ahlocks

"The great Sierra controversy!" screamed an agitator from the peanut gallery. For not since the great CTAF changes of 2010 had there been such protests of heresy and flexing of slide rules. :uhoh2: "E=MC2 and V/I=R and never trust a GPS 'cuz it'll make your milk turn sour." scorned the knockers. :no no: "Don't knock it 'till you try it." protested Orville O'Dalby :Disappointed:, (who'd been kept up waaaay past his usual bedtime) "Science theory held grand dad up for years. When he threw out all science and started from experiment and experience, he invented the airplane." :ne_nau: "He's got a point," nodded Planey slowly as he held an ice pack to the side of his cheek. "If I had of checked if the doctor actually likes apples, he wouldn't have caught me with his wife.." ================== \> Someone is the aunts garden holding a whip... \> It is too darks to see who it is... \> You: turn(L)eft, turn®ight, (A)sk Potter ? \>

Trouble because you were supposed to be home yesterday to mow the lawns. :no no: Signed Blueshed's Mum

"Hmmm,....city folk..:patch: <sniff> ...passed through about seven hours ago ...< sniff> <sniff> and one of them sings slightly off key :Disappointed:.... better put some traps out." i_dunno ============== Never seen a farmer type grin that much Bry...

... nearnakedLocks realised that June wasn't the best time of year to be parading about in just fishnets. With his pasty white legs and goose bumps aplenty, he blended completely in with the Tzara's sleek riveted lines. PowerPete, ever the farming type1, put down the handful of dirt he was studying and offered his advice. "When I was a centre fold for Power Farming magazine, we...." ====================== 1. complaint to management - there's no smilies that would suit a 'farming type'. :ne_nau:

The youthful enthusiast went on to great detail to describe things aeronautic as he demonstrated circuit procedure to the tight suited lass with his arms outstretched. "Ditdah making approach for first base," he called as he looked coyly toward her for hint of a clearance :spruce_up:. But that few seconds of inattention to the surroundings was all it took! :ah_oh: He hadn't noticed the fast mover doing a straight in. "G'day sweetiepie, :cool_shades: ..Of course you wanna come back to albatross and see my etchings..."

..like take your hand off it...

TenSecondTom pounced with youthful enthusiasm. "You wanna ride in a J120 'cuz jees they're bonza planes?" he invited as he began his small talk through a grin that would make the cheshire cat look pursed. "And my mate Matt:question: taught me some moves that....

...human after all. :Disappointed: Rat was shattered! How could it be that this femme fatale could besmirch his prowess with such a common label. "I'll have you know I have super powers" he huffed indignantly . "What with my carefully groomed silver whiskers and mirror smooth fangs, I'm the studlyest rat ever to have disappeared ( :ne_nau:) from the never ending yarn... Thompson :big_grin::big_grin: saw an opportunity and made a move.....

...to the other one :cool_shades: with the distinct outline of a possum skin g string () under his suit....

love your work Motz.

Using a carefully selected blend of turpentine, kero, remnants from a Mildura winery vat and a dash of old spice, the decon team set about ridding locks of his malodorous affliction. :black_eye: Things were progressing well with the decontamination. Well that is, until startingtosmellbetterLocks :bmwrider:decided it was time to load up the pipe and dilute all that blood that was accumulating in his nicotine stream. :raise_eyebrow: As he flicked the zippo into life, a blinding flash enveloped the area causing the decon crew to be instantly shrink wrapped in their plastic chemical suits. As his eyes readjusted, singedLocks noticed that the team leader was actually female and now clad in a skin tight yellow plastic (with a dappled orange cheetah effect) jumpsuit! :face and heart: Nonchalantly extinguishing his eye brows with a bit of spit between his fingers, he started to work with his best pick up line....

The light from the fire bathed their chemical suits in a dappled orange pattern (Cheetah suits? ) as the intrepid SES crew :uhoh2: advanced to investigate the stench. :yuk: "Have a look at this for Ozzie ingenuity!" :thumb_up: said locks as he motioned the crew toward the pictures on his wPad. (well, iPads are such city folk things :rolleyes1:) "Matt Who? does a touch and go in a river with a land plane and someone did a 'wheels up' landing with a non retractable grizzle. Now how's that for creativity!" =============== Does the Red Bull video remind anyone else of a dog that's just pee'd on an electric fence???

Surrounded by a waft :yuk: that would make a blowfly throw up, pongLock wandered back into the base camp for his search for the disappeared Rat. "He must of fallen down one of those gas mine holes that are everywhere.":ne_nau: he shrugged as he flipped his hiking boots off and threw another Jab rudder on the fire to keep warm. The fire hissed and crackled as it began to devour the fresh load of BundaPlastic while needawashLock coughed and gagged on the acrid black smoke swirling around the campsite. "If a bloke was disposed to stirring up some trouble to draw the Rat out," he spluttered as he moved the water heater closer to the fire, "he'd say that Jabatoos aren't much chop as firewood either..."

Yes. The Sportstars have a vernier mechanism plus an adjustable friction lock. You push the centre button on the throttle in to disengage the vernier for large adjustments, such as take off, or wind the throttle in or out for smaller adjustments.

Heaven and Hell While on his morning walk, Prime Minister Kevin Rudd falls over, has a heart attack and dies because the 'accident and emergency' dept at his nearest hospital is too understaffed to treat him in time. So his soul arrives in Heaven and he is met by Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates. 'Welcome to Heaven,' says Saint Peter, 'Before you settle in, it seems there is a problem. We seldom see a Socialist around these parts, so we're not sure what to do with you.' 'No problem, just let me in; I'm a good Christian; I'm a believer,' says the PM. 'I'd like to just let you in, but I have orders from God. He says that since the implementation of his new HEAVEN CHOICES policy, you have to spend one day in Hell and one day in Heaven. Then you must choose where you'll live for eternity.' 'But I've already made up my mind. I want to be in Heaven,' replies Rudd 'I'm sorry .. But we have our rules,' Peter interjects. And, with that, St. Peter escorts him to a lift and he goes down, down, down .all the way to Hell. The doors open and he finds himself in the middle of a lush golf course. The sun is shining in a cloudless sky. The temperature is a perfect 22C degrees. In the distance is a beautiful club-house. Standing in front of it is Gough Whitlam and thousands of other Socialist luminaries who had helped him out over the years --- Bob Hawke, Paul Keating, etc. The whole of the Labour Party leaders were there .. (and all the socialists from other parts of the world..) Everyone laughing, happy, and casually but expensively dressed. They run to greet him, to hug him and to reminisce about the good times they had getting rich at the expense of 'suckers and peasants.' They play a friendly game of golf and then dine on lobster and caviar. The Devil himself comes up to Rudd with a frosty drink, 'Have a tequila and relax, Kev!' 'Uh, I can't drink anymore; I took a pledge,' says Rudd, dejectedly. 'This is Hell, son. You can drink and eat all you want and not worry and it just gets better from there!' Rudd takes the drink and finds himself liking the Devil, who he thinks is a really very friendly bloke who tells funny jokes like himself and pulls hilarious nasty pranks, kind of like the ones the Labour Party pulled with their master strokes on Education, Immigration, Petrol prices, Tough on Crime promises. They are having such a great time that, before he realises it, it's time to go. Everyone gives him a big hug and waves as Rudd steps on the lift and heads upward. When the lift door reopens, he is in Heaven again and Saint Peter is waiting for him. 'Now it's time to visit Heaven,' the old man says, opening the gate. So for 24 hours Rudd is made to hang out with a bunch of honest, good-natured people who enjoy each other's company, talk about things other than money and treat each other decently. Not a nasty prank or short-XXXX joke among them. No fancy country clubs here and, while the food tastes great, it's not caviar or lobster. And these people are all poor. He doesn't see anybody he knows and he isn't even treated like someone special! 'Whoa,' he says uncomfortably to himself. 'Gough Whitlam never prepared me for this!' The day done, Saint Peter returns and says, 'Well, you've spent a day in Hell and a day in Heaven. Now choose where you want to live for Eternity.' With the 'Deal or No Deal' theme playing softly in the background, Rudd reflects for a minute ... Then answers: 'Well, I would never have thought I'd say this -- I mean, Heaven has been delightful and all -- but I really think I belong in Hell with my friends.' So Saint Peter escorts him to the lift and he goes down, down, down, all the way to Hell. The doors of the lift open and he is in the middle of a barren scorched earth covered with garbage and toxic industrial wasteland, looking a bit like the eroded, rabbit and fox affected Australian outback, but worse and more desolate. He is horrified to see all of his friends, dressed in rags and chained together, picking up the roadside rubbish and putting it into black plastic bags. They are groaning and moaning in pain, faces and hands black with grime. The Devil comes over to Rudd and puts an arm around his shoulder.' I don't understand,' stammers a shocked Rudd, 'Yesterday I was here and there was a golf course and a club-house and we ate lobster and caviar and drank tequila. We lazed around and had a great time.. Now there's just a wasteland full of garbage and everybody looks miserable!' The Devil looks at him, smiles slyly and purrs, 'Yesterday we were campaigning; today you voted for us!

And that is what I believe the changes are all about. If I'm of a mood to go and do some circuits, I don't have to mandatorily call every corner of every lap if there isn't a risk of collision. The biggest problem I see are the ones who have interpreted the changes to mean they don't have to make any calls what so ever. Be they landing fee dodgers or just can't comprehend written instructions, they'll be the ones to be wary of.

Chris, CAR 166C requires a pilot to make a broadcast whenever it is reasonably necessary to do so to avoid a collision, or the risk of a collision, with another aircraft. If you think making a call is necessary, make the call. You're not going to be penalised for doing so. Cheers!

"Where else but Queensland?" beamed Queen Anna. "...Beautiful one day, gas drilled the next." Defiantly, ditDah chained himself to a nearby bulldozer as teams of goons :patch::patch: moved through the crowd. "What'll we do with this one" :Disappointed: growled the leading goon as he surveyed the long streak of pelican poop firmly welded to the D9. "S'pose we'll have to cut him off with the Oxy." :ne_nau: grumbled his offsider. "And if the chain gets too hot, we'll cool him off with some of the local water ... :kboom:

“Fall in, in single File!...” Barked DarkSerious, legal officer and acting commandant of the Victorian detachment of the RAA guerrillas, as she baled the malingerers up. :bitehard: “There’ll be no more late nights telling naughty jokes :Disappointed: in the blue oyster room for you lot until you straighten yourselves out and complete your training for the rescue mission!” she reprimanded as she inspected the motley assortment mustered before her. :patch: “Reckon I could straighten a few things out if you need any help...” offered Nanna as she watched on from across the road. :spruce_up: “Intelligence reports that DitDah has blown his cover at the wrinkled plum and is currently being surrounded by the enemy in a pre emptive manoeuvre.” continued DarkS, while glaring at the dirty half dozen () over her mirror sunnies :cool_shades:. “Our objective will be to infiltrate the enemy bastion and distract them by mocking their totems and jeering their :ha ha:archaic aircraft while we carry out the extraction.” “How will we know the enemy Ma’am?” :ne_nau: asked PoweredUP. “That’s easy…” answered the propaganda officer (), “They’ll be the vocal ones with the chips on their shoulders.” :csm: “Now," Concluded the C.O. "Report to MentorMerv :run:for unarmed combat training () and then…..”

... set down his glass of cheddar chardonnay in dismay. "We'll have to organise a rescue mission to extract him from that unholy crowd." started Rattus, as he dabbed his napkin at the last drops of plonk that clung to his fangs. "We'll have to send in our best commandos......

"That's pretty much it...." i_dunno thought goldyLocks, who'd also been unable to bring himself to start any shenanigans to follow after a tribute to our beloved Lady Killa :heart:. Even while knowing that the forum ambassador :ilmostro:, mayor of Snake Gully and Emcee at gala NES occassions, had enjoyed a daily instalment of ripping yarns and tales of derring do and derring... probably didn't really happen , Locks had been reluctant to playup out of respect for our departed NES comrade. "What with Darksabre becoming plainDarky :raise_eyebrow:, the young enthusiast :big_grin: over playing in the viper:ace:pit and Coastie dude starting the new Blue Chat Room :ah_oh:, it's not like there's not anything to poke fun at." :stirring pot: "But we'd best not mention that Bryon and the Rat have.....

Was it this one? http://www.recreationalflying.com/forum/anything-about-nothing/95647-hangers.html#post194196

Resist he tried with all his might, tossed and turned all through the night, to fend off taunts and any thoughts of rhyming. "That bugger Byron, he's set the bait. The jobs to do will have to wait, But I’ll just sit back and pause for perfect timing" As Locks began to write some verse, nothing rude, obtuse or terse, the Rat stepped in and fired the opening shot. "It's not the verse that you should hate, and I'll shove Crudd's tax fair up his date, ‘cuz I need a rotoraxe to make the Jab real hot. See, I need a donk that goes and goes, to keep the plastic on its toes, but since his mining tax, my dream is shot." Well just between me and you, I guess poor Bryon kinda knew, That his taunt might end up being quite the blunder, Said the lad with the grin as he waltzed on in, "He's a drummer...is it any wonder?" "You see lyrics aren't their strongest point, it's pounding that's their thing." So he gave him a poke with an old skins joke, just to wound him in the wing" Bryon sprang back in dread and fear, "That really hurt, I’ve shed a tear, What truely brought that on?” “Oh, it’s not true” said Wiggles Sue, he’s just playing with your scone. “Now’s the time to pounce” Locks thought, “While Bryon’s on the run.” But when he went to make a verse, he found that he had none! That’s odd...

..watch this Nana. Can you believe your eyes?"...

...we'll talk about any issues that arise...