Gelukkig hebben we op 01.01.2010 die post van Digits al gehad...
Hoeft er nu iig niemand meer aan te komen met:
'Santa Claus, like all pilots, ... '

:grijns:

Of zullen we het toch nog maar 1 keertje doen om het af te leren?

...

JaJajajajajajaj!!!!

Santa Claus, like all pilots, gets regular visits from the Federal Aviation Administration, and the FAA examiner arrived last week for the pre-Christmas flight check.

In preparation, Santa had the elves wash the sled and bathe all the reindeer. Santa got his logbook out and made sure all his paperwork was in order. He knew they would examine all his equipment and truly put Santa's flying skills to the test.

The FAA-examiner walked slowly around the sled. He checked the reindeer harnesses, the landing gear, and even Rudolph's nose. He painstakingly reviewed Santa's weight and balance calculations for sled's enormous payload.

Finally, they were ready for the check ride. Santa got in and fastened his seat belt and shoulder harness and checked the compass. Then the examiner hopped in carrying, to Santa's surprise, a shotgun. "What's that for?!?" asked Santa incredulously. The examiner winked and said, "I'm not supposed to tell you this ahead of time," as he leaned over to whisper in Santa's ear, "but you're gonna lose your number 2 engine on takeoff."

Er moet toch iemand zijn die deze post kort voor de kerst ;)

Ach ja, net als 24/7 kerstliedjes op Skyradio hoort deze er gewoon bij.

Dan nog twee om het af te leren;

Dear Santa, “Please send me a baby brother”

Santa wrote back: "Send me your mother..."

De Kerstman, even afgezien van zijn optreden at Macy, New York.

Waarom we Hem eigenlijk nooit echt zien, of gezien hebben.

In de eerste plaats, zijn reissnelheid is sneller dan het licht. Tevens is zijn slee payload zo zwaar dat de hele handel na take off in een worm, zwart gat, getrokken wordt.

Dat laten ze ons nu al jaren geleoven, hah, en er maar intrappen iedere keer. Er zijn nog steeds legio volwassenen die deze misconfiture nooit te boven gekomen zijn. (Zie hiervoor willekeurige Airwork topics).

Maar ik zal het even ophelderen. Wij hebben geen kinderen dus mij kan niets gebeuren.

Wikileaks heeft het verraden. Talloze documenten hebben het nu bevestigd. De oude man is gewoon een dronkaard die, nog voor dat hij met zijn slee contraptie de SID ingaat door de plaatselijke KLPD van de tarmac geplukt is. ‘Rode neus meneer. Hah, een kleine verkoudheid? Neen, U bent dronken. Niks vliegen”.

‘Maar agent, alleen maar een paar snapsen en vijftien gin/tonics, dus dat telt toch niet” , doe ik iedere dag’. “Niks mee te maken clown, af van die slee en mee naar het buro ter ontnuchtering”

Wikileaks heeft 3000000 processen verbaal openbaar gemaakt. Dronken op een arreslee stappen, hoe bestaat het, off with his head.
En daarom heeft nooit iemand hem gezien. En uw toekomstige kleinkinderen?

“Opa, toen U nog jong was, voordat wikileaks bestond, was het toen niet veel makkelijker om zomaar wat te ouwehoeren, no questions asked, grote bek was voldoende?”
‘Ja kinderen, those were the days. Er was echter een uitzondering. Als je als vlieger zijnde op Airwork.NL onzin poneerde, zelfs met Kerstmis, kwam je van een koude Kerstmis thuis.”

‘Wacht maar totdat wikileaks de notulen van de Airwork moderators openbaar maakt. Dan gaan er pas koppen rollen.” “Nou Opa, gelukkjig hoeft u dat niet meer mee te maken.” Was het gerustsstellende kommentaar van de virtuele kleinkinderen.

En zo gaat Ome Art weer rustig slapen, nu we eindelijk weten waarom er eigenlijk geen Kerstmis bestaat. Sneeuw, dennebomen en Bing Crosby in Betlehem, “Wikileaks” to the resque.

Zum Wohle
Art

Geweldig geschreven Art!

Ik zag dat de FAA ook nog publicaties had over Santa:

http://www.faa.gov/news/press_releases/news_story.cfm?newsId=11063

AAARGH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Wij krijgen elke dag een zgn. heads up van flightmanagement via onze BB met info over de situatie in Europa mbt. het weer/ delays etc.
Hebben ze nu die bovenstaande mop er ook ingezet!!!!

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGHHHHHH!!!!!

*trekt zijn kleren uit en loopt al "OENGA BOENGA "roepend rondjes in de sneeuw buiten *

Twas the night before...

Twas the night before...

Twas the night before Christmas, and out on the ramp,
Not an airplane was stirring, not even a Champ.
The aircraft were fastened to tie downs with care,
In hopes that come morning, they all would be there.

The fire trucks were nestled, all snug in their spots,
With gusts from two-forty at 39 knots.
I slumped at the watch desk, now finally caught up,
And settled down comfortably, resting my butt.

When the radio lit up with noise and with chatter,
I turned up the scanner to see what was the matter.
A voice clearly heard over static and snow,
Called for clearance to land at the airport below.

He barked his transmission so lively and quick,
I'd have sworn that the call sign he used was "St. Nick".
I ran to the panel to turn up the lights,
The better to welcome this magical flight.

He called his position, no room for denial,
"St. Nicholas One, turnin' left onto final."
And what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a Rutan-built sleigh, with eight Rotax Reindeer!

With vectors to final, down the glide slope he came,
As he passed all fixes, he called them by name:
"Now Ringo! Now Tolga! Now Trini and Bacun!
On Comet! On Cupid!" What pills was he takin'?

The controllers were sittin', and scratchin' their head,
They phoned my office, and I heard it with dread,
The message they left was both urgent and dour:
"When Santa pulls in, please have him call the tower."

He landed like silk, with the sled runners sparking,
Then I heard "Left at Charlie," and "Taxi to parking."
He slowed to a taxi, turned off of three-oh
And stopped on the ramp with a "Ho, ho, ho."

He stepped out of the sleigh, but before he could talk,
I responded with Crash One, the fire truck that can rock.
His red helmet and goggles were covered with frost
And his beard was all brown from Reindeer exhaust.

His breath smelled like peppermint, gone slightly stale,
And he puffed on his pipe, but he didn't inhale.
His cheeks were all rosy and jiggled like jelly;
His boots were as black as a crop duster's belly.

He was chubby and plump, in his suit of bright red,
And he asked where to fill it, with hundred low lead.
He came dashing in from the snow-covered pump;
I knew he was anxious for drainin' the sump.

I spoke not a word, but went straight to my work,
Fire-guarding the sleigh, like an eager young Turk.
He came out of the restroom, and sighed in relief,
Then he picked up a phone for a Flight Service brief.

And I thought as he silently scribed in his log,
These reindeer could land in an eighth-mile fog.
He completed his pre-flight, from the front to the rear,
Then he put on his headset and I heard him yell, "Clear!"

And laying a finger on his push-to-talk,
He called up the tower for clearance and squawk.
"Use runway 30 for a northbound direction,
Depart heading three-six-zero at pilot's discretion"

He sped down the runway, the best of the best,
"Your traffic's a Cessna, inbound from the west."
Then I heard him proclaim, as he climbed thru the night,
"Merry Christmas to all and I have traffic in sight"

Oud, maar voor wie hem nog niet kende! :kerst: