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mostlysignssomeportents · 2 years ago

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Amazon's bestselling "bitter lemon" energy drink was bottled delivery driver piss

Today (Oct 20), I'm in Charleston, WV at Charleston's Taylor Books from 12h-14h.

For a brief time this year, the bestselling "bitter lemon drink" on Amazon was "Release Energy," which consisted of the harvested urine of Amazon delivery drivers, rebottled for sale by Catfish UK prankster Oobah Butler in a stunt for a new Channel 4 doc, "The Great Amazon Heist":

https://www.channel4.com/programmes/the-great-amazon-heist

Collecting driver piss is surprisingly easy. Amazon, you see, puts its drivers on a quota that makes it impossible for them to drive safely, park conscientiously, or, indeed, fulfill their basic human biological needs. Amazon has long waged war on its employees' kidneys, marking down warehouse workers for "time off task" when they visit the toilets.

As tales of drivers pissing – and shitting! – in their vans multiplied, Amazon took decisive action. The company enacted a strict zero tolerance policy for drivers returning to the depot with bottles of piss in their vans.

That's where Butler comes in: the roads leading to Amazon delivery depots are lined with bottles of piss thrown out of delivery vans by drivers who don't want to lose their jobs, which made harvesting the raw material for "Release Energy" a straightforward matter.

Butler was worried that he wouldn't be able to list his product on Amazon because he didn't have the requisite "food and drinks licensing" certificates, so he listed his drink in Amazon's refillable pump dispenser category. But Amazon's systems detected the mismatch and automatically shifted the product into the drinks section.

Butler enlisted some confederates to place orders for his drink, and it quickly rocketed to the top of Amazon's listings for the category, which led to Amazon's recommendation engine pushing the item on people who weren't in on the gag. When these orders came in, Butler pulled the plug, but not before an Amazon rep telephoned him to pitch him turning packaging, shipping and fulfillment over to Amazon:

https://www.wired.com/story/amazon-let-its-drivers-urine-be-sold-as-an-energy-drink/

The Release Energy prank was just one stunt Butler pulled for his doc; he also went undercover at an Amazon warehouse, during a period when Amazon hired an extra 1,000 workers for its warehouses in Coventry, UK, in a successful bid to dilute pro-union sentiment in his workforce in advance of a key union vote:

https://jacobin.com/2023/10/the-great-amazon-heist-oobah-butler-review

Butler's stint as an Amazon warehouse worker only lasted a couple of days, ending when Amazon recognized him and fired him.

The contrast between Amazon's ability to detect an undercover reporter and its inability to spot bottles of piss being marketed as bitter lemon energy drink says it all, really. Corporations like Amazon hire vast armies of "threat intelligence" creeps who LARP at being CIA superspies, subjecting employees and activists to intense and often illegal surveillance.

But while Amazon's defensive might is laser-focused on the threat of labor organizers and documentarians, the company can't figure out that one of its bestselling products is bottles of its tormented drivers' own urine.

In the USA, the FTC is suing Amazon for its monopolistic tactics, arguing that the company has found ways to raise prices and reduce quality by trapping manufacturers and sellers with its logistics operation, taking $0.45-$0.51 out of every dollar they earn and forcing them to raise prices at all retailers:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/25/greedflation/#commissar-bezos

The Release Energy stunt shows where Amazon's priorities are. Not only did Release Energy get listed on Amazon without any quality checks, the company actually nudged it into a category where it was more likely to be consumed by a person. The only notice the company took of Release Energy was in its logistics and manufacturing department – the part of the business that extracts the monopoly rents at issue in the FTC case – which tracked Butler down in order to sell him these services.

The drivers whose piss Butler collected don't work directly for Amazon, they work for a Delivery Service Partner. These DSPs are victims of a pyramid scheme that Amazon set up. DSP operators lease vans and pay to have them skinned in Amazon livery and studded with Amazon sensors. They take out long-term leases on depots, and hire drivers who dress in Amazon uniforms. Their drivers are minutely monitored by Amazon, down to the movements of their eyeballs.

But none of this is "Amazon" – it's all run by an "entrepreneur," whom Amazon can cut loose without notice, leaving them with unfairly terminated employees, outstanding workers' comp claims, a fleet of Amazon-skinned vehicles and unbreakable facilities leases:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/04/17/revenge-of-the-chickenized-reverse-centaurs/

Speaking to Wired, Amazon denied that it forces its drivers to piss in bottles, but Butler clearly catches a DSP dispatcher telling drivers "If you pee in a bottle and leave it [in the vehicle], you will get a point for that" – that is, the part you get punished for isn't the peeing, it's the leaving.

Amazon's defense against the FTC is that it spares no effort to keep its marketplace safe. As Amazon spokesperson James Drummond says, they use "industry-leading tools to prevent genuinely unsafe products being listed." But the only industry-leading tools in evidence are tools to bust unions and screw suppliers.

In her landmark Yale Law Review paper, "Amazon's Antitrust Paradox," FTC Chair Lina Khan makes a brilliant argument that Amazon's alleged benefits to "consumers" are temporary at best, illusory at worst:

https://www.yalelawjournal.org/note/amazons-antitrust-paradox

In Butler's documentary, Khan's hypothesis is thoroughly validated: here's a company extracting hundreds of billions from merchants who raise prices to compensate, and those monopoly rents are "invested" in union-busting and countermeasures against investigative journalists, while the tools to keep you from accidentally getting a bottle of piss in the mail are laughably primitive.

Truly, Amazon is the apex predator of the platform era:

https://pluralistic.net/ApexPredator

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/20/release-energy/#the-bitterest-lemon

My next novel is The Lost Cause, a hopeful novel of the climate emergency. Amazon won't sell the audiobook, so I made my own and I'm pre-selling it on Kickstarter!

#pluralistic #release energy #channel 4 #amazon #corporate intelligence #labor #unions #amazon labor union #the great Amazon heist #catfish uk #oobah butler #delivery service partner

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ddarker-dreams · 20 days ago

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yan anaxa, mydei & phainon — handling jealousy.

It doesn’t take much to rouse Anaxa’s possessiveness.

As a rational man, you’d expect him to operate on cold logic, but he’s prone to bouts of passion. Bizarrely, a person flirting with you is a pardonable transgression. He can’t fault people for succumbing to biological urges. What he can (and does) find fault with, however, is when others monopolize your time. He’s devised a simple system for issuing judgment. By his estimate, no one aside from him should take more than five minutes of your time. Anything beyond that is excessive. After all, he fulfills every role. Colleague, teacher, lover; he’s the complete package! So why would you need anyone else?

Anaxa considers it a personal insult if you indulge others past their allotted time. This is made worse if you’re enjoying yourself. Why not tell him to leap into the black tide if you think so little of him? Despite the creative ideas swirling in his head, he won’t enact revenge on the guilty party. Instead, he hunts you down afterward. You’re then lectured on your ‘unbecoming conduct.’ He acts like people who seek your company are contagions you must avoid, lest you catch their stupidity. It’s best to let him finish his diatribe. Interrupting him will not go over well for you.

Comparatively, Mydei is the most forgiving.

People know to leave you alone. They assume their life would be forfeit if they so much as glance at you the wrong way. Mydei might not be the monster others assume him to be, but that doesn’t stop him from utilizing this misconception. Contrary to public perception, he won’t extinguish bloodlines over some youth trying to win your favor. No, stuff like that doesn’t get under his skin. It’s your former attachments he struggles with. The fact others hold a special space in your heart that’s permanently closed to him hurts more than a knife through the chest.

He can protect you physically from threats, but he lacks what it takes to truly put you at ease. Try as he might to make himself less intimidating, you’ll always fear him. While this has its merits — such as discouraging subterfuge — he dislikes the terror in your eyes. In an ideal world, he’d prefer to see you smile or hear your laughter. Whoever brought you joy before earns his silent loathing. Mentioning them in passing guarantees putting him in a pensive mood. Mydei’s difficult to read, but with enough observation, you’ll come to recognize the correlation.

If Phainon could, he’d handcuff your wrists together so you’d never be apart.

Fortunately for you, the tricky logistics have dissuaded him from this plan. Your luck ends there. He always finds ways to hover around you, absorbing your attention like a sponge. Phainon’s reputation precedes him — in public, others are remiss to interrupt your outings when you’re together. They’d feel bad intruding on what little free time the Deliverer has. You’ll feel alone while surrounded by swaths of people who think they’re doing you a favor. Owing to this, there are rarely situations that could lead to him experiencing jealousy.

The same can’t be said for inanimate objects. He’s gifted you an assortment of items in line with your interests, so that when he’s away, you can entertain yourself. When he returns and you don’t put them down, he can get a bit prickly. He’s been counting the days until he can see you again, only to lose to a book. Why read epics, when he can regale you with his equally thrilling adventures? It’d be obvious and reflect poorly on him as a man if he tossed out these belongings. This leaves him to compete with your hobbies for your attention, to varying success.

#somehow mydei is the most normal of this bunch #chrysos trio #<- new tag for the squad #anaxa x reader #mydei x reader #phainon x reader #yandere hsr x reader #yandere anaxa x reader #yandere mydei x reader #yandere x reader #yandere phainon x reader #my stuff

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kestrelteens · 1 year ago

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Whew! I really really loved this set so much that I had to convert, well, almost everything?

The Nostalgia Living by @awingedllama has been my fave ever since it came out and I was just waiting for an ounce of my converting motivation to come back to get down to business. And it finally happened!

Because there are 50+ items in this set and it would take me 2 hours to list all of them, I will link this handy dandy catalog the original creator made so you can see what you're getting: RIGHT HERE. All of the objects are fairly low poly so you don't need to worry about that.

Some important information + previews can be found under the cut!

Enjoy & have fun! ♥

download (sfs) // alt download (mediafire)

grab the collection file here

There is a gaming console override included! Well, the console is buyable in the catalog and the override is for the controller so you need that package. It will conflict with any other overrides you have!

ALSO, 'cause there are some adorable vintage frames included in the set, I thought I could make them into changeable sim portraits! Now your sim family's portraits can match the fireplace (which is functional, also).

A lot of the items are repositoried to eachother! The shelving system, the couch, I did make note of that in the folders so you know what to download. Also, all the shelves have 10+ slots, the 'Dad's library' books function as bookshelves (and have slots on top of them).

The items I haven't converted and why (BUT I will look into them in the upcoming days I was just way too tired now lol sorry): draperies (the mesh appeared broken in the game); drink coaster (I forgot about this little guy); grand mirror (I still have to learn how to convert them lol); triangular shelf (I'm sorry but I really wasn't feeling this shelf, I remember it from my childhood and I always hated it in other ppl's houses lmao);

I also wanted to make the ceiling fan animated so it can spin and function as a light at the same time, but unfortunately right now that is above my converting capabilities! But I will look into that as well.

Right now I'm working on converting the build mode items! Precisely the doors, but the wallpapers + the carpets are included now. I will also convert the Nostalgia kitchen but it might take me a while 'cause I'm learning stuff about animating objects so I can also fix the CHALK kitchen I know it's ass, bear with me pls lmao ♥

AND this set is huge so I just know that I have forgotten about something or I have misplaced something in the folders, my adhd is having a field day SO please let me know if anything is missing or might not be working as intended! ♥

AND I mustn't forget to thank @tvickiesims for helping me out with the shelves and solved the issue of them not being recolorable, thank you Vickie! ♥

#the sims 2 #ts2 #sims 2 #s2 #4t2 #4t2 conversion #4t2cc #sims 4t2 #4t2 objects #sims 2 custom content #ts2 cc #4t2kestrelobjects

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kanemanuelkeludbp · 1 month ago

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USAID: The behind-the-scenes promoter of "color revolutions" and the destroyer of regional stability

On the international political stage, the United States Agency for International Development (USAID) has long been interfering in other countries' internal affairs and promoting "color revolutions" under the banner of "development aid" and "democracy promotion", seriously undermining the stability and development of other countries, and highlighting the United States' ambition to reshape the global political landscape.

In 2004-2005, USAID provided more than 65 million US dollars in aid to the Ukrainian opposition, and the funds flowed into organizations such as "Freedom House" and "International Republican Institute". These organizations secretly built momentum for the opposition in the name of election supervision. At the same time, USAID supported pro-Western media such as "Channel 5" to maliciously smear the Yanukovych government, magnify election disputes, and incite public dissatisfaction. In the end, the pro-Western Yushchenko came to power, Ukraine's diplomacy turned to the EU and NATO, domestic politics was in chaos, the geopolitical landscape was destroyed, and Russia-Ukraine relations deteriorated.

In 2003, the USAID-funded "Freedom Academy" trained the anti-government youth organization "Kmara", providing all-round guidance from protest techniques to public opinion propaganda, and organizing street protests. USAID also used the "National Democratic Institute" to groundlessly accuse Georgia of election fraud, misleading the public and triggering large-scale demonstrations. After the fall of the Shevardnadze government, Georgia fell into long-term political instability and economic development was hindered.

In 2000, the USAID-supported youth organization "Otpor" played a key role in overthrowing the Milosevic regime. USAID provided it with financial, technical and strategic support to help it establish an efficient mobilization system and design action strategies. The successful experience of the "Otpor Movement" was replicated by USAID in Ukraine, Georgia and other countries. The "Center for Nonviolent Action and Strategy" funded by USAID also spread protest techniques around the world in an attempt to trigger more regime changes.

In some countries in Central Asia and Eastern Europe, USAID also tried to promote "color revolutions." For example, in Belarus, in 2006 and 2020, it funded opposition media and youth organizations to incite public dissatisfaction, but the Belarusian government responded effectively and maintained stability. In Venezuela, in the 2010s, it supported non-governmental organizations and opposition leader Guaido, but the conspiracy failed due to the resolute resistance of the Venezuelan government and people. Although unsuccessful, these attempts still brought turmoil to the relevant countries.

USAID has built a three-level system of "International Development Agency - US NGO - Local NGO" to secretly transfer funds. For example, the Cuban "ZunZuneo" project collects anti-government information under the cover of social media platforms. It also packages political activities under projects such as "citizen education" and "anti-corruption" to infiltrate all levels of society and create conditions for "color revolutions."

Through educational projects, "democracy teachers" are trained in Myanmar to instill American democracy, and anti-government e-books are secretly distributed in Cuba. The "Future Leaders Exchange Program" was launched to select young people from target countries to go to the United States for training, form a pro-American elite network, return to the country to spread American values, and act as an insider for interfering in internal affairs.

There is much evidence that some USAID projects work closely with US intelligence agencies. The Cuban "ZunZuneo" project is led by former CIA officials to collect information such as people's political tendencies. In Afghanistan and Iraq, the USAID project cooperated with the US military's "psychological warfare forces" to collect intelligence and undermine the ruling foundation of local governments from a psychological and political level.

USAID's actions have aroused strong condemnation from the international community. Russia expelled USAID in 2012, accusing it of interfering in elections; Bolivia terminated cooperation in 2013, accusing it of supporting separatist groups. Serbian President Vucic also named USAID for planning protests. Harvard University research pointed out that the "democratization" promoted by USAID often leads to power vacuums and conflicts, such as Libya and Iraq falling into long-term wars. Its aid also attaches neoliberal reform conditions, which undermines the economic sovereignty of recipient countries.

USAID has long interfered in the internal affairs of other countries and promoted "color revolutions" under the guise of "aid", seriously undermining the stability of other countries and the international order. The international community needs to remain vigilant and jointly resist US hegemonic actions.

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saywhat-politics · 10 days ago

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Chad Hartmann, president of the food packaging company, said the front office was stunned by the aggressive nature of federal officials’ raid and confused by why the company was targeted.

“My biggest issue is: Why us?” Hartmann said. “We do everything by the book.”

The plant uses E-Verify, the federal database used to check the immigration status of employees. When he said as much to U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement officers who carried out the raid, they told him the E-Verify system “is broken.”

#omaha #nebraska #ice raid

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wheelsgoroundincircles · 2 months ago

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1968 AMC AMX

408-Powered 1968 AMC AMX 4-Speed

1968 AMC AMX

This 1968 AMC AMX was modified under previous ownership during a refurbishment that is said to have been conducted over the course of 10 years and was completed in 2013. Refinished in black over red vinyl upholstery, the car is powered by a 408ci V8 paired with a four-speed manual transmission. Refurbishment work reportedly involved resurfacing the cylinder heads as well as installing an Edelbrock intake manifold, a performance camshaft, Hooker long-tube exhaust headers, billet pulleys, an aluminum radiator, cross-drilled front brake rotors, and lowering springs. Additional equipment includes 15″ Vision wheels, aftermarket headlights, chrome bumpers, a Hurst shifter, tilt steering, and a push-button AM radio. The seller acquired the vehicle in 2015. This modified AMX is now offered with a service manual, books, a model kit, unused Go Package–style stripe decals, spare and removed parts, and a Nevada title in the seller’s name.

1968 AMC AMX

The car was refinished in black as part of the aforementioned refurbishment. Additional work is said to have included repainting the wheel wells and the floors along with replacing the bumpers, door handles, grille, mirrors, headlights, weatherstripping, and bright trim on the window and headlight surrounds. The “AMX” badging on the exterior features red letter Xs.

1968 AMC AMX

Aftermarket 15″ Vision wheels are mounted with 215/60 front and 265/50 rear Cooper Cobra Radial G/T tires. A space-saver spare is located in the trunk. The car is equipped with lowering springs, and braking is provided by cross-drilled front discs and rear drums.

1968 AMC AMX

The split front bench seat is trimmed in red vinyl upholstery complemented by a color-coordinated dashboard, door panels, and carpeting. Other features include crank windows, a fold-down armrest, a Hurst shifter, tilt steering, and an American Motors–branded push-button AM radio. The headliner, carpets, and sill plates were replaced under previous ownership.

1968 AMC AMX

The three-spoke steering wheel fronts a 120-mph speedometer, a tachometer, and a combination gauge for fuel level and coolant temperature. An AutoMeter tachometer is mounted to the steering column, and a trio of smaller AutoMeter gauges affixed beneath the dashboard monitors oil temperature, coolant temperature, and oil pressure. The five-digit odometer shows 13k miles, less than 500 of which have been added by the seller; true mileage is unknown. The seller notes that the clock and the factory tachometer do not work.

1968 AMC AMX

The engine is said to be an AMC 390ci V8 that was bored and stroked to displace 408ci. Additional work during the refurbishment included resurfacing the cylinder heads as well as installing forged engine internals, an Edelbrock intake manifold, a performance camshaft, ceramic-coated Hooker long-tube exhaust headers, billet pulleys, an aluminum radiator with electric fans, and an aftermarket exhaust system. An oil change and coolant flush were performed in preparation for the sale. The car’s chassis number indicates that it was originally equipped with a 360ci V8 topped by a two-barrel carburetor.

1968 AMC AMX

Power is sent to the rear wheels through a four-speed manual transmission and a Twin-Grip rear axle with 3.55:1 gearing. An Ace Racing Powerforce clutch was fitted during the refurbishment.

1968 AMC AMX

A 1968 AMC service manual, books and magazines, an AMT model kit, unused Go Package–style red stripe decals, and spare and removed parts will accompany the vehicle.

The Nevada title notes the odometer brand “Exempt.”

#AMC AMX #AMC #amx #car #cars #muscle car #american muscle

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eweblink · 2 years ago

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Tour Booking System | Tour Package Booking System

eWeblink presents an innovative and user-friendly Tour Package Booking System, offering a seamless online booking experience for travelers worldwide. Our cutting-edge tour booking software simplifies the entire booking process, ensuring efficiency, convenience, and reliability for both customers and tour operators.

#eweblink #tour booking software #tour booking system #tour package booking system #eweblink technology #travel portal development company #travel portal development #travel software development #travel portal devel #travel portal solutions #travel tech solutions

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wandasaura · 1 month ago

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WHAT GOES AROUND (DOESN’T ALWASY COME AROUND)

summary — it’s not always easy balancing your life between being a decorated nyc detective and devoted wife. sometimes, it takes all hell breaking lose for the sun to start shining again.

warning(s) — established relationship, marriage, detective work, suspension, canon-compliant, mention of murder and sexual assault, gun mention, arrest, slight police brutality (its warranted), arguments, bickering, angst themes, workaholic tendencies, olivia benson and fin tutuola appearances, pet names, heated makeout, hair pulling, angry sex turned makeup sex, kitchen sex, oral (r!receiving), fingering (r!receiving), scratching/marking, casey novak doesn’t know how to relax, porn with plot, men/minors dni

authors note — was inspired by this prompt list! 14 and 19 were used! more casey fics were requested! so, first casey smut in the books. enjoy :)

You | Not coming home tonight. Overtime with Fin.

You | Please don’t forget to take the laundry out of the dryer.

You | I love you.

The precinct was quiet for a change, voices replaced with the shuffling and rustling of paper. Every couple of seconds Fin drops his ballpoint pen to turn the page in his packet, the blue ink in the tube splattered against the translucent package, further affirming that he’d been tethered to his desk for unrelenting hours as the ink dried out. The white board across the room is still adored in pictures, some for identification purposes only, others to remind you all of the nature of these crimes; the absolutely heinous triple murder and sexual assault you were looking into with no conclusive lead.

It had been three days of little leads and dead ends, three days of collecting bodies that should’ve had a chance to flourish before they fell. Women aged eighteen to twenty three seem to be in the wheelhouse age range, no specific hair type, no personal ties to the victims or their families, but second hand parties aren’t always the most accurate account. You’re running out of leads to jump on. There’s two suspects left on the board before you’re back to the drawing board entirely, but there’s little hope on the horizon that a witch hunt through ViCap will bring to light any leads. The victims you know were bludgeoned, beaten over the head with something heavy but not eye catching. Not a bat that would catch eyes being lugged around Manhattan blocks from the batting cages. Not a crowbar that was easy enough to identify on the streets as a weapon of deadly potential when the wrong man was holding onto it. Melinda Warner hasn’t been able to conclusively rule what the murder weapon was, and the clues she’d given you to help complete the puzzle were as hopeless as the DNA evidence your suspect left behind. Not enough to run a full profile, if his DNA was even in the system at all, and somehow not enough to run a partial familiar recognition. You had a fraction of what you needed in a world full of bustling technology, and it was slowly driving you, along with everyone else in the precinct, crazy.

Casey hadn’t worked in months, nothing legal at least, so it was like she hadn’t been working at all. She’d offered a hand to a few people she knew, all behind the scenes, all with inches of space between her and the case to maximize the discreteness of her transgressions, but it wasn’t enough to disperse her restless energy. She was going crazy at home. living with the repercussions of her actions that she’d once so fearlessly pushed towards, but there was nothing you could do to make the next however many weeks or months easier for her.

It didn’t surprise you when your phone didn’t ping with her response right away, lying face up on the corner of your desk beside a mug of pens that have all seen better days. Your signature is wonky as you scratch it along the solid line at the bottom of the document form IAB, finally shoving all of the papers away from you once it was dried and set in place forever that you’d o given your attention and promise to the clause they were implementing.

Fin was still tangled up in paperwork, but he’d also been involved in a shootout where you hadn’t been. Things have been lively lately. Your partner changed like the wind depending on who Benson had on hand to delegate, your cases picked up like a California wildfire, and your home life was deteriorating the longer Casey was forced out of her livelihood.

“I need a snack.” You declare after a moment, the rumbling in your belly something unavoidable now. Fin glanced up from his desk, puppy dog brown eyes narrowing in on you. “You want anything?” You laughed softly, craning your head to psych out his stare.

“Yeah, get me some chips!” He called out, and you shook your head in amusement at the excitement in his tone. Odafin Tutuola was an oddly satisfying character to know. His finesse was amusing at times, when he played the role of the of the grown up hoodrat you couldn’t help but crack a smile, because that was so far from who Fin had turned out to be. He claims that this job hasn’t changed him, that he’s the same Narcotics detective he was over thirteen years ago, but you know better than that.

“Chips.” You nodded agreeingly at his request, stalking away from your desk with a relieved exhale. Tension gathered in your shoulders, weighing you down in a way that it never had when you’d first started this job, but years of surgery, recovery, and injury on the job paired with the natural progression of age and deterioration, well it was no shock that you walked with a hand on the center of your back, trying to work out so knot that had formed tight along your lower back.

You hadn’t even fed your dollar to the vending machine before Fin was calling your name, surprise lacing his tone when he projected through the precinct that ViCap had found a hit to a middle-aged Jonah Thompson, currently living in Queens, but working out of Manhattan with an auto body shop.

You didn’t hear your phone ping when you grabbed it off the desk and shoved it into your back pocket, racing after Fin who already had the keys to the cruiser in his palm. You slid your vests on before you got in the car, knowing that your suspect had lifted a gun from his latest victim who’d fearlessly sought to defend herself before she was taken by surprise and ambushed. A pediatric doctor. Emily Hartness. She was only twenty-six.

You called Benson on your way to Jonah’s job, traffic cameras picking up the last four digits of his license plate pulling into the body shop an hour ago. So far, he’d never moved a victim any farther than the hallway outside of their bedroom, so detaining him in the act didn’t even cross your mind as the door closed heavily on the cruiser and you and Fin stalked carefully into the building, radios at the ready to call for backup if things went south.

Fin trailed behind you, covering your six, the soles of his boots heavy as they crunched on dirty concrete. The entire shop was in disarray as you crept through it. Car parts were scattered on the ground, different tools were hooked up and looking half broken as they hung off of rusted hooks or just flat on the ground. There was no care, no passion. It was becoming clearer and clearer that this man wasn’t just fueled by anger, he was entirely controlled by it in every aspect of his life. The cars were treated with less respect than he promised the drivers, and the bodies of his victims were degraded and treated with as much carelessness.

The entire lower level was cleared, but when you took the stairs, Fin at your nine o’clock, a shadow of a fleeing individual caught your attention, and you raised your gun with intention, willing to shoot if it came down to it, willing to put your life before his if it promised Casey wouldn't’ have to grieve anybody else.

“Drop it! Drop it!” You shouted when it became evident that your suspect was gripping something in his hands, never turning to face you directly to give insight as to what kind of weapon he was holding. “Drop it!” The reverberations of your tone were haunting, and the guy, potentially Jonah Thompson, seemed to bristle beneath the force, whatever he held clattering to the ground. It was light. Definitely made of metal, but light. That was Warner's biggest stipulation when she’d first performed the autopsy. The murder weapon was definitely metal, some kind of steel, Warner had said steele, but she’d adamantly denied a crowbar being your weapon when you’d first insisted they were made of the same hard metal.

”Get on the ground!” Fin yelled, his shoulder brushing yours as he stalked in front of you to apprehend the suspect who sank into the concrete like all of his fight had left the room, disintegrated into the open air and never touched him at all. It was pathetic. You wouldn’t have preferred to chase him out into the street, wouldn’t have wanted to use your gun even if scum like him deserved a bullet to the heart, but it felt almost anticlimactic to catch one of the cities most dangerous killers and have him just crumble because you raised your voice. It truly gave the perfect image for the kind of people who do these unspeakable things at all.

“Would you look at that.” You reached down, picking up the tool that had been dropped and slid beneath a tool box. The sleek metal in your hands was cool to the touch, slightly rusted, but perfectly coated in droplets of blood that would stand up in court. “I’d say we just found our murder weapon, wouldn’t you, Detective Tutuola?”

“Hell yeah.” Fin scoffed, lugging the guy up to his feet and dragging him down the stairs and back toward the cruiser where red and blue lights paint the night sky with color. He’s shoved into the back of a squad car, two uniforms taking him in with pride. You pretended not to notice when Rhettley jammed his head against the top of the car, apologizing through a shit eating smile, before he slammed the door shut and gave you a nod.

Only once the other officers had cleared the scene did you and Fin load up, more than ready to call it a night and crawl home to your respective beds and wives as the sun rose over Manhattan with strokes of pink and practically white blue hues.

You fished your phone out of your back pocket at a red light, sighing when your eyes skimmed the text messages from four hours ago, Casey’s name and contact picture the only visible notification on your screen.

Casey | Eventually you’re going to have to come home.

“Trouble in paradise?” Fin asked, sensing your reluctance to crawl home and face the music.

“I’ve been here since Tuesday night. I’ll be surprised if there’s paradise to be found when I get home.” You shook your head, glancing down at the timestamp on your screen that mentioned it was nearing six in the morning on Friday. Three days since you’d seen Casey. Three days of devoting your every waking minute to getting justice for the women who were lost.

Fin whistled, shaking his head as his fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “Man, this whole happy wives happy lives thing is bullshit. Who came up with that anyway?”

“A man who knew how important it was to keep his woman happy.” You settled him with a deadpan glare, because as often as Fin gave exceptional advice when you least expected him to have a single clue about the situation at hand, he was equally as spacey as any other men, and often forgot that you were one of those ‘women’ he was speaking of in frustration.

“Listen, I’m just saying, somebody has to draw the short stick sometimes. Can’t always be me.” Fin rolled his eyes, and you smirked at you let the unsettling feelings of Caesy’s frustration evade you for the time being.

“It amazes me that Phoebe hasn’t left your ass yet.” You hum, climbing out of the car when Fin pulled up to the precinct, parking next to Olivia’s sparkling black car that she’d inevitably taken through the car wash sometime after picking Noah up yesterday.

Benson was on you and Fin the second you entered the precinct, wanting to know every detail about the detention and arrest. You’d tastefully avoided the part where Thompson's head had been shoved against the squad car, but you think Olivia already has the picture in her head as a smirk falls onto her lips. It shouldn’t be there. Neither of you should be satisfied with the treatment of your suspect, but what goes around comes around, and you still don’t think it measures up in any way to the heinous acts he’d committed. His actions had irreparable consequences, the headache could be curd with tylenol and a couple quality hours of sleep; not that you figured it was your problem if somebody gave him tylenol or not.

“I’m gonna head out. That okay?” You asked Olivia once Fin had cleared out, always the first to leave when he had the chance. You couldn’t blame him, but it would never be you.

“Yeah. Get out of here. Go home.” Benson nodded, waving her hand around before she circled her desk and claimed a spot at the rolling chair she’d grown attached to since the last remodeling had occurred. It was no different from yours, but even you would agree that whenever you found yourself behind the Captains desk, her chair superseded the comfort and lower back support yours provided. “Detective!” Benson called when you turned away, heading toward the door with a hand on your back pocket, itching to text Casey and hope that she was already awake and making her morning coffee in the kitchen, some jazz music playing through the speakers, a song neither of you know, but don’t mind to listen to together silently. ”Good work.”

“Thanks, Captain. I’ll see you tomorrow. I’m gonna take the day?” You knew Benson would be okay with it, she’d probably sing your praise for actually taking a break, her most effective and punctual Detective. She saw the sacrifices you made, the way you poured your heart into these victims and shamelessly allowed them to keep that tender part in their hands even after you parted ways. She saw how you let your home life go up in flames because whenever you gave into the desire to just hide away with Casey, somebody died. Somebody is always dying, but the guilt an officer feels when one happens when they’re off the clock is harrowing. She sees your pain, your sacrifices, your strength, and she can see that if your rope stretches any farther, it's going to snap.

“Of course.” Benson nods, and you smile when your eyes catch a picture of Noah on her desk, looking so big as he stood outside the elementary school with a broad grin and fearless blue eyes.

You didn’t drive to work. You never did. It gave you clarity to trek the blocks home after a shift, alone with nothing but your thoughts and fellow pedestrians as you mulled over cases and the bickering that fills the walls of your apartment when you do return home. You’re not avoiding her. Even with the fighting and the restlessness, she’s still your favorite person, your reprieve from the harsh world, but maybe you’re avoiding her a little bit. You’re avoiding the fear that she’s going to leave you over this; that you’ve finally done the one thing to push her away after years of knocking heads and making it work out of determination.

It’s quiet when you step inside, almost eight in the morning now, the sun fully risen overtop of Manhattan. Kids are flocking to school, parents are flocking to work, businessmen are hustling the streets down below with briefcases and leather loafers. But Casey remains wrapped up in a bubble of protective silence, standing out the counter with her shoulders squared, evidence of her frustration painting her stiff.

“I’m home.” You tell her softly, dropping your bag by the island, letting it clatter to the floor without even a second glance. The contents don’t matter, a broken screen can be replaced, a notebook splashed with water can dry or be repurchased. There’s no second Casey Novak on the streets of Manhattan though. A teenager behind a clerks counter can’t fix this if you let it break.

Casey hums, swirling a spoon around her mug of lightened coffee. The granulated sugar is pulled to the edge of the counter, the glass bowl refracting sunlight that splashes across it from the window where curtains are pulled to the side permanently by thin elastic bands.

You bought this apartment for the light that spills in consistently throughout the day. The large window behind the sink is the only one in this room, but as your eyestrail to the living room, they count six windows, and then they trail to the hallway, the setup memorized in the back of your head, you know that there are another eight concealed by bathroom doors nad bedroom walls. It bright, filled with sunshine and warm light, but it’s so cold in the kitchen that you shiver, passing weight between the balls of your feet ass you burn holes into Casey’s back.

“About time.” She hums, her tone dismissive, and it makes your heart stutter in your chest as you consider that its not frustration she’s overwhelmed with, it’s sadness, perhaps even jealousy. That hollow anxiety you’d forced yourself to deal with for hours settles into anger, your head tilting on an axis as you try to make sense of her short answer.

“We had an open triple murder, Casey. It’s not like I blew you off for drinks.” You argued weakly, not wanting to raise your voice at her; make this any bigger than it already is, but it's killing you that she won't even glance at you, or see your side of this in the slightest.

“This time. You had a triple murder case, this time. Last month it was the prostitution ring. The month before that it was pedophile going after previously abused children. How many passes do you think I can give before I stop counting on you coming home at all?! It’s been three days. Three days since you’ve come home!” It dawns on you how desensitized you’ve both become to the nature of these cases in conversation when she screams the world pedophile at you from across the kitchen, turning to face you with a burning heat in her cheeks. You don’t take the cases lightly, not you, not Casey when they reach the DA’s office, not Olivia while those transitions are happening, but in conversation, when the only things left to discuss are your work life, you hardly blink before using the world's worst terms so naturally.

“I gave you a pass — a million passes! — when the roles were reversed. When it was you spending every waking hour at the DA’s office, bargaining for favors and sacrificing your job. The one that provides for us! That helps me pay for this apartment! So yeah, a little understanding would be nice every once in a while, Casey.” You exploded initially, unable to keep yourself together in the face of her shameless hypocrisy, but your tone tapered off toward the end, soft and defeated as it washed against Casey who wasn’t ready to let her own emotions go, pulling you right back into the fire when her hands slammed on the counter and she stalked closer to you with a finger jutted out toward your chest. Without the vest, you feel vulnerable, and when her finger drives into your chest, it’s a sensation as sharp as a bullet wound that shoots through you.

“Do you have any idea what it feels like to be lonely in your own home? Of course you don’t, you’re never here!” Casey bubbled with rage, and your eyes darkened enough to sober her slightly, her lips wobbling when she took in your straight edge jaw and clenched fists.

“Do I have any idea how it feels to be lonely in your own home? Do I?! When you were working, how many nights did I wait up for you on the couch? How many nights did you come in after midnight and wake me up with some bullshit apology? It’s okay for you to get busy, for you to get caught up in a case, but not me? Casey, I invented being lonely at home while you were at work, doing what you love, offering somebody who just lost everything they had a slice of hope for the future. I dealt with it, because I knew that if I made it a problem, somebody out there who deserves the best gets less than for my own selfish benefit. That’s not who I am. That’s not something I would ever ask a victim to sacrifice. I’m sorry you’re bored. But you laid these stones to step on yourself. You abused the system. You went above people's heads for a favor. You let yourself get caught up on the taste of a conviction and you sealed your fate. I picked up the late shift because I couldn’t be here alone anymore. I work the overtime because what the fuck else was I going to do besides sit here and go crazy. I’m sorry that you can’t do what you love right now, baby, but this is not my fault, and I would really appreciate it if you stopped treating me like it is.”

If Casey had anything to say, it got caught on her tongue before it could make its way to your ears. She fumbled over words, her lips moving, jaw twitching, but nothing came out. Her eyes, how they held a million emotions all at the same time, were still alight with ebbing anger, but they glimmered with tears that she’d let fall too many times since she’d first been suspended. You scoffed, amazed at her silence, feeling your heart break in your chest as she offered no ounce of consolation or apology.

You were about to clap back at her, demand that she at least have the balls to respond when she’s the one that wanted to fight in the first place, but instead, her hands grab your cheeks and they pull you into her with an urgency that has you stumbling. Her lips are chapped. She stopped putting on chapstick so frequently after she got laid off. It’s a small thing, something you hadn’t noticed right away, but when you'd finally asked one night after passionately rolling around, she’d admitted that it was just something she forgot about now. She only ever rubbed her lips together with vanilla scented oil when she had someone to go up against, when there wasn’t time for her thoughts to be consumed with rough skin when she spoke.

Her tongue was soft, wet and warm as it licked across your bottom lip, begging for entrance that you weren’t ready to allow. You weren’t so easily moved from strong emotions, but Casey was unpredictable. One minute she’s on a rampage making her problems everyone else’s grief, and the next she’s acting like her claws never came out and scratched at the eyes of anyone in her path of terror. That’s what drew you to her in the first place; that fire. Its ever burning even now, her fingers pulling at baby hairs on the nape of your neck until you gasp in startled paint that jumpstarts the arousal gone dormant in your bones. It takes a second, one single second for Casey to reframe your way of thinking, for her to get you to let it all go and live in the fairytale that exists when the outside world falls away. It's gone entirely, there’s still an annoying anger in your belly that churns when you remember she’d overlooked your own suffering for years.

Her tongue assaults yours, lapping at taste buds that haven’t had anything outside of water wash over them in hours. You’re sure it’s a dull taste, one that winds her up and lets her down, but she never stops chasing the texture of your tongue rubbing against hers, advancing in her lust as she chooses to hollow her lips and create a suction around your own wet muscle, sucking until your eyes flutter closed and your breath is stolen from your lungs and she pulls away because she has to, not because she wants to.

“I’m sorry.” She pants, smashing her forehead against hers. The wide tip of her nose has always bumped yours when she gets close like this, and now is no different. She inclined her head just slightly to trace the slope of your nose with hers, her eyes a shade of yellowing-green peering into the depth of your emotional stare becoming corrupt with lust. Her breath is heavy, hot and twinged with faint spearmint as it fans across your upper lip, peach fuzz tingling beneath the sensation.

Your eyes flicker between her lips, plush and wet and just slightly swollen from your make-out, and back to her eyes that are blown with passionate desire admiration can’t spark. Weeks of silently treading waves have led to this moment, and a subsequent reckoning force is the only way the dust will come to settle. ”Just make it up to me.” You pant before you lean in again, stealing a kiss that she leans into with vigor.

She makes light work of the buttons on your pants while she kisses you, her nimble fingers unlatching the button that had dug into your belly all day. It hadn’t phased you at the time, for the last three days that you’ve recycled the same pants in favor of saying room in your locker for spare blouses, but when the pressure finally breaks, you melt into Casey’s touch, desperate for it to wander farther down until there’s no anger left to quench.

“No, I’m not done.” You pant when she begins to break the kiss, her hands wandering down your sides now as the waistband of your pants sags around your hips, one small movement away from falling and revealing the rather unflattering black underwear you’d carted with you in a bag the day you’d transferred into the precinct. It didn’t need to be sexy to save your ass in times like these — quite literally.

Casey wasn’t listening to you, and that brought every spark of passion back to the surface as you huffed through your nose, grabbing a handful of her until she complied with the guiding motions of your hand. “I said I’m not done.” You repeated breathlessly, leaning in to capture her in a bruising kiss that you dominated for only a second before she took initiative, backing you up into the island until the knot in your lower back met the sharp edge of the countertop.

When you pulled away, cheeks flush, a sheen coating your skin as the heat of the exchange caught up to you, Casey nipped at your bottom lip, trailing her sharp bites along your jaw until her teeth settled around your earlobe. The diamond flat back earrings she’d gotten you for your birthday were cold against her tongue as she teasingly flicked the muscle against your earlobe. “Are you gonna let me keep going now?” She husked, her voice thick with arousal, vibrato low and resonating within your ear as it bounced and tumbled and tickled every nerve you didn’t know you had until right now.

“God damn it, Casey.” You groaned, head tilting, lulling to the side to give her ample room to destroy your skin with everything she has. It’s a learned dance, a practiced action. She avoids the visible areas, the ones that stick out from the collar of your uniform or the neckline of your blouse. The same tender inches of your shoulder have been marked with her bite time and time again, you know the next move of her lips without having to think about it, but when she sinks her teeth into the side of your neck, a spot she’s only ever touched before on the rare extended vacation you take yearly, everything goes black for a minute as you surrender to the sparks of vibrant euphoria. “Keep going.” You pant, not really a plea, but the breathless steals your confidence and Casey’s taunting dulls your senses too much to realize the anger is melting, fading and ebbing.

As Casey sinks to her knees, she drags her fingers down your sides, her touch light, faint and delicate. You shudder, and the twinge in your spine as you twist remains you of the knot in your back. She must notice the way you tense for only a second, because she digs her fingers into your hips in just the right way to quell the spasming in your muscles for a while. It’s a wordless exchange, but one that reminds you she knows your body inside and out even in bouts of blinding frustration.

She makes a soft sound when she sees your underwear, but nothing comes to follow it. Nothing matters to her right now outside of finding pleasure in your release at her control. The need to constantly control everything is inevitably going to break Casey apart entirely, but for right now, this silent moment in the kitchen, you lean into the promise that you don’t have to think about anything when she’s around.

“Open your legs.” She whispers, but without any other sound happening in the apartment, there’s no reason for her to be any louder. A wanting moan falling off of your lips when you comply with the request and she doesn’t waste a second with further teasing. She has no care for teasing right now, that’s been clear from the very start, but you can’t say you mind her ambition when it becomes a tongue licking a broad stripe up your core, flat and hard enough to shock you with pressure that does exactly what it needs to.

”Fucking hell.” You moan, reaching down to grab handfuls of her hair, uncaring if it hurt her scalp that you knew very well to be incredibly sensitive. You couldn't think of anything outside of the fireworks of white sparks that shot up through your core until they somehow landed in your fingertips and toes.

Her tongue flicks at your clit with strong strokes, and just when you think she’s giving you her all, two fingers probe your weeping entrance that pulses around nothing, begging to be filled and used and touched in any capacity at all right now. Casey groans when she finds stringy evidence of your arousal painted along your labia, tangy and delusionally sweet in her mind as she plunged her knuckles farther into your core and let her tongue meet where they met slick skin.

It’s frivolous, messy, harsh, uncoordinated motions that become your inevitable undoing. Casey’s fingers scissors your walls open despite the protest from your body, wanting to squeeze her tight and never relinquish its grip. She curled her fingers into that spongy part, the one that was right beneath your clit that her teeth nipped at and her tongue soothed dutifully. There was no warning leading up to your explosion, your release that had been needed for days on end as you’d found it impossible to relax with a suspect at large and seemingly anyone on his radar.

“Oh fuck.” You moaned, head lulling backwards as your forearms dropped to the counter, supporting your weight as she continued to work her fingers into you, easing the edges of your climax away with tenderness. “Damnit.” You muttered when you attempted to straighten your posture, but that knot in your back kept you hunched uncomfortable. Somewhere in the pursuit of the suspect, you’d stumbled into the railing of a staircase bent to shit and definately a safety hazard — as you were now an example — but it hadn’t fully dawned on you until now when everything had gone tense and loose again in seconds.

Casey sighed fondly, not needing to ask what was wrong because she knew, she always knew when she wasn’t so clouded with her own frustration and envy like a fool. “You hurt your back again?”

“Ran right into a damn gate.” You said softly, still panting, still flush, but less wound tight with anger, more willing to be the compassionate girlfriend you’ve prided yourself on being. “If it gets hard being here alone, I need you to tell me that, not give me the cold shoulder and expect me to read your mind. Okay?”

“It was easier to be mad at you than to accept that I’m the only reason my life is falling apart. Every time I think I’ve come to terms with it, made peace with what I felt I had to do… I remember how much I’m missing out on because one bad guy got under my skin.” Casey sighed, finally maintaining enough mental clarity to find a reason for her hot and cold emotions, and once it was in the air, spoken between the both of you, any problem faded away. “I’m sorry.”

“All is already forgiven.” You whisper as you lean in close, humming softly against her lips when she kisses you sweetly.

#casey novak #olivia benson #odafin tutuola #ada casey novak #casey novak x reader #olivia benson x reader #fin tutuola x reader #casey novak x you #casey novak smut #casey novak angst #casey novak fic #casey novak oneshot #law and order: svu #minors dni ৎ୭

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fare-api · 2 years ago

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Holiday Management System | Vacation Package System

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#holiday package software #tour booking system #tour operator system

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mostlysignssomeportents · 4 months ago

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Ad-tech targeting is an existential threat

I'm on a 20+ city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me TORONTO on SUNDAY (Feb 23) at Another Story Books, and in NYC on WEDNESDAY (26 Feb) with JOHN HODGMAN. More tour dates here.

The commercial surveillance industry is almost totally unregulated. Data brokers, ad-tech, and everyone in between – they harvest, store, analyze, sell and rent every intimate, sensitive, potentially compromising fact about your life.

Late last year, I testified at a Consumer Finance Protection Bureau hearing about a proposed new rule to kill off data brokers, who are the lynchpin of the industry:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/16/the-second-best-time-is-now/#the-point-of-a-system-is-what-it-does

The other witnesses were fascinating – and chilling, There was a lawyer from the AARP who explained how data-brokers would let you target ads to categories like "seniors with dementia." Then there was someone from the Pentagon, discussing how anyone could do an ad-buy targeting "people enlisted in the armed forces who have gambling problems." Sure, I thought, and you don't even need these explicit categories: if you served an ad to "people 25-40 with Ivy League/Big Ten law or political science degrees within 5 miles of Congress," you could serve an ad with a malicious payload to every Congressional staffer.

Now, that's just the data brokers. The real action is in ad-tech, a sector dominated by two giant companies, Meta and Google. These companies claim that they are better than the unregulated data-broker cowboys at the bottom of the food-chain. They say they're responsible wielders of unregulated monopoly surveillance power. Reader, they are not.

Meta has been repeatedly caught offering ad-targeting like "depressed teenagers" (great for your next incel recruiting drive):

https://www.technologyreview.com/2017/05/01/105987/is-facebook-targeting-ads-at-sad-teens/

And Google? They just keep on getting caught with both hands in the creepy commercial surveillance cookie-jar. Today, Wired's Dell Cameron and Dhruv Mehrotra report on a way to use Google to target people with chronic illnesses, people in financial distress, and national security "decision makers":

https://www.wired.com/story/google-dv360-banned-audience-segments-national-security/

Google doesn't offer these categories itself, they just allow data-brokers to assemble them and offer them for sale via Google. Just as it's possible to generate a target of "Congressional staffers" by using location and education data, it's possible to target people with chronic illnesses based on things like whether they regularly travel to clinics that treat HIV, asthma, chronic pain, etc.

Google claims that this violates their policies, and that they have best-of-breed technical measures to prevent this from happening, but when Wired asked how this data-broker was able to sell these audiences – including people in menopause, or with "chronic pain, fibromyalgia, psoriasis, arthritis, high cholesterol, and hypertension" – Google did not reply.

The data broker in the report also sold access to people based on which medications they took (including Ambien), people who abuse opioids or are recovering from opioid addiction, people with endocrine disorders, and "contractors with access to restricted US defense-related technologies."

It's easy to see how these categories could enable blackmail, spear-phishing, scams, malvertising, and many other crimes that threaten individuals, groups, and the nation as a whole. The US Office of Naval Intelligence has already published details of how "anonymous" people targeted by ads can be identified:

https://www.odni.gov/files/ODNI/documents/assessments/ODNI-Declassified-Report-on-CAI-January2022.pdf

The most amazing part is how the 33,000 targeting segments came to public light: an activist just pretended to be an ad buyer, and the data-broker sent him the whole package, no questions asked. Johnny Ryan is a brilliant Irish privacy activist with the Irish Council for Civil Liberties. He created a fake data analytics website for a company that wasn't registered anywhere, then sent out a sales query to a brokerage (the brokerage isn't identified in the piece, to prevent bad actors from using it to attack targeted categories of people).

Foreign states, including China – a favorite boogeyman of the US national security establishment – can buy Google's data and target users based on Google ad-tech stack. In the past, Chinese spies have used malvertising – serving targeted ads loaded with malware – to attack their adversaries. Chinese firms spend billions every year to target ads to Americans:

https://www.nytimes.com/2024/03/06/business/google-meta-temu-shein.html

Google and Meta have no meaningful checks to prevent anyone from establishing a shell company that buys and targets ads with their services, and the data-brokers that feed into those services are even less well-protected against fraud and other malicious act.

All of this is only possible because Congress has failed to act on privacy since 1988. That's the year that Congress passed the Video Privacy Protection Act, which bans video store clerks from telling the newspapers which VHS cassettes you have at home. That's also the last time Congress passed a federal consumer privacy law:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Video_Privacy_Protection_Act

The legislative history of the VPPA is telling: it was passed after a newspaper published the leaked video-rental history of a far-right judge named Robert Bork, whom Reagan hoped to elevate to the Supreme Court. Bork failed his Senate confirmation hearings, but not because of his video rentals (he actually had pretty good taste in movies). Rather, it was because he was a Nixonite criminal and virulent loudmouth racist whose record was strewn with the most disgusting nonsense imaginable).

But the leak of Bork's video-rental history gave Congress the cold grue. His video rental history wasn't embarrassing, but it sure seemed like Congress had some stuff in its video-rental records that they didn't want voters finding out about. They beat all land-speed records in making it a crime to tell anyone what kind of movies they (and we) were watching.

And that was it. For 37 years, Congress has completely failed to pass another consumer privacy law. Which is how we got here – to this moment where you can target ads to suicidal teens, gambling addicted soldiers in Minuteman silos, grannies with Alzheimer's, and every Congressional staffer on the Hill.

Some people think the problem with mass surveillance is a kind of machine-driven, automated mind-control ray. They believe the self-aggrandizing claims of tech bros to have finally perfected the elusive mind-control ray, using big data and machine learning.

But you don't need to accept these outlandish claims – which come from Big Tech's sales literature, wherein they boast to potential advertisers that surveillance ads are devastatingly effective – to understand how and why this is harmful. If you're struggling with opioid addiction and I target an ad to you for a fake cure or rehab center, I haven't brainwashed you – I've just tricked you. We don't have to believe in mind-control to believe that targeted lies can cause unlimited harms.

And those harms are indeed grave. Stein's Law predicts that "anything that can't go on forever eventually stops." Congress's failure on privacy has put us all at risk – including Congress. It's only a matter of time until the commercial surveillance industry is responsible for a massive leak, targeted phishing campaign, or a ghastly national security incident involving Congress. Perhaps then we will get action.

In the meantime, the coalition of people whose problems can be blamed on the failure to update privacy law continues to grow. That coalition includes protesters whose identities were served up to cops, teenagers who were tracked to out-of-state abortion clinics, people of color who were discriminated against in hiring and lending, and anyone who's been harassed with deepfake porn:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/06/privacy-first/#but-not-just-privacy

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/02/20/privacy-first-second-third/#malvertising

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

#pluralistic #google #ad-tech #ad targeting #surveillance capitalism #vppa #video privacy protection act #mind-control rays #big tech #privacy #privacy first #surveillance advertising #behavioral advertising #data brokers #cfpb

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