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Posts That Were Thanked by Sophie

  1. Originally posted by vindicktive vinny theres nothing more british than men stabbing each other.

    with their penises.

    There's nothing more Chinese than a counterfeit chink.
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  2. filtration Tuskegee Airman
    Before I try and explain what is happening in my brain, please don't judge me, you will see some bad things and some good things.

    So, I grew up in a shitty household. I saw my mum beat my dad and my dad beat my mum. They ended up breaking up around the time I was 13. I stayed living with my mum. Things were alright for a while, but she would start emotionally messing with me, she would pretend to have strokes, she would pin me down and hit me, she would threaten to kill herself. I hated it so I would spend most of the time out of the house at my friends, or on the street just walking around to stay out of the house

    After all that I ended up living with my grandmother. This was a breathe of fresh air, a loving, beautiful woman. While living at my grandmothers, I ended up staying in the house more and more, I would be playing video games and browsing the internet. At first I felt alive, and like the world actually meant something, but one day it all went 'odd', like I wasn't me no more. My emotions left me, I barely felt many emotions.

    Over the course of 10 years, it great more and more, I would start saying the most inappropriate things from Racist things, murder things, terrorist things, peadophillia things. When I know deep down I DO NOT agree with any of that stuff, but I can't control myself from saying it. As of late my memory has been getting worse and worse, to the point I forget things as soon as someone tells me, I don't know if I just don't process it well, or it leaves as soon as a process it. I find people need to explain things like they would to a child for me to even understand and process the information, And my jokes are getting extremely dark where nothing I say shocks me. I know deep down I am altruistic, but I still say and do stupid things that I can't control.

    I tend to get scared forming bonds with people in case they leave me or abandon me, so I end up pushing them away before that can happen. As of late (this year) I've been acting different than how I did, like for a week I can think when I die the universe will end or that everyone is trying to poison me to the next week looking back wondering why I was like that.

    I had a nice girlfriend but I was scared she was going to leave so I always thought she was cheating so I tried to push her away before I got in the relationship longer

    I know I sound batshit crazy but I just wanted to get it off my chest.
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  3. Nonce Houston
    I'd bone their 12 year old daughter.
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  4. ORACLE African Astronaut
    As a former SR-71 pilot, and a professional keynote speaker, the question I'm most often asked is "How fast would that SR-71 fly?" I can be assured of hearing that question several times at any event I attend. It's an interesting question, given the aircraft's proclivity for speed, but there really isn't one number to give, as the jet would always give you a little more speed if you wanted it to. It was common to see 35 miles a minute. Because we flew a programmed Mach number on most missions, and never wanted to harm the plane in any way, we never let it run out to any limits of temperature or speed. Thus, each SR-71 pilot had his own individual “high” speed that he saw at some point on some mission. I saw mine over Libya when Khadafy fired two missiles my way, and max power was in order. Let’s just say that the plane truly loved speed and effortlessly took us to Mach numbers we hadn’t previously seen. So it was with great surprise, when at the end of one of my presentations, someone asked, “what was the slowest you ever flew the Blackbird?” This was a first. After giving it some thought, I was reminded of a story that I had never shared before, and relayed the following. I was flying the SR-71 out of RAF Mildenhall, England , with my back-seater, Walt Watson; we were returning from a mission over Europe and the Iron Curtain when we received a radio transmission from home base. As we scooted across Denmark in three minutes, we learned that a small RAF base in the English countryside had requested an SR-71 fly-past. The air cadet commander there was a former Blackbird pilot, and thought it would be a motivating moment for the young lads to see the mighty SR-71 perform a low approach. No problem, we were happy to do it. After a quick aerial refueling over the North Sea , we proceeded to find the small airfield. Walter had a myriad of sophisticated navigation equipment in the back seat, and began to vector me toward the field. Descending to subsonic speeds, we found ourselves over a densely wooded area in a slight haze. Like most former WWII British airfields, the one we were looking for had a small tower and little surrounding infrastructure. Walter told me we were close and that I should be able to see the field, but I saw nothing. Nothing but trees as far as I could see in the haze. We got a little lower, and I pulled the throttles back from 325 knots we were at. With the gear up, anything under 275 was just uncomfortable. Walt said we were practically over the field—yet; there was nothing in my windscreen. I banked the jet and started a gentle circling maneuver in hopes of picking up anything that looked like a field. Meanwhile, below, the cadet commander had taken the cadets up on the catwalk of the tower in order to get a prime view of the fly-past. It was a quiet, still day with no wind and partial gray overcast. Walter continued to give me indications that the field should be below us but in the overcast and haze, I couldn't see it.. The longer we continued to peer out the window and circle, the slower we got. With our power back, the awaiting cadets heard nothing. I must have had good instructors in my flying career, as something told me I better cross-check the gauges. As I noticed the airspeed indicator slide below 160 knots, my heart stopped and my adrenalin-filled left hand pushed two throttles full forward. At this point we weren't really flying, but were falling in a slight bank. Just at the moment that both afterburners lit with a thunderous roar of flame (and what a joyous feeling that was) the aircraft fell into full view of the shocked observers on the tower. Shattering the still quiet of that morning, they now had 107 feet of fire-breathing titanium in their face as the plane leveled and accelerated, in full burner, on the tower side of the infield, closer than expected, maintaining what could only be described as some sort of ultimate knife-edge pass. Quickly reaching the field boundary, we proceeded back to Mildenhall without incident. We didn't say a word for those next 14 minutes. After landing, our commander greeted us, and we were both certain he was reaching for our wings. Instead, he heartily shook our hands and said the commander had told him it was the greatest SR-71 fly-past he had ever seen, especially how we had surprised them with such a precise maneuver that could only be described as breathtaking. He said that some of the cadet’s hats were blown off and the sight of the plan form of the plane in full afterburner dropping right in front of them was unbelievable. Walt and I both understood the concept of “breathtaking” very well that morning, and sheepishly replied that they were just excited to see our low approach. As we retired to the equipment room to change from space suits to flight suits, we just sat there-we hadn't spoken a word since “the pass.” Finally, Walter looked at me and said, “One hundred fifty-six knots. What did you see?” Trying to find my voice, I stammered, “One hundred fifty-two.” We sat in silence for a moment. Then Walt said, “Don’t ever do that to me again!” And I never did. A year later, Walter and I were having lunch in the Mildenhall Officer’s club, and overheard an officer talking to some cadets about an SR-71 fly-past that he had seen one day. Of course, by now the story included kids falling off the tower and screaming as the heat of the jet singed their eyebrows. Noticing our HABU patches, as we stood there with lunch trays in our hands, he asked us to verify to the cadets that such a thing had occurred. Walt just shook his head and said, “It was probably just a routine low approach; they're pretty impressive in that plane.” Impressive indeed. Little did I realize after relaying this experience to my audience that day that it would become one of the most popular and most requested stories. It’s ironic that people are interested in how slow the world’s fastest jet can fly. Regardless of your speed, however, it’s always a good idea to keep that cross-check up…and keep your Mach up, too.

    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 “ HoustonCentervoice.” 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 Houstoncontrollers, 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 groundspeed. Twin Beach, 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 HoustonCentervoice, 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.
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  5. Grylls motherfucker [abrade this vocal tread-softly]
    As the players were holding a minute silence





    😆
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  6. just another nonce rant
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  7. I have known people like hiki and you can bring a girl to their house that is down to fuck and they will still find a way to fuck it up.

    Like one time I met this weird girl at work and we convinced her to hang out and smoke weed with us and brought her to my friends house for some reason and then she jumped on his lap and said "I like bigger guys" (he was fat)

    I was like oh damn you spending the night? and hes like NAH I HAVE VIDEO GAMES TO PLAY AND I GOTTA WATCH THE NEW MY LITTLE PONY and then he kicked us all out and she was like lol wut is he gay?
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  8. STER0S African Astronaut [the disappointingly unanticipated slab]
    ain't i a nice guy?

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  9. Sudo Space Nigga [my hereto riemannian peach]
    The other day I was thinking of making a reflective longpost about a guy Ive known a long time whos a needle banging junkie who I employ and as such have watched him shoot up. I actually gave him his first pill as well and was the first person he ever saw shoot up. I was going to longpost about him and his life and how hes basically ripped off everyone but me and is emotionally stunted etc etc etc but I just cant be bothered rn. Fuck I need to get off pills, I have a dam kid on the way. My life is fucked and stressful and a lot of people around me are doing worse than me but Im in a position to help people now so its like Im carrying other peoples shit with me. My gf is still smoking weed (mixed with tobacco) and uses my pills as an excuse like a toxic piece of shit. I break up with her every other day and know there is genuinely no future in our relationship beyond that of the bebe.

    I feel I need someone better qualified to help me look after my own life. 15 months ago I was in prison jacking off to nicki minaj videos and shampoo commercials and now I have several businesses and a kid on the way. I helped someone I care about deeply fight (and beat, God willing) cancer and pray every day for guidance and deliverance from cancers of the body and mind. Drugs are one of them for me. Ive become much less greedy and have more invested in long term returns over short term gratification.

    Thank you for being here for me. Im a fucking mess I need to straighten out but I need time to do so. I'm very blessed and I would like to see you all get where you want to be
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  10. tee hee hee Naturally Camouflaged [slangily complete this slumberer]
    Grylls, JJ and MMQ
    please dont fight over who is my boo
    Even though small dicked you all are
    and all 3 end to end doesn't reach far
    Each one of you is special in your own way
    It's just a shame you are all gay.
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  11. mmQ victim of incest
    Jiggaboo Johnson, double J
    Some just call you fake and gay
    I know you love it, let me ask
    How does Trump's cock taste today?
    Acting like you know my ploy
    You've had more chocolate inside you than chips ahoy
    Acting tough like you've no fear
    I hope you die within the year
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  12. aldra JIDF Controlled Opposition
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  13. aldra JIDF Controlled Opposition
    https://nationalfile.com/seattle-autonomous-zone-warlord-creates-private-police-force-gets-dubbed-black-george-zimmerman/

    Video footage shows Raz and Co. confronting a man for making unauthorized graffiti on Raz’s turf, which results in the “police” stealing the man’s phone, breaking his glasses, and reportedly repeatedly kicking him in the head. “We are the police of this community here now,” the man is told before the beating.


    kek
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  14. The following users say it would be alright if the author of this post didn't die in a fire!
  15. aldra JIDF Controlled Opposition
    why do rich people all have to wear those dumb tiny hats?
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  16. aldra JIDF Controlled Opposition
    I heard em say
    exact opposites attract
    if that's a fact
    it'll take a taskforce to get you back
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  17. Archer513 African Astronaut
    My favorite:

    A guy dressed as antifa found out where a bunch of protesters were parking and put trump stickers on them. The cars got trashed

    Lolz

    Double lolz
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  18. You can't 'beat' dungeons and dragons.
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  19. aldra JIDF Controlled Opposition
    spectral drank the piss
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  20. aldra JIDF Controlled Opposition
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