So okay. My dad got an engineering degree. That ended up with him doing some... stuff for the nuclear medicine program at Lovelace Medical Center (pronounced "loveless") in Albuquerque. Lovelace is mostly famous for being the place the Mercury 7 were run through a bunch of bullshit tests; it features prominently in The Right Stuff. They also had a vivarium with a bunch of chimps ("throwing shit ain't nuthin', we had one there who knew that if he really wanted to get a reaction outta you all he had to do was pop a turd in his mouth and squeeze it out through his teeth like toothpaste") and they also had a bunch of isotopes.
Anyway. "fun with isotopes" kinda became my dad's bag. And he was fond of explaining how shitty radiation monitoring equipment in general tends to be because, well, radiation monitoring equipment was pretty much his job. I know he spent six months in Thule. I don't quite know why.
Silkwood was on TV once and he started talking about how shitty the rad counters were because he'd worked with them. Apparently at some point early on his job was to check trucking for exposure as it came into and out of Lovelace. And he was screening a truck driver and the counter in his hand went WHEEEEEEP!
The driver, of course, panicked. Truck was fine, it was the driver. Dude was immediately hustled into a shower, stripped down. Wasn't his clothes. Showered like crazy. Came back out, my dad waved the wand, WHEEEEEEP!
Shit ain't funny now. Driver is scrubbing like he hates his skin. Turning pink. Gotta get whatever it is off of him before it goes internal and gets really sketchy. Comes back out, haunted eyes, WHEEEEEEEP!
About this time everyone's freaking out. Except my dad. My dad is messing around with the rad counter. He holds up the handpiece. realizes that while the position the rad counter is in has been changing every time it alarms, the angle he's been holding it at has not. So he holds it at that angle and moves it around the tarmac. Sure enough, right about when a shaft of sunlight hits the split between the cover and the handpiece, WHEEEEEEP!
My dad starts laughing. I'm six. "Did the truck driver want to kill you?"
"He was too busy being glad he was alive," my dad said, chuckled heartily, and cracked another beer.