Ever had one of those kitchen appliances that seems to have a personal vendetta against perfect numbers?
Your microwave, the culinary wizard that turns a frozen pizza into a steaming masterpiece, apparently thinks 59 and 29 are the holy grail of cooking times. 60 and 30? Too boring, too clean. 59 and 29? The stuff of legends.

The Mystery of the 30‑Second Button​

When you press that little “+30” button, the microwave dutifully adds 30 seconds, but only up to about two minutes. Beyond that, it gets tedious—time to start typing the exact seconds or minutes. This is a mildly amusing math problem: is it faster to tap the button or type the numbers? The answer? It depends on how many taps you’re willing to endure.

• Three taps for 90 seconds (30+30+30) or type “90” – the same number of moves, but the button feels lighter.
• Four taps for 120 seconds (30+30+30+30) or type “120” – either way, it’s a quick win.
• Anything over 120 seconds and typing starts to feel like a breeze; the button would take forever to click.

The real secret? Less finger movement wins the race. A microwave that’s a master of 30‑second increments will always choose the path of least resistance, and that path happens to be 59 and 29.

The 59‑and‑29 Phenomenon​

Why do microwaves favor 59 and 29?
It’s the sweet spot where you’re just shy of a clean multiple of 30, giving the machine a little extra “just‑right” feel. It’s like a cat that’s always a hair’s breadth away from catching the laser dot. The microwave’s internal timer loves the edge.

The comments from a fellow microwave enthusiast echo this:

I just hit the "add 30 seconds button". So always 30, 60, 1:30, 2, 2:30.
I can only use that button up to about two minutes, beyond that it gets tedious.
It's a mildly amusing math problem to me. What is the threshold where it's easier to type than increment? 90 seconds is three presses of the 30 button, or three presses, nine, zero, start. Two minutes is four taps either way but the 30 second approach is less finger movement. Anything over 2 minutes is where it's technically faster to just type the time.
Less finger movement is the main thing.
I can hit the same button 5 times faster than typing out 4 different numbers even if it’s less presses.
Faster to type but not faster to warm up as mine starts going from the first press and adds more time as you press.
Same, but I take it out right before it beeps.

These anecdotes paint a picture: the microwave’s love for 59 and 29 is not just random; it’s a calculated, time‑savvy strategy that keeps your fingers light and your popcorn popping.

TL;DR​

Your microwave prefers the “edge” times of 59 and 29 because they’re just shy of clean multiples of 30, making the button presses feel effortless and the timer feel just right. So next time you hit “add 30”, remember: the microwave is secretly cheering for the 59‑second victory.

Picture this: you’re at the office, humming along to the faint buzz of the coffee machine, when suddenly a symphony of snorts erupts from your coworker’s nose. It’s not a new jazz band, it’s a nasal orchestra that refuses to take a bow. You’re not the only one noticing—your fellow desk‑mates are in full-blown ear‑guard mode, trying to keep their sanity while not looking like a bunch of unprofessional, sneeze‑prone zombies.

The Situation​

• The Problem: A coworker who’s been around for a year and a half and is otherwise nice, but never stops snorting.
• The Sound: Imagine your sinuses falling out, each snort a tiny percussion hit.
• The Work Environment: Small, non‑customer‑facing office. The boss thinks wearing headphones or ear plugs would look bad if a customer walked in.
• The Constraints:
  • Headphones/ear plugs are off the table.
  • Office is too cramped for desk relocation.
  • No HR department to file a formal complaint.
  • You’re worried about embarrassing or uncomfortableing your coworker.
• The Goal: Find a solution that keeps everyone happy, professional, and noise‑free—without turning the office into a sneeze‑cave.

Common Reddit Wisdom (and why it falls flat)​

The usual go‑to advice on Reddit for dealing with a noisy coworker is “put on headphones or ear plugs.” Unfortunately, that’s not an option in this particular scenario. The boss would frown upon it, and the office is too tight for any sort of “private office” arrangement (unless you’re a secret agent with a top‑secret desk).

The (Almost) Professional Solution​

Enter the discrete professional earplugs—the quiet, unassuming little gadgets that you can wear under your shirt collar. They’re the unsung heroes of the office world, allowing you to listen to your favorite playlist without causing a scene. If the boss is a stickler for appearance, these earplugs can be a “silent ninja” solution: no one notices, but you’re still protected from the sonic assault.

How to Get the Earplugs (without blowing the office's vibe)​

1. Ask the IT Department: They may have a stash of “quiet mode” earplugs for sensitive equipment.
2. Buy Online: Look for “professional discreet earplugs” with a sleek design.
3. Wear Under the Collar: Keep the appearance neutral; the only thing people will see is your calm demeanor.

The “Private Office” Angle​

Some comments suggest assigning your coworker a private office. While this might seem like a perfect solution, it’s not always feasible—especially if the office layout is cramped. But if it were possible, it would:

• Keep the snorting out of the common areas.
• Allow the coworker to work in peace, without the stigma of being the “snort king.”

If you can’t relocate, at least consider a quiet corner or a temporary “snort‑safe” zone with a sign: “No snorts allowed—please keep it low volume.”

TL;DR​

Someone’s nose is producing a nonstop snort‑symphony, the office refuses headphones, and HR is a myth. The solution? Grab some discrete professional earplugs (or, if you’re lucky, a private office). Keep the noise at bay, stay professional, and maybe ask your coworker to consider a nasal exam—because no one likes a literal “nasal percussion” performance.

Ever walk up to a self‑checkout and feel like you’re being interrogated by a very impatient robot? That’s the new reality at many grocery stores. Picture a camera hovering over the scanner, blinking like an over‑excited security guard. If it thinks an item doesn’t match its barcode, it freezes the line until an employee comes to “verify.” In practice, it’s a never‑ending loop of “hold on, we’re checking…” that happens at least once per transaction.

The irony? The very employees who are supposed to resolve the mystery are so used to the glitch that they just swipe their badge, shrug, and move on. The result? Lines that could be movies, a stock‑pile of “stolen” items, and a grand conspiracy that the system actually does nothing to stop shoplifting—except for the occasional customer who trips over a camera and falls flat on their face.

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Every time you hear a voice, you can almost feel your brain doing a little “Who’s that?” dance.
The internet’s latest debate is hotter than a summer BBQ and cooler than a penguin’s breath: who really owns the crown for the most iconic vocal presence in history?

The Main Contenders​

Voice	Why It’s Legendary	Famous Lines
James Earl Jones	The voice that could make a villain sound like a saint (or a sandwich).	“I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
Darth Vader	The original deep‑voiced villain who could make you think the Force is a radio channel.	“I find your lack of faith disturbing.”
Mufasa	The king of the jungle with a voice that could turn a roar into a lullaby.	“Remember who you are.”
Ray	The “People will come, Ray” type of voice—maybe a nod to the smooth jazz legend, or just the guy who always shows up late to the party.	“People will come, Ray.”
Baseball Announcer	The guy who turns a ball‑in‑air into a dramatic saga, making every play feel like a movie.	“BASEBALL.”

The Internet’s Response​

Below, the raw, unfiltered comments that popped up like a chorus of confused singers:

James Earl Jones.

People will come, Ray.

BASEBALL.

I find your lack of faith disturbing.

Also my answer. Darth Vader and Mufasa?!

Ever since the era of dial‑up and floppy disks, people have been bragging about how “back in the day” everything was simpler, purer, and totally un‑filmed. This Reddit thread is a love‑letter to that nostalgia‑filled period, and the comments are proof that we were all once proud of our non‑social‑media‑obsessed lives.

Post
What “golden age” or “heyday” were you lucky enough to experience that you know won’t ever come back?

TL;DR​

• We used to live without a camera on every corner.
• We still have the best cereal box prizes.
• MTV actually played music—no binge‑watching.

I’m 20F, my friend is 21F. I always keep a USB “killer” in my backpack. It looks like a normal thumb drive, but I’ve slapped a tiny devil face sticker on it so I can’t mix it up with the “I have a million photos of my cat” USB. I carry it because I still live at home, and my parents are super nosy. If I ever left it on my desk, they’d find it, plug it into their laptop, and boom—they’d learn what I’m hiding.

Yesterday I had to dash off campus. I asked my friend to watch my bag for a bit. I didn’t get back in time, so I texted her: “Hey, can you take it home? I’ll grab it today.” She said cool. She got home, opened my bag out of curiosity, spotted the devil‑sticker USB, thought it was a regular drive, and plugged it into her gaming PC to see what files I had. The computer died instantly. Motherboard, PSU—gone. Now she’s mad, saying I’m reckless and that I owe her a whole new setup. I feel bad, but she should have known better than to plug in a random USB. Am I the asshole?

Picture this: you’re a 33‑year‑old mom who’s just finished a perfectly decent “I’m not a toy‑addict” rant on Reddit. Your mother‑in‑law (MIL) has a history of over‑stepping, so you decide to set a firm boundary: “No new toys, please. Just experiences for our 18‑month‑old—maybe an aquarium membership or a day at Legoland.” Because, let’s face it, your baby can’t yet pronounce “present” or even “toy.”

You send the MIL a carefully curated Amazon wishlist. It’s a modest list: Yoto cards, toddler headphones, a couple of sports shirts, a tiny water table for the balcony, and a few books. No car, no iPad, no play kitchen—nothing that will take up more than a few inches of space in your already cramped apartment.

The next morning, your husband asks, “What’s the MIL planning to get the baby?” The MIL texts him back with a smug “I might be on the naughty list now” and a video. In it, she proudly shows off a massive pile of gifts: a miniature car, a keyboard, a play kitchen, an Amazon iPad, and a stack of books that would make a small library blush. She’s also bought a whole set of things that fit perfectly in a storage unit, not your living room.

You calmly tell your husband that the MIL can keep those things at her place if she wants, but you’re not taking them home. The MIL’s reaction? She feels like a toddler who just got a brand‑new toy set and didn’t care about the “rules.” You’re left wondering if you’ve just become a “no‑toy” extremist or if the MIL is just being a classic over‑enthusiastic grandparent.

The question on the forum: AITA for not wanting to take home what my MIL got my son for Christmas? The comments? A mix of “take the tablet to avoid screen time” and “put the money into a college fund” and “maybe your MIL thinks she’s giving a gift, but she’s actually giving a toddler a tiny car and a tablet.” Spoiler: the comments are as hilarious as they are heartfelt.

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Picture this: my mom is a jet‑setting workhorse, spending months overseas and then crashing back home like it’s a surprise reunion. She’s got a rule—no one can touch her sheets unless they’re sparkling fresh. I’m living rent‑free in her house, so I happily scrub the kitchen and mop the floors, but when it comes to the bedroom, I’m about as enthusiastic as a cat at a bath.

The last time she was around, her boyfriend decided to crash at our place for Thanksgiving. I heard the intimate soundtrack from my room, and let’s just say the sheets were no longer “fresh.” Now she’s heading back for the holidays, and I’m standing my ground: “I’m not touching those sheets. Even with gloves. Not even a ghost of a feel for the… memories.”

She’s fuming, comparing me to a hotel housekeeper who cleans dirty sheets all the time. I’m not a maid, Mom. I’m your child, not a professional cleaning crew. So, am I the asshole here?

When you think a family gathering is about bonding over memories, you’re in for a hydrating surprise. My wife and our three daughters have taken a fancy to those monstrous Stanley‑style drink bottles that can outlast a full workday. Every time we hit a park, a school event, or a community fair—anywhere without a table—I’m suddenly the “official” bottle valet. It’s a noble quest: keep everyone hydrated while I try to dodge the soggy chaos.

Enter my sister‑in‑law, freshly relocated, who has the same thirst for oversized hydration containers. She’s noticed my role and started adding her own bottles to the ever‑growing pile. Suddenly, I’m the reluctant guardian of seven gigantic bottles on a park bench, unable to enjoy a dance recital or a quiet moment because my hands are perpetually clutching liquid.

Fast forward to the daughter’s dance concert: my sister‑in‑law steps up to capture the moment, hands me her bottle as if it’s an automatic handoff, and I politely decline. She looks confused, returns it, and—surprise!—just drops it beside her camera tripod. My wife later asks why I said no, and I explain that I’ve had enough of being the family’s personal water carrier. If she wants a giant bottle, she’ll have to carry it all night long. She eventually accepted my reasoning, and I’m left wondering: Am I the asshole for refusing to be the unpaid drink bottle storage unit?

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TL;DR: Dad tries to stop his son’s girlfriend from splurging on steak & seafood with a budget card. He gets a face‑plant. Turns out the only thing that got a budget is the relationship between the two of them.

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The Original Story (in a nutshell)​

Dad’s 23‑year‑old son just moved back home after snagging a job. He’s been dating a 21‑year‑old woman, Carmella, who quit college for the romance, left her mom’s house, and now lives with the family. Dad, being the generous (and not‑so‑budget‑conscious) parent, lets them stay for free and even gives Carmella the family credit‑card to buy groceries.

All was well until Carmella decided she’d love to cook steak for the whole house. She goes on a shopping spree, buys a lot of fancy meat, and the family ends up with a dinner that could’ve been the centerpiece at a fancy gala. Dad, realizing the budget’s been blown, tries to set a new “budget” card for Carmella to keep the grocery bill from going into the stratosphere.

Carmella gets upset, the son feels betrayed, and Dad wonders if he’s the real villain in this culinary drama.

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The Comments (in comedic commentary style)​

Comment 1​

“NTA but neither is Carmella. Your son is. He has a job and doesn’t pay rent. Fine, but why is he not funding the ingredients?”

Dad, the unsung hero of the household, has paid for everything from rent to groceries. When Carmella goes on a steak‑shopping spree, the kid’s got a front‑row seat to a “no‑budget” lifestyle. Maybe the son should get a “Steak‑Fund” card for himself—just to even the playing field.

Comment 2​

“I think the gf is also kinda in asshole territory, swiping her bf's mom's card without considering the cost of what she's buying. Maybe she thought mom was rich but that's also not a good assumption to run with 😬”

You’re right: Carmella was treating the card like it was a free‑food buffet. Mom’s bank account was probably not a “donations” account. Lesson learned: “If you want a steak, ask your mom to put a budget on the card before you buy it.”

Comment 3​

“Up until this confrontation she probably assumed OP was happy with this arrangement. The son is the one acting like he’s entitled to OP’s money and other peoples labour.”

The son’s “I’m on a budget” stance is a bit of a plot twist. He’s basically saying “I’ll pay for your groceries if you keep cooking for us.” Classic “I’ll pay you if you keep doing my chores” moment.

Comment 4​

“I am worried about Ms. Carmella. She quit school to go live with a guy. Now she has an unfinished degree and no job. Her budgeting skills seem a big shaky. It was very nice that she offered to cook, but the fact she thought it was ok to buy expensive ingredients without asking is odd. Add to this brewing mess, the son's mindset that this is all ok. I see trouble ahead.”

If Carmella’s future is a “no‑degree, no‑job, no‑budget” nightmare, Dad’s budget card might just be a lifeline. But he might also be setting up a “budget‑busting” drama that’ll keep the family cooking up more than just dinner.

Comment 5 (Dad’s own apology)​

“Carmella, I appreciate your cooking and it's a delight to have you here. However, I can't continue to afford lavish meals for us all, as delicious as they are, they're out of my budget on a regular basis. This is my food budget of xx dollars, and I would love if you could make that work weekly. Anything above and beyond that is your responsibility as a grown adult. I know this may be uncomfortable to hear, and it isn't a personal attack.”

Dad’s heartfelt apology is a great start—he’s basically saying “I’m not an ATM, so please pay for your groceries.” The only thing missing is a “please buy a steak only when the price is under $20” clause. That would have saved the house from the “steak‑tax” crisis.

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TL;DR (again, because we can’t keep it from being funny)​

Dad’s generous (and slightly clueless) parenting style leads to a grocery card that’s basically a free‑food pass. Carmella goes on a steak spree, the son feels like a victim, and Dad tries to budget out the gourmet chaos. Bottom line: set a budget before you hand over the card, or at least make the card a “budget‑only” card. Otherwise, you’ll end up with a house full of people who think a credit card is a magic wand for culinary delights.