Interesting and Humour - page 4310
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1.Property is always secondary. No Property of an Object, is the cause of existence of the Object. Therefore, in the beginning there could be neither Energy, nor Singularity, nor anything similar. These concepts are derivatives of the Object.
2. Absolute beginning is required by our Consciousness (perhaps because its own nature is initial-final), but this does not mean that Being itself needs an "absolute beginning". Being can be a timeless self-contained process. In other words, Time (in our linear representation), exists within Being, not Being exists within Time. And it is logical. It's just that such an arrangement is very hard for a person to understand.
imho.
1. I agree.
2. It is not consciousness that is being "danced on", but astronomical observations (Hubble constant, etc.).
1. Agreed.
2. It is not from consciousness that we "dance", but from astronomical observations (Hubble's constant, etc.).
2. No matter how much Science seeks to level out the subjectivity of the perception of observable facts, unfortunately, we cannot escape this subjectivity. :(
We will still understand the Universe through the prism of our own (sometimes not very clear) thinking. Alas...
2. No matter how much Science seeks to level out the subjectivity of the perception of observable facts, unfortunately, we cannot escape this subjectivity. :(
We will still understand the Universe through the prism of our own (sometimes not very clear) thinking. Alas...
My neighbour liked this song so much that he threw a brick through my window to hear it better)
My neighbour liked this song so much he threw a brick through my window to hear it better)
Maybe it's the other way round. He couldn't get you to turn down the volume so he had to draw attention to himself with a brick through the window.
I've never seen her before, saw her just the other day and really wanted to have a wife like that - just lovely!
P.S. By the way, mine listens to this kind of music too, but unfortunately doesn't sing(I've never seen her before, saw her just the other day and really wanted to have a wife like that - just lovely!
P.S. My wife also listens to such music, but unfortunately doesn't sing(I should send her to vocal school).
In 1982, Larry Walters, a retired resident of Los Angeles, decided to make his long-time dream of flying - but not by plane - come true. He invented his own way to travel by air.
Walters attached forty-five helium-filled weather balloons, each one a metre in diameter, to a comfortable armchair. He sat down in his chair, taking a supply of sandwiches, a beer and a shotgun. On cue, his friends untied the rope holding the chair. Larry Walters was about to climb smoothly to only thirty metres, but the chair flew up like a cannon for five kilometres.
The neighbours are discussing. Should we call 911? Why? The man flew away. It's not illegal to fly. No law was broken. There was no violence. America is a free country. You want to fly, go to hell.
...About four hours later, a dispatcher at a nearby airport hears a pilot's report from an incoming airliner:
- Oh, by the way, you guys know there's an asshole flying in a garden chair?
- What's that? - The dispatcher asks back, hallucinating from overexertion.
- Flying, I said. He's clutching his chair. It's an airport after all, I thought if anything...
- Commander, - the control officer, - do you have a problem?
- Me? No, I'm fine.
- Don't you want to give control to copilot?
- What for? - commander is amazed. - I don't understand you.
- Flight 1419, repeat your report to dispatch!
- I said there's an asshole flying in your landing echelon on a garden chair. I don't mind. But the wind, you know...
Dispatch is putting it on speaker. Shift supervisor has square eyes. Firefighters and ambulances are howling at the beginning of the runway. The lane's cleared, traffic's suspended: It's an emergency.
The aircraft lands as normal. A FBI agent and a psychiatrist run up the gangway.
Report from the next board:
- What the fuck is this balloon goat blocking the runway?! 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 besides you?
- Should I drop the helm and go to the cabin to interview passengers who are blind?
- Why do you think they might be 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 aerial barrier. And what I can call a disorder is working with your airport.
The dispatcher shakes his head and pours a glass of water and, hands mixed up, a cup of coffee: he's lost his self-control.
The third plane:
- 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?!
- Oh. Both literally and philosophically... and aerodynamically.
The control room smells of a cool April Fool's prank, but the calendar doesn't confirm the date. The fourth board is chillingly polite:
- Earth, I'm reporting that some guy just almost got into my left engine, creating an emergency situation. 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 Gorgon Medusa, 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, are you 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?
- Я.
- Where to?
- Earth, are you crazy? Are you turning on your brain? I'm coming in for a landing!
- Where's the man?
- Which one?
- The one that's flying!!!
- Did you just... did you just 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 him! How do I know where he is? They've got the devil on a boarding train 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?
- A mu**k in a garden chair!
- And why is he flying?
- Because he's an asshole! Catch him and ask him why he's flying!
- What's keeping him in the air? - The dispatcher is screaming in despair. - What kind of a force is it? What kind of flying machine? He can't be flying on a chair!!!
- He's got balloons strapped to his chair.
What follows is an untranslatable play on words (bals - ball), for the dispatcher realises that the balloonist has tied his balls to the chair, and demands that the reason for the lifting power of this sexomasochism be explained to him.
- Does God have him by the balls in the air or something?!
- 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 from?
- 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?
- He's blue.
- Capten? What do you mean, blue?
- Do you know what the temperature is out here? Try flying without a plane yourself.
This radio communication in the madhouse is rapping to the beat. Air traffic is heavy. The dispatcher asks for a schizophrenia pill. Incoming flights are diverted to alternate airports. Flights are delayed.
...Nothing on the radar! The man is small and non-iron, the balloons are small and rubbery.
They contact the airbase. They explain and swear: the doctor in the tube confirms.
They lift the fighter.
...Our air fighter, in hell above the abyss, stiff and parched, convulsively breathing the ice-cold thin air, lets the nearby planes roar under his gaze, with deathlike gaze. He is stuck and frozen together with his tiny chair, shaken and dragged, and his consciousness is corked.
Another roar rumbles louder and a fighter jet flies by - a hundred metres away. The pilot's head 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 order to inject adrenaline, the heart pushes the blood, - and he gives the pilot the finger.
- 'Alive,' the fighter pilot reports disapprovingly to the base.
Well. A police helicopter is lifted off.
And it's getting dark! It's getting cold. And the evening breeze, according to the laws of meteorology, slowly drifts the balloon to the sea. It drifts over the shore.
There's shouting and waving from the helicopter! Of course, nothing can be heard over the noise. They try to catch him with a hook on the rope but the powerful jet of the screw blows the balls aside and the armchair hangs backwards, as if he doesn't fall out...!
And the rescue operation ends with his own recipe, which is a shame... The helicopter returns with a sniper, shines a searchlight from a hundred meters away and the sniper shoots the upper probe. And the second one. They look doubtful... Is it descending?
All the coastal boats are already dangling below. A free-spirited public in arbitrary watercraft enjoys the spectacle and disturbs the coastguard. Heads are up, and someone has already fallen into the water.
A third balloon bursts with a crackle and the decline of the bunch is made manifest.
On the fifth balloon shot, our guy flops into the waves with a smack and a splash.
But the ropes on which the deflated balls were hanging got tangled in the high-voltage wires, causing a short circuit. An entire area of Long Beach was left without power.
Headlights shining, whitewater storms, speedboats rushing! He is dragged out of the water and begins to be pulled away from the chair.
As soon as the doctor turns away, they pour a glass of whisky down his throat, rub his ears, hit him in the face... and only then do the four sailors unclench his fingers and spread his legs twisted with a screw around the legs of the chair.
Under torture, he begins to come around, I mean massage. On his own he bares his teeth. Smiles as pins are driven into muscles stony with cramp. And finally says his first swear word. That is, life gets better.
And when they put him in the ambulance on the quay and the flashes of the press dazzle the crowd, a shrewd reporter manages to slip a microphone between the orderlies and shout:
- Tell me, why did you do all this?
He replied: "You can't just sit around doing nothing all the time.
P.S. Larry Walters is one of the few who has managed to win the Darwin Prize while still alive. He was also fined $1,500 by the Federal Aviation Administration.
https://www.moya-planeta.ru/travel/view/pochemu_rossiya_strana_perevernutyh_bukv_40926/