go down. They abruptly responded, “You can’t go down without a ticket.” I explained my situation and that I just wanted my keys from my husband in the foyer and that I wouldn’t need to enter in the ballroom. They refused to let me through. For the next half hour, they watched as I frantically called my husband but was unable to reach him.

Then something remarkable happened. I watched as they let countless other women through — all Caucasian — without even asking to see their tickets. I asked why they were allowing them to go freely when they had just told me that I needed a ticket. Their response? “Well, now we are checking tickets.” He rolled his eyes and let another woman through, this time actually checking her ticket. His smug tone, enveloped in condescension, taunted, “See? That’s what a ticket looks like.”

When I asked “Why did you lie to me, sir?” they threatened to have the Secret Service throw me out of the building — me, a 4’11” young woman who weighs 100 pounds soaking wet, who was all prettied up in elegant formal dress, who was simply trying to reach her husband. The only thing on me that could possibly inflict harm were my dainty silver stilettos, and they were too busy inflicting pain on my feet at the moment. My suspicion was confirmed when I saw the men ask a blonde woman for her ticket and she replied, “I lost it.” The snickering tough-guy responded, “I’d be happy to personally escort you down the escalators ma’am.”

Like a malignancy, it had crept in when I least expected it — this repugnant, infectious bigotry we have become so accustomed to. “White privilege” was on display, palpable to passersby who consoled me. I’ve come to expect this repulsive racism in many aspects of my life, but when I find it entrenched in these smaller encounters is when salt is sprinkled deep into the wounds. In these crystallizing moments it is clear that while I might see myself as just another all-American gal who has great affection for this country, others see me as something less than human, more now than ever before.

When I asked why the security representatives offered to personally escort white women without tickets downstairs while they watched me flounder, why they threatened to call the Secret Service on me, I was told, “We have to be extra careful with you all after the Boston bombings.”

I explained that I am a physician, that my husband is a noted journalist for a major American newspaper, and that our guest was an esteemed, Oscar-nominated director. They did not believe me. Never mind that the American flag flew proudly outside of our home for years, with my father taking it inside whenever it rained to protect it from damage. Never mind that I won “Most Patriotic” almost every July 4th growing up. Never mind that I have provided health care to some of America’s most underprivileged, even when they have refused to shake my hand because of my ethnicity.

I looked at him, struggling to bury my tears beneath whatever shred of dignity that remained. They finally saturated my lashes and flood onto my face. Shaking with rage, I said, “We are all human beings and I only ask that you give me the same respect you give others. All I am asking is to be treating with a dignity and humanity. What you did is wrong.” They stared straight ahead, arms crossed, and refused to even look at me. Up came the cruel, xenophobic, soundproof wall that I had seen in the eyes of so many after 9/11. Their eyes, flecked with disdain and hatred, looked through me.

The next affront came quickly thereafter. “You were here last year, weren’t you? You caused trouble here last year too. I know you,” they claimed, accusing me of being a party-crasher. Completely confused, I explained that this was my first time here and that I had no idea what he was referencing. Clearly, he had assumed all brown people look the same and had confused me for someone else.

I wonder what their reaction would have been to a well-dressed white woman trying to reach her husband. Would she have struggled for over an hour while they watched and offered to escort others in? Would they not have extended an offer to help, bended over backwards to offer assistance, just as they did with the woman who “lost her ticket”? Would the Boston bombings even be mentioned to a white woman?

Let’s stop this facade that we are a beacon of tolerance. I don’t need you to “tolerate” me. I don’t want you to merely put up with my presence. All I ask, all I have ever asked, is to be treated as a human being, that bigoted jingoism is not injected into every minute facet my life, that there remains at least the illusion of decency.

Despite being a native English speaker who was born in New Orleans and a physician who trained at a prestigious institution, all people see is the color of my skin. After this incident, I will no longer apologize, either for my faith or my complexion. It is not my job to convince you to distinguish me from the violent sociopaths that claim to be Muslims, whose terrorism I neither support, nor condone. It is your job. Just like when a disturbed young white man shoots up a movie theatre or a school, it is my job, as someone with a conscience, to distinguish them from others. It’s not my job to plead with you to shake my hand without cringing, nor am I going to applaud you when you treat me with common decency; it’s not an accomplishment. It’s simply the right thing to do. Honestly, it’s not that hard.

This year, Quvenzhané Wallis took the world by storm with her staggering performance in Beasts of the Southern Wild. At several award ceremonies, reporters refused to the learn the accurate pronunciation of her name, and one reporter allegedly told Wallis, “I’m gonna call you Annie,” because her name was too difficult to pronounce. If reporters can learn to pronounce Gerard Depardieu and Monique Lhuillier then surely they can take the time to learn how to pronounce Quvenzhané. It’s not hard; it’s just not deemed worthy of your energy because she is someone of color.

A school child recently threatened my 12-year-old niece claiming, “I’m going to kill you Miss Bin Laden.” Again, it is not my job to teach your children manners and social justice, to remove the disgusting threads of racism that you have woven into their hearts with your insecurities. Last week, a 39-year-old Muslim American cab driver who served in the Iraq war was attacked and had his jaw broken in a hate crime. The assailant, an executive from an aviation company, told the veteran “I will slice your fucking throat right now.” I suppose the “support the troops” rhetoric by the right only applies to white veterans.

It wasn’t enough that I have had to prove my “American-ness” at every step of my career, but now the next generation is suffering as well. It wasn’t enough that I was asked whether my father taught me how to make bombs, or that I was told that I was doomed to the seventh circle of hell during my medical school interviews. I was also asked whether I would wear a burqa or if my parents would arrange my marriage during interviews. It is outrageous that I have to actually prove to the world how horrified I am that an 8-year-old boy was brutally murdered by a terrorist bombing. Any normal human being feels this agonizing grief with the rest of the country. I do not have to prove to you that, I, too, find it morally reprehensible. Of course I do. I have a heart. I am human.

So, I no longer want a seat at your restaurant, where you serve me begrudgingly, where I am belittled for asking for food without pork, where I endure your dirty looks at my hijabi friend. I want my pride intact, I want this struggle of mine to be recognized, for you to look me in the eye and acknowledge that yes, this tumor called bigotry is indeed rivering through your veins, polluting your mind, and is so malignant that it compels you to squash my dignity.

It’s the little indignities that slowly devastate your soul. The ones where your guard is down, and you just expect to dress up, look pretty, and enjoy an evening as a newlywed, or at the Oscars, but instead end up humiliated and snubbed. The ubiquitous racist slap in the face is thinly veiled just beneath the carefully crafted façade. This filthy, highly infectious plague is transforming our nation into one of unwarranted suspicion and anguish inflicted on disenfranchised, voiceless people of color. And now, it is no longer my job to enlighten you. To quote what you so often tell ethnic communities, “It’s time for you to step up to the plate, take responsibility, and stop taking what I have earned,” my integrity, my dignity.

The Huffington Post

(via lettersiarrange)

prevalenceofinsanity:

allthefandomfeelings:

BOTTOM LEFT PLS AND THANK

I want all of them.

Bottom right, thankyouverymuch

(via azzandra)

masteradept:

George Zimmer, the owner and founder of The Men’s Wearhouse, does not background check his employees. “I don’t trust the U.S. justice system to get it right,” says Zimmer, who is himself a recovering alcoholic. “I’d rather make my own decisions, and I believe in giving people a second chance.”

Good to know some people with money and power get shit right.

(via azzandra)

panties-and-stockings:

Abilletage

(via magebird)

(via magebird)

duck-tective:

you can have 14 pancakes or 132 there is no inbetween

(via lettersiarrange)