The Saddest Rhino posted:

IShallRiseAgain posted:

I don't think kids are going to be super into a movie about husbands using a made-up friend to justify being away from their wives.

feedmyleg posted:

After Ricky Stanicky is the all time box office champ, people are going to referencing this post for decades like the negative reviews for Star Wars from 1977.

Mr Hootington posted:

It is being released onto Amazon prime, not theaters. Doubt it will be a box office champ.

feedmyleg posted:

After Ricky Stanicky is the all time box office champ, people are going to referencing this post for decades like the negative reviews for Star Wars from 1977.

Feldegast42 posted:

Amazon prime gets another couple hundred million subscriptions just so the teeming masses can see more Ricky Stanicky

RBA Starblade posted:

Ricky Stanicky saved cinema

Dinosaurs! posted:

My baby does the Ricky Stanicky

Facebook Aunt posted:

Cute or cursed?

https://i.imgur.com/c44UY4J.mp4

j.peeba posted:

Dog whistle

BOOTY-ADE posted:

Rufferee

davidspackage posted:

Dog arbites man!

Autisanal Cheese posted:

Came up in legends thread yesterday, here it is:

Inexplicable Humblebrag posted:

yeah it comes through in Your Posting

Grand Fromage posted:

I don't even know what an ant breeding scheme is. Can you breed ants? Why would you breed ants?

bob dobbs is dead posted:

you can make tea with em, apparently

ili posted:

Makes sense, I've been told ant tea oxidants are good for health.

Scarodactyl posted:

Cactus Ghost posted:

haha! go to reeducation camp

Marcade posted:

What is this, a reeducation center for ants!?

dangerdoom volvo posted:

Being a youtuber is just like being in the trenches at Ypres except you have the algorithm instead of mustard gas and sitting at the computer instead of trench foot

RuBisCO posted:

You actually get trench rear end

Blue Footed Booby posted:

It's this. But a significant number of board game dorks have that posting disease where they can only communicate in hyperbole. The only thing worse than liking a board game they don't is enjoying the wrong edition of D&D

Yngwie Mangosteen posted:

you post like a 4th edition fan.

Blue Footed Booby posted:

How appropriate, you post like a cow.

Autisanal Cheese posted:

Came up in legends thread yesterday, here it is:

FFT posted:

It's like the SR-71 ATC call story but with the message "don't gently caress around with trains"

ultrafilter posted:

Neddy Seagoon posted:

Which story is that?

The SR-71 ground speed check story posted:

https://www.thesr71blackbird.com/Aircraft/Stories/sr-71-blackbird-speed-check-story
There were a lot of things we couldn't do in an SR-71, but we were the fastest guys on the block and loved reminding our fellow aviators of this fact. People often asked us if, because of this fact, it was fun to fly the jet. Fun would not be the first word I would use to describe flying this plane. Intense, maybe. Even cerebral. But there was one day in our Sled experience when we would have to say that it was pure fun to be the fastest guys out there, at least for a moment.

It occurred when Walt and I were flying our final training sortie. We needed 100 hours in the jet to complete our training and attain Mission Ready status. Somewhere over Colorado we had passed the century mark. We had made the turn in Arizona and the jet was performing flawlessly. My gauges were wired in the front seat and we were starting to feel pretty good about ourselves, not only because we would soon be flying real missions but because we had gained a great deal of confidence in the plane in the past ten months. Ripping across the barren deserts 80,000 feet below us, I could already see the coast of California from the Arizona border. I was, finally, after many humbling months of simulators and study, ahead of the jet. I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for Walter in the back seat. There he was, with no really good view of the incredible sights before us, tasked with monitoring four different radios. This was good practice for him for when we began flying real missions, when a priority transmission from headquarters could be vital. It had been difficult, too, for me to relinquish control of the radios, as during my entire flying career I had controlled my own transmissions. But it was part of the division of duties in this plane and I had adjusted to it. I still insisted on talking on the radio while we were on the ground, however. Walt was so good at many things, but he couldn't match my expertise at sounding smooth on the radios, a skill that had been honed sharply with years in fighter squadrons where the slightest radio miscue was grounds for beheading. He understood that and allowed me that luxury.

Just to get a sense of what Walt had to contend with, I pulled the radio toggle switches and monitored the frequencies along with him. The predominant radio chatter was from Los Angeles Center, far below us, controlling daily traffic in their sector. While they had us on their scope (albeit briefly), we were in uncontrolled airspace and normally would not talk to them unless we needed to descend into their airspace. We listened as the shaky voice of a lone Cessna pilot asked Center for a readout of his ground speed. Center replied: "November Charlie 175, I'm showing you at ninety knots on the ground."

Now the thing to understand about Center controllers, was that whether they were talking to a rookie pilot in a Cessna, or to Air Force One, they always spoke in the exact same, calm, deep, professional, tone that made one feel important. I referred to it as the " Houston Center voice." I have always felt that after years of seeing documentaries on this country's space program and listening to the calm and distinct voice of the Houston controllers, that all other controllers since then wanted to sound like that, and that they basically did. And it didn't matter what sector of the country we would be flying in, it always seemed like the same guy was talking. Over the years that tone of voice had become somewhat of a comforting sound to pilots everywhere. Conversely, over the years, pilots always wanted to ensure that, when transmitting, they sounded like Chuck Yeager, or at least like John Wayne. Better to die than sound bad on the radios.

Just moments after the Cessna's inquiry, a Twin Beech piped up on frequency, in a rather superior tone, asking for his ground speed. "I have you at one hundred and twenty-five knots of ground speed." Boy, I thought, the Beechcraft really must think he is dazzling his Cessna brethren. Then out of the blue, a navy F-18 pilot out of NAS Lemoore came up on frequency. You knew right away it was a Navy jock because he sounded very cool on the radios. "Center, Dusty 52 ground speed check". Before Center could reply, I'm thinking to myself, hey, Dusty 52 has a ground speed indicator in that million-dollar cockpit, so why is he asking Center for a readout? Then I got it, ol' Dusty here is making sure that every bug smasher from Mount Whitney to the Mojave knows what true speed is. He's the fastest dude in the valley today, and he just wants everyone to know how much fun he is having in his new Hornet. And the reply, always with that same, calm, voice, with more distinct alliteration than emotion: "Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground."

And I thought to myself, is this a ripe situation, or what? As my hand instinctively reached for the mic button, I had to remind myself that Walt was in control of the radios. Still, I thought, it must be done - in mere seconds we'll be out of the sector and the opportunity will be lost. That Hornet must die, and die now. I thought about all of our Sim training and how important it was that we developed well as a crew and knew that to jump in on the radios now would destroy the integrity of all that we had worked toward becoming. I was torn.

Somewhere, 13 miles above Arizona, there was a pilot screaming inside his space helmet. Then, I heard it. The click of the mic button from the back seat. That was the very moment that I knew Walter and I had become a crew. Very professionally, and with no emotion, Walter spoke: "Los Angeles Center, Aspen 20, can you give us a ground speed check?" There was no hesitation, and the replay came as if was an everyday request. "Aspen 20, I show you at one thousand eight hundred and forty-two knots, across the ground."

I think it was the forty-two knots that I liked the best, so accurate and proud was Center to deliver that information without hesitation, and you just knew he was smiling. But the precise point at which I knew that Walt and I were going to be really good friends for a long time was when he keyed the mic once again to say, in his most fighter-pilot-like voice: "Ah, Center, much thanks, we're showing closer to nineteen hundred on the money."

For a moment Walter was a god. And we finally heard a little crack in the armor of the Houston Center voice, when L.A.came back with, "Roger that Aspen, Your equipment is probably more accurate than ours. You boys have a good one." It all had lasted for just moments, but in that short, memorable sprint across the southwest, the Navy had been flamed, all mortal airplanes on freq were forced to bow before the King of Speed, and more importantly, Walter and I had crossed the threshold of being a crew. A fine day's work. We never heard another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast. For just one day, it truly was fun being the fastest guys out there.

space uncle posted:

The inverse always gets me too.

There were a lot of things we couldn’t do in an Cessna 172, but we were some of the slowest guys on the block and loved reminding our fellow aviators of this fact. People often asked us if, because of this fact, it was fun to fly the 172. Fun would not be the first word I would use to describe flying this plane. Mundane, maybe. Even boring at times. But there was one day in our Cessna experience when we would have to say that it was pure fun to be some of the slowest guys out there, at least for a moment.

It occurred when my CFI and I were flying a training flight. We needed 40 hours in the plane to complete my training and attain PPL status. Somewhere over Colorado we had passed the 40 hour mark. We had made the turn back towards our home airport in a radius of a mile or two and the plane was performing flawlessly. My gauges were wired in the left seat and we were starting to feel pretty good about ourselves, not only because I would soon be flying as a true pilot, but because we had gained a great deal of confidence in the plane in the past ten months. Bumbling across the mountains 3,500 feet below us, I could only see the about 8 miles across the ground. I was, finally, after many humbling months of training and study, ahead of the plane.

I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for my CFI in the right seat. There he was, with nothing to do except watch me and monitor two different radios. This wasn’t really good practice for him at all. He’d been doing it for years. It had been difficult for me to relinquish control of the radios, as during this part of my flying career, I could handle it on my own. But it was part of the division of duties on this flight and I had adjusted to it. I still insisted on talking on the radio while we were on the ground, however. My CFI was so good at many things, but he couldn’t match my expertise at sounding awkward on the radios, a skill that had been roughly sharpened with years of listening to LiveATC.com where the slightest radio miscue was a daily occurrence. He understood that and allowed me that luxury.

Just to get a sense of what my CFI had to contend with, I pulled the radio toggle switches and monitored the frequencies along with him. The predominant radio chatter was from Denver Center, not far below us, controlling daily traffic in our sector. While they had us on their scope (for a good while, I might add), we were in uncontrolled airspace and normally would not talk to them unless we needed to ascend into their airspace.

We listened as the shaky voice of a lone SR-71 pilot asked Center for a readout of his ground speed. Center replied:“Aspen 20, I show you at one thousand eight hundred and forty-two knots, across the ground.”

Now the thing to understand about Center controllers, was that whether they were talking to a rookie pilot in a Cessna, or to Air Force One, they always spoke in the exact same, calm, deep, professional, tone that made one feel important. I referred to it as the " Houston Center voice." I have always felt that after years of seeing documentaries on this country’s space program and listening to the calm and distinct voice of the Houston controllers, that all other controllers since then wanted to sound like that, and that they basically did. And it didn’t matter what sector of the country we would be flying in, it always seemed like the same guy was talking. Over the years that tone of voice had become somewhat of a comforting sound to pilots everywhere. Conversely, over the years, pilots always wanted to ensure that, when transmitting, they sounded like Chuck Yeager, or at least like John Wayne. Better to die than sound bad on the radios.

Just moments after the SR-71’s inquiry, an F-18 piped up on frequency, in a rather superior tone, asking for his ground speed. “Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground.” Boy, I thought, the F-18 really must think he is dazzling his SR-71 brethren. Then out of the blue, a Twin Beech pilot out of an airport outside of Denver came up on frequency. You knew right away it was a Twin Beech driver because he sounded very cool on the radios. “Center, Beechcraft 173-Delta-Charlie ground speed check”. Before Center could reply, I’m thinking to myself, hey, that Beech probably has a ground speed indicator in that multi-thousand-dollar cockpit, so why is he asking Center for a readout? Then I got it, ol’ Delta-Charlie here is making sure that every military jock from Mount Whitney to the Mojave knows what true speed is. He’s the slowest dude in the valley today, and he just wants everyone to know how much fun he is having in his new bug-smasher. And the reply, always with that same, calm, voice, with more distinct alliteration than emotion: “173-Delta-Charlie, Center, we have you at 90 knots on the ground.”

And I thought to myself, is this a ripe situation, or what? As my hand instinctively reached for the mic button, I had to remind myself that my CFI was in control of the radios. Still, I thought, it must be done - in mere minutes we’ll be out of the sector and the opportunity will be lost. That Beechcraft must die, and die now. I thought about all of my training and how important it was that we developed well as a crew and knew that to jump in on the radios now would destroy the integrity of all that we had worked toward becoming. I was torn.

Somewhere, half a mile above Colorado, there was a pilot screaming inside his head. Then, I heard it. The click of the mic button from the right seat. That was the very moment that I knew my CFI and I had become a lifelong friends. Very professionally, and with no emotion, my CFI spoke: “Denver Center, Cessna 56-November-Sierra, can you give us a ground speed check?” There was no hesitation, and the replay came as if was an everyday request. “Cessna 56-November-Sierra, I show you at 76 knots, across the ground.”

I think it was the six knots that I liked the best, so accurate and proud was Center to deliver that information without hesitation, and you just knew he was smiling. But the precise point at which I knew that my CFI and I were going to be really good friends for a long time was when he keyed the mic once again to say, in his most CFI-like voice: “Ah, Center, much thanks, we’re showing closer to 72 on the money.”

For a moment my CFI was a god. And we finally heard a little crack in the armor of the Houston Center voice, when Denver came back with, “Roger that November-Sierra, your E6B is probably more accurate than our state-of-the-art radar. You boys have a good one.”

It all had lasted for just moments, but in that short, memorable stroll across the west, the Navy had been owned, all mortal airplanes on freq were forced to bow before the King of Slow, and more importantly, my CFI and I had crossed the threshold of being BFFs. A fine day’s work. We never heard another transmission on that frequency all the way to our home airport.

For just one day, it truly was fun being the slowest guys out there

iwentdoodie posted:

That's bad and you should feel bad

iwentdoodie posted:

That's bad and you should feel bad

The Wicked ZOGA posted:

Didn't read lol

awesome-express posted:

Wow, thanks for being an elitist rear end in a top hat. People don't become educated on these topics in a day, have some tolerance no? At least don't be a total douche about it please.

EDIT:

quote:

You could at least read the thread where we had already gone over what is and is not a sleeper.

I did, guess I wasn't that great at comprehending the whole concept. Thus meaning that I should be drowned in diesel fuel.

Oh and Two Finger, nice job at misunderstanding a post.

(USER WAS BANNED FOR THIS POST)

HenryJLittlefinger posted:

Interestingly enough, there's evidence that women are consistently better ultramarathon runners than men, at least within some age brackets.

"Better" in terms of stamina, efficiency, sustained pace, iirc

Lazy_Liberal posted:

freeedr posted:

I’ve been absolutely dominated by women before



Can’t afford that in this economy though

iwentdoodie posted:

That's bad and you should feel bad

Inexplicable Humblebrag posted:

hmm. seems worse, imo

iwentdoodie posted:

That's bad and you should feel bad

Desert Bus posted:

freeedr posted:

Still glad that big motherfucker floored the race manager guy though

CzarChasm posted:

Even a broken jock can be right twice a day

tokin opposition posted:

Turkey is a dogshit meat but it fits amerikkka

grittyreboot posted:

When you talk to people IRL do you specify that you're pronouncing America with three K's?

tokin opposition posted:

grittyreboot posted:

When you talk to people IRL

???

E: but yes I'll say ameri-kuhkuhkuh as a joke with friends. I don't talk to strangers about politics because I'm over the age of 14 and under the age of 60

The Saddest Rhino posted:

Amerikeikaku

Peanut Butter posted:

(Translator's Note: Amerikeikaku means Klan)

Dawgstar posted:

https://twitter.com/pop_arena/status/1755076334299320451

Antigravitas posted:

Youtube.

Libluini posted:

What did poor Worms do to those YouTubers?

Gravitas Shortfall posted:

bad diet advice

Inexplicable Humblebrag posted:

that emoji always strikes me as being functionally

Mr Ice Cream Glove posted:

Jesus loving Christ





https://x.com/ValentinaForSOS/status/1754964444776443937?s=20

Vampire Panties posted:

Karenheit 451

FIX SIGNS posted:

I do not remember taking this snap.

"enjoy!"

Desert Bus posted:

Just one child away from recreating Goya's Saturn Devouring His Son.

FIX SIGNS posted:

Holy poo poo.

Ironhead posted:

Hackers film 1995 posted:

haha nice. “dont talk to me or my delicious son ever again”

bobjr posted:

https://x.com/teaboyallstars/status/1755220712300712025?s=46&t=CBKJcBX0BD3U5HgUdsqBtw

Pththya-lyi posted:

I just want to know how Luigi went from being a Confederate to a Soviet Communist. How does that even happen?

Platystemon posted:

He’s got an ‘L’ on his forehead.

Dameius posted:

Collapsing Farts posted:

I just always assume that people who wear all black from head to toe have a lot of mental problems

euphronius posted:

Probably just stage crew op

mystes posted:

They're just ninjas

Philippe posted: