Interesting and Humour - page 2728
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Larry Walters - Winnie the Pooh and the Eider power.
In 1982, Larry Walters, a Los Angeles resident and failed pilot, decided to fulfil a long-time dream - to fly, but not in an aeroplane.
He conceived and implemented his own way of travelling by air:
tied two dozen weather balloons to a garden chair, filled them with helium, sat down in a chair, grabbed a supply of sandwiches, a beer and a blowgun and with a penknife cut the rope tied to the bumper of his pick-up truck that held the chair in place.
Larry was about to climb smoothly only a hundred to two hundred meters, but the chair sprang up like a rocket. The rifle, knife and anything else that wasn't firmly secured spilled to the ground.
The chair wobbled and twisted, Larry clutched at the armrests, wrapped his legs around the legs and felt like a propeller in the devil's ass.
The neighbours watched Larry's flight until his stratostat turned into a dot and disappeared completely from view against the cumulus clouds.
Should I call 911? What for? The man flew away. It's not illegal to fly. The law was not broken. There was no violence. America is a free country.
You want to fly, fly the hell away.
...About four hours later, a nearby airport controller hears a pilot's report from an incoming airliner:
- Yeah, by the way, are you guys aware that you've got some asshole flying around in a garden chair on the landing echelon?
- What's that? - The dispatcher asks back, hallucinating from overexertion.
- Flying, I said. He's clutching his chair. After all, it's an airport, so I thought, what if...
- Commander, - the dispatcher's going to throw up, - are you in trouble?!
- Me? - No, I'm fine.
- Don't you want to hand the controls over to the copilot?
- What for? - the commander is astonished. - I don't understand you.
- Air Force 1419, repeat your report to Flight Control.
- I said you've got some cretin flying a garden chair in your boarding echelon.
Doesn't bother me. But the wind, you know...
Dispatcher turns on speakerphone. The shift supervisor has square eyes. Fire brigade and ambulance rush to the beginning of the runway. The runway is cleared and the traffic suspended: an emergency situation. The aircraft lands as usual. A FBI agent and a psychiatrist run up the gangplank.
A big fat report from the next board:
- What the fuck is that goat blocking the way with his balloons, are you even watching the air?!
There's a silent panic in the control room. Unknown psychotropic gas over the airport.
- Take it easy, Captain. Can anyone else see it but you?
- Do I have to leave the helm and go into the cabin to question the passengers about who's blind?!
- What makes you think they can go blind? What other symptoms of impairment can you name?
- Earth, I don't count anything, I just said that nasty bird on strings works as an air raid. And what I can call a disorder is working with your airport.
The dispatcher shakes his head and pours coffee on it, mixing up his hands, a cup of coffee and a glass of water: he's lost his self-control.
The third plane, herself polite and calm:
- Yes, and I want to share with you the observation, gentlemen, that it's amazingly ridiculous and lonely looking at this altitude for a man without a plane.
- What do you mean?!
- Uh-oh... Literally and philosophically... and aerodynamic.
The control room smells like a cool April Fool's prank, but the calendar doesn't confirm the date.
Fourth board is chillingly polite:
- Earth, I report that some guy has just almost got into my left engine, posing a threat of emergency. Don't want to clog up the airwaves on landing. At the end of the flight I am obliged to make a written report.
Dispatcher looks into the airspace with the gaze of Medusa Gorgon, killing everything that moves.
- ...And tell the students that if these idiots celebrate Halloween next to the landing glide path, it won't end well! - asks the next one.
- How many?
- How should I know?
- Steady as she goes. Report in order. What can you see?
- I can see the runway all right.
- To hell with the runway!
- Excuse me? What do you mean?
- Keep landing!
- What am I doing? Earth, is everything all right down there?
- Report, are you seeing an unidentified flying object?
- What's not to identify? It's very identifiable.
- What is it?
- It's a man.
- What is he, some kind of superhero that's flying around out there?
- I don't know who he is.
- All right. One thing at a time. Where do you see him?
- I don't see him anymore.
- Why not?
- Because he's gone.
- Who did?
- Я.
- Where to?
- Earth, are you crazy? Use your brains! I'm coming in for a landing!
- Where's the man?
- Which one?
- The one who flies!!!
- Is that... Did you launch him? What the hell for? I don't get it!
- Was he?
- A flying man?
- Yes!!!
- Of course he was? What am I, crazy?!
- And now?
- I don't have time to follow it! How do I know where he is! They've got the devil in the boarding party and they want me to keep an eye on them!
I don't care where he's hanging around!
- Take it easy, Captain. Can you describe him?
- He's a mook on a garden chair!
- Why is he flying?
- Because he's a fly! Catch him and ask him why he flies!
- What's keeping him in the air? - The dispatcher is screaming in despair. - What fucking force? What kind of flying machine?
He can't be flying on a chair!!!
- So he ties his balls to the chair and hangs on to them.
What follows is a brief profanity-laced verbal duel and untranslatable wordplay, because both of them are laughing
The pilot sees everything and understands, but his attention and the crew are busy landing the plane, and the dispatcher does not understand anything, because he only knows what the pilots tell him and that
that it can't actually happen, from the last words he understands that the balloonist has tied his balls to the chair, and demands to explain the reason of this sexomasochism lifting power, fists up all his remaining reasonableness, he asks:
- Does Our Lady have his balls in the air or something?!
- Well, maniac! - The pilot gritted his teeth past the microphone, - even at work and at a time like this he can't stop thinking about it!
He's got all his subordination in his fist:
- Sir, I am of traditional sexual orientation and I don't quite understand you, sir," replies the board politically correct. - He's got balloons tied to his chair, sir. Apparently they are inflated with light gas.
- Where did he get the balloons?
- Are you talking to me?!
- Sorry, Captain. We just want to check. Can you describe him?
- Well, he's a guy. Not an older man. Shorts and shirt.
- Okay. Is he white or black?
This, of course, is crucial right now, it's what determines whether to release the landing gear or come in for a second circle...
after a short pause the pilot says:
- He's blue.
- Capten? What do you mean, blue...?! (Must be an alien.)
Such a blunt and stubborn dispatcher the pilot has never met before and he bursts out:
- Do you know what the outside temperature is?! Try flying without a plane yourself!!!
This radio exchange in the madhouse goes to the beat of a rap song. Air traffic is heavy. The dispatcher asks for a pill for schizophrenia. Inbound flights are being diverted to alternate airports. Flights are delayed.
...Nothing on radar: the man is small and not iron, the balloons are small and rubbery.
The airbase is contacted. They explain and swear: the doctor on the tube confirms.
They're bringing up the fighter.
...Our balloonist is in an underworld above the abyss, prostrate with terror, stiff and stifled,
frantically breathing the icy thin air, with death's eye he passes the airliners roaring on their descent.
He is stuck and frozen together in his tiny chair, he is shaken and dragged, and his consciousness is cramped.
Another roar rumbles louder and a fighter jet flies by, a hundred metres away.
The head of the pilot in the spacious lantern swivels curiously in its direction.
In the distance the fighter makes a U-turn, and on the return flight the pilot twirls his finger at his temple.
Our former cadet pilot cannot stand it, the visual centre in his frozen brain gives the command for an injection of adrenaline,
the heart pushes the blood - and he gives the pilot the middle finger.
- Alive,'' fighter reports back to base.
They're bringing up a police chopper.
And it's getting... It's getting dark! It's getting cold. And the evening breeze slowly blows the balloons to the sea.
From the helicopter there is shouting and waving! Behind the noise, of course, nothing can be heard. From above they try to hook him with a hook on the cable,
but the powerful jet from the propeller blows the balls to the side, the chair dangles back and forth...
And the rescue mission is completed in his own recipe...
The helicopter returns with a sniper, shines a searchlight from a hundred meters away and the sniper shoots the upper probe.
And the second. Looking doubtfully... Is it going down?
All the coastal boats are already dangling below.
A free-spirited public in arbitrary watercraft are enjoying the spectacle and disturbing the coastguard.
Heads are up and some have already fallen into the water.
The third balloon bursts with a crack, and the decline of the bunch is evident.
On the fifth balloon, our lad smacks into the waves with a smack and a splash.
But the ropes on which the deflated balls were hanging had become entangled in high voltage wires, causing a short circuit.
An entire area of Long Beach was left without power.
Headlights shine, whitewater storms whitewater, boats rush in! He gets wiped out of the water and starts to be pulled away from his chair.
The doctor feels the pulse on his neck, looks into his pupils, sticks ammonia in his nose, injects caffeine with glucose and relaxants into his vein.
As soon as the doctor turns away, they pour a glass of whiskey down the victim's throat, rub his ears, hit him in the face...
and only then do four sailors unclench his fingers and spread his legs, twisted with a screw around the legs of a chair.
The doctor with all his might massages the heart:
under this torture, Larry begins to regain consciousness, baring his own teeth and smiling as pins are driven into muscles stony with cramp.
Finally, he utters his first swear word.
So life is getting better.
1st Friday in August - International Beer Day
"By the teeth!"
http://www.mk.ru/economics/2015/08/05/po-zubam.html
Someone local or from the spider is trolling school kids on fartlabike.
It's like a joke
http://lenta.ru/news/2015/08/09/walkcar/
Have fun, gentlemen)