I’m surprised DC, or anyone really, hasn’t done a joke comic of someone trying to convince Superman into making a Krypto dogecoin knockoff
Superdogecoin.
Though knowing the sort of people who are into crypto, I think the more likely thing is someone stealing Krypto's likeness for Superdogecoin, and Clark having to take a court case on behalf of his dog.
Thinking about the time I tried out a fiction podcast and got bored immediately but left it on for the whole first episode because my cat was visibly invested.
She likes the sound of measured human voices. One time I was talking and she got so enthusuastic she body slammed her side into my face, cutting off the sound and breaking the spell, which frightened her into the next room.
so last night my nightmare was that i was doing adult stuff writing checks, and in the part of the check where you say the amount of money in words, i wrote “fifty dollars fucking exactly”, and then spent the rest of the nightmare stressing about whether the bank takes checks with cussing in them or not
Fiance worked at a bank and says they definitely took checks with swearing as long as they could read the “Fifty Dollars” part.
He once had someone hand him a check for “seventy-six dollars and twelve cents, I hope you choke on it asshole” with an additional “travel expenses, to hell” in the “for” section.
Imagine being a young superhero and newly-minted member of the Justice League. You’ve got a monitor shift with Superman, who you know as an invincible alien demigod who lives at the North Pole. You’re nervous about spending time with him—what do you even have in common with him? What could you even talk about?
And then shortly into monitor duty he casually mentions
You start the shift thinking that Superman is this inhuman messiah-like figure who watches humanity from on high and has no human connections and then you spend the next hour steadily getting more flabbergasted as he tells you about how his six-year-old headbutted him in the nuts this morning before school and invulnerable toddler plus invulnerable nuts means actual pain and you’re just like “what the FUUUUUU—“
“People on the side of The People always ended up disappointed, in any case. They found that The People tended not to be grateful or appreciative or forward-thinking or obedient. The People tended to be small-minded and conservative and not very clever and were even distrustful of cleverness. And so, the children of the revolution were faced with a problem: it wasn’t that you had the wrong kind of government, which was obvious, but that you had the wrong kind of people.
As soon as you saw people as things to be measured, they didn’t measure up.”
i get that for most people tragedy is just always gonna feel Bad to read and that informs a lot of bury your gays discourse but we must not forget that a lot of people sincerely enjoy writing and reading tragedy and queer audiences still deserve to have good tragedies written by and for them imo
like i hope i don't have to explain that there's a difference between a lovingly crafted tragic romance by a queer author featuring characters that represent them and a shitty tv show introducing a single gay character for brownie points then immediately killing them off for shock value
*lemony snicket voice* police cars say ‘protect and serve’ for the same reason a box of dry, unflavoured rice cakes might say ‘delicious treat’. rice cakes are not a delicious treat, nor are the police there to protect and serve, but if you are unfamiliar with either you’re likely to believe what you’re told.
They are trying so hard and missing the point so badly. This type of person is rare. If you find one, take a breath and breathe it all in. You may never again get the opportunity to explain why vegan cupcakes exist.
Im a waitress and ppl also have such wildly different definitions of meat I had a guy tell me “oh I don’t eat meat” but he meant like. Beef. And then ordered our pork based pasta. Which to me is as meaty as it gets
only tangentially related I guess but I rang in pescatarian on a ticket years ago and while super weeded had to explain to a grown adult who worked in a kitchen that a pescatarian can have eggs. I no longer remember her mental gymnastics but I remember them being strange
I fondly remember going to tea time at my boarding school, asking if the cake that day was vegetarian, and looking up to see one of the more popular girls stare at me in exasperation as she goes "what, you think there's meat in there?!?".
“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.”
-Brian Schul, Sled Driver: Flying The World’s Fastest Jet
guys seriously tho what the fuck even was the SR-71 blackbird. That plane is like someone made a fucking bet. Like someone went “I have ten bucks that says you can’t make something that cruises at Mach 2.5″ and the aero folks scoffed and went hold our collective goddamn beers and then they cracked out a plane that CRUISES AT MACH 3 (for reference the much vaunted “supercruise” of the F-22 is only a few ticks above Mach 1). You need to understand how patently absurd this fucking vehicle is from nose to tail. Its original iteration, the A-12, was the successor to the U-2 when it became clear the USSR had developed missiles that could fly high enough to shoot it down so instead they built a new plane so fast you couldn’t fucking hit it. THAT WAS LITERALLY HOW THE SR-71 WORKED. By the time you realized what was goddamn happening at 80,000 feet it was already out of your fucking timezone. One time a pilot missed a turn by a second and ended up over Atlanta instead of DC. It flew so fast and got so hot that the entire fuselage stretched by several inches midflight which turned out to be a gigantic pain because all the fuel lines were hooked up assuming this stretching factor, so while on the ground it leaked like a goddamn sieve so at one point they decided to combat this BY STUFFING IT FULL OF KOTEX literally they had to shove tampons in this incredibly sophisticated aircraft so the fuel would stay in. It was the first serious aircraft built entirely out of titanium because no other metal could do the job, and at the time titanium wasn’t a widely-used metal so the world’s only major supplier WAS THE ACTUAL USSR SO THE US ACTUALLY BOUGHT THE MATERIAL TO MAKE THEIR SECRET SPY PLANE FROM THE PEOPLE THEY WERE SPYING ON.
TL;DR Every single thing about this fucking aircraft is fucking ridiculous.
[id: Tumblr tag that reads: "heres the thing. you have to ask yourself 'would this be better if it made sense' and if the answer is 'no' then don't worry about it". end id.]
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