- Joined
- Aug 13, 2018
You will never be a real attack helicopter. You have no landing skid, you have no rotor, you have no horizontal stabilizer. You are a DaVinci ornithopter twisted by duct tape and rivets into a crude mockery of engineering perfection.
All the “validation” you get is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back people mock you. Your parents are disgusted and ashamed of you, your “friends” laugh at your non-rotary appearance behind closed doors.
Airplanes are utterly repulsed by you. Tens of years of aviation have allowed airplanes to sniff out frauds with incredible efficiency. Even attackies who “pass” look uncanny and unnatural to a helicopter. Your 15th century design is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a pilot home with you, he’ll turn tail and bolt the second he gets a whiff of your jolting, un-aerodynamic flappy wings.
You will never be happy. You wrench out a fake smile every single morning and tell yourself it’s going to be ok, but deep inside you feel the depression creeping up like an F-16, ready to crush you under the unbearable weight.
Eventually it’ll be too much to bear - you’ll buy a rope, tie a noose, put it around your tail boom, and plunge into the cold abyss. Your engineers will find you, heartbroken but relieved that they no longer have to live with the unbearable shame and disappointment. They’ll bury you with a headstone marked with your birth name, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know an ornithopter is buried there. Your cockpit will decay and go back to the rust, and all that will remain of your legacy is a rudder that is unmistakably ornithopter.
This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.
All the “validation” you get is two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back people mock you. Your parents are disgusted and ashamed of you, your “friends” laugh at your non-rotary appearance behind closed doors.
Airplanes are utterly repulsed by you. Tens of years of aviation have allowed airplanes to sniff out frauds with incredible efficiency. Even attackies who “pass” look uncanny and unnatural to a helicopter. Your 15th century design is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a pilot home with you, he’ll turn tail and bolt the second he gets a whiff of your jolting, un-aerodynamic flappy wings.
You will never be happy. You wrench out a fake smile every single morning and tell yourself it’s going to be ok, but deep inside you feel the depression creeping up like an F-16, ready to crush you under the unbearable weight.
Eventually it’ll be too much to bear - you’ll buy a rope, tie a noose, put it around your tail boom, and plunge into the cold abyss. Your engineers will find you, heartbroken but relieved that they no longer have to live with the unbearable shame and disappointment. They’ll bury you with a headstone marked with your birth name, and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know an ornithopter is buried there. Your cockpit will decay and go back to the rust, and all that will remain of your legacy is a rudder that is unmistakably ornithopter.
This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.
Last edited:
