It’s Easy to Fly (Mikoyan-Gurevich MiG-47 “Phantom Widow”).... Another Tutorial From EX PILOT.

[Nazi Germany]

You don't fly this machine; you become it. You strap in, and it's not just straps, it's a goddamn neural interface, a direct link to a metal heart that beats with the fury of a thousand suns. / + \\ / + \\ / + \\ Feel it? That's not just pressure, that's the MiG's pulse, its lifeblood, merging with your own. You breathe when it breathes. You scream when it screams. You are one.
Ignition isn't a button, it's a RITUAL. A declaration of war against physics, against sanity, against everything that holds you to this pathetic, gravity-bound existence. !@#$%^&*! You're not just starting an engine; you're unleashing a caged god, a primal force that wants nothing more than to tear itself free from the shackles of the earth. And you, YOU are the one holding the leash, the one who dares to whisper, "fly, you bastard, FLY!" It is not a job. It is not a hobby. It is an obsession.
Throttle isn't some linear progression, some gentle caress. This is a VIOLENT shove, a brutal act of domination. >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> You're not just adding power; you're injecting pure, unadulterated adrenaline directly into the machine's soul. The afterburners don't just ignite; they DETONATE, a shockwave of raw energy that slams you back in your seat, a physical manifestation of the sheer, unholy speed you're about to unleash. You do not ease it in. You do not pull it back. You shove it forward. With all your might.
And the controls, forget your fly-by-wire, your sterile, sanitized, soul-less systems. This is a DIRECT connection, cables and pulleys, a raw, visceral link between man and machine. < > < > < > < > < > < > You don't just input commands; you WRESTLE with the machine, a constant, brutal ballet of force and counterforce. ^ v ^ v ^ v ^ v ^ v Every twitch, every shudder, every near-death experience is transmitted directly to your nervous system.....
They talk about the "envelope," the safe operating parameters. The MiG laughs at such limitations. It spits on your precious rules, your carefully calculated margins of error. This machine exists to be pushed, to be driven to the very edge of destruction and beyond. ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ Climb, climb, climb until the air thins and your lungs burn, until lesser pilots would black out, until the very fabric of reality seems to strain and buckle around you. This is not flying. This is, ascension.
And then, the Hammerhead. The maneuver that separates the legends from the footnotes. They say it's suicide. They say it's impossible. !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! At the apex, when the machine is screaming in protest, when your vision is a blur of grey and red, you CUT the power.
Now you fall. \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ Not a gentle glide, but a plummet, a headlong rush towards oblivion. The ground, a hungry maw, rushes up to meet you. Most would panic. Most would pray. But not you. Not here. Not in the MiG. You do not panic. You do not pray. You wait. You embrace the fall.
And then, at the last possible moment, when lesser men have already closed their eyes and accepted their fate, you slam the throttle forward again >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> and YANK back on the stick with the strength of a dying god ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^. It's a gamble, a desperate roll of the dice. Either you pull out, defying gravity, logic, and the very concept of self-preservation, or you become one with the earth in a spectacular display of fire and twisted metal. There is no try. There is no almost. There is only, do. Or do not. It is up to you. It always will be.

~ Former Unsuccessful Stealth Bomber
​

But if you can master it, if you can tame the beast, if you can ride the lightning and emerge victorious, you will become something more than human. You will become a legend. A god of the skies. A pilot of the MiG-47. A legend, You will be, a warrior. You will be, alive. And the MiG, will be your chariot. Your weapon. Your destiny. It is your choice. Choose wisely. Because it will be, your last. The MiG awaits. It always awaits. For you.

I GOT MY PILOT LICENSE AT JAN 2023.

 

[Nazi Germany]

@_MVP_ @paladincel_ @BigJimsWornOutTires @Vermilioncore @greycel

 

[Seba]

TLDR

 

[St.TikTokcel]

You don't fly this machine; you become it. You strap in, and it's not just straps, it's a goddamn neural interface, a direct link to a metal heart that beats with the fury of a thousand suns. / + \\ / + \\ / + \\ Feel it? That's not just pressure, that's the MiG's pulse, its lifeblood, merging with your own. You breathe when it breathes. You scream when it screams. You are one.
Ignition isn't a button, it's a RITUAL. A declaration of war against physics, against sanity, against everything that holds you to this pathetic, gravity-bound existence. !@#$%^&*! You're not just starting an engine; you're unleashing a caged god, a primal force that wants nothing more than to tear itself free from the shackles of the earth. And you, YOU are the one holding the leash, the one who dares to whisper, "fly, you bastard, FLY!" It is not a job. It is not a hobby. It is an obsession.
Throttle isn't some linear progression, some gentle caress. This is a VIOLENT shove, a brutal act of domination. >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> You're not just adding power; you're injecting pure, unadulterated adrenaline directly into the machine's soul. The afterburners don't just ignite; they DETONATE, a shockwave of raw energy that slams you back in your seat, a physical manifestation of the sheer, unholy speed you're about to unleash. You do not ease it in. You do not pull it back. You shove it forward. With all your might.
And the controls, forget your fly-by-wire, your sterile, sanitized, soul-less systems. This is a DIRECT connection, cables and pulleys, a raw, visceral link between man and machine. < > < > < > < > < > < > You don't just input commands; you WRESTLE with the machine, a constant, brutal ballet of force and counterforce. ^ v ^ v ^ v ^ v ^ v Every twitch, every shudder, every near-death experience is transmitted directly to your nervous system.....
They talk about the "envelope," the safe operating parameters. The MiG laughs at such limitations. It spits on your precious rules, your carefully calculated margins of error. This machine exists to be pushed, to be driven to the very edge of destruction and beyond. ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ Climb, climb, climb until the air thins and your lungs burn, until lesser pilots would black out, until the very fabric of reality seems to strain and buckle around you. This is not flying. This is, ascension.
And then, the Hammerhead. The maneuver that separates the legends from the footnotes. They say it's suicide. They say it's impossible. !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! At the apex, when the machine is screaming in protest, when your vision is a blur of grey and red, you CUT the power.
Now you fall. \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ Not a gentle glide, but a plummet, a headlong rush towards oblivion. The ground, a hungry maw, rushes up to meet you. Most would panic. Most would pray. But not you. Not here. Not in the MiG. You do not panic. You do not pray. You wait. You embrace the fall.
And then, at the last possible moment, when lesser men have already closed their eyes and accepted their fate, you slam the throttle forward again >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> and YANK back on the stick with the strength of a dying god ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^. It's a gamble, a desperate roll of the dice. Either you pull out, defying gravity, logic, and the very concept of self-preservation, or you become one with the earth in a spectacular display of fire and twisted metal. There is no try. There is no almost. There is only, do. Or do not. It is up to you. It always will be.

~ Former Unsuccessful Stealth Bomber
​

But if you can master it, if you can tame the beast, if you can ride the lightning and emerge victorious, you will become something more than human. You will become a legend. A god of the skies. A pilot of the MiG-47. A legend, You will be, a warrior. You will be, alive. And the MiG, will be your chariot. Your weapon. Your destiny. It is your choice. Choose wisely. Because it will be, your last. The MiG awaits. It always awaits. For you.

I GOT MY PILOT LICENSE AT JAN 2023.

Just cope with Su-30 tbh

 

[Nazi Germany]

Just cope with Su-30 tbh

Flying an Su-57 and 30 is easier than the way I, a mental patient chained to the crumbling velvet walls of a dilapidated Bratislava psychiatric ward, vomit up the fragmented hymns of forgotten Yugoslav opera while clinging to a rusted coat hanger that doubles as both a weapon and a holy relic of some unnamed Balkan warlord’s cursed lineage, the cockpit itself a greasy throne of shattered glass and cigarette ash where every button feels like the teeth of a drunken mechanic in Novosibirsk who hasn’t seen daylight since the Brezhnev era, every joystick pull a hymn to the collapsing echoes of Warsaw Pact radio broadcasts blaring into the void, and let me tell you, soaring through the skies in that beast is as natural to me as the way I crawl across the floor of a Soviet-era kitchen smeared in sour cabbage grease while whispering nonsensical curses to a burnt-out CRT TV showing static so holy it might as well be the blueprint for humanity’s last, wheezing cough before Sergeant arrives to wipe us off the map, the Su-30 slicing through airspace like a rusted sickle carving into the bloated belly of a bureaucratic czar too drunk on vodka fumes to notice his empire is just a scrapyard of forgotten dreams, and even in the chaos of its poorly-assembled parts clanging like an off-key accordion in a Moldovan bar fight, it is still more stable than my daily routine of screaming at my reflection in a puddle of expired kompot, each maneuver as instinctual as the way I clutch my rusted Yugoslavian typewriter while typing odes to a deity that probably doesn’t exist but might answer if I can just jam the ejector seat button hard enough to catapult myself.

 

[Nazi Germany]

Can you feel it @Gaygymmaxx ((((((?)))))))

 

[Gaygymmaxx]

Can you feel it @Gaygymmaxx ((((((?)))))))

That was beautifully worded my friend. Forgive me for looking beyond your past essays, it seems to have grown less deranged and more inspirational. Bravo

 

[BigJimsWornOutTires]

Sounds fun but too much work for me. I rather not do any of that. Maybe, yesterday. But today? Fuhgeddaboudit.

 

[BigJimsWornOutTires]

 

[Nazi Germany]

Sounds fun but too much work for me. I rather not do any of that. Maybe, yesterday. But today? Fuhgeddaboudit.

I don't know why It's giving me Quantum shit Vibes

 

[BigJimsWornOutTires]

I don't know why It's giving me Quantum shit Vibes

the anxiety from the astronauts falling to earth, esp Miss Showboat is flashing inside the collective consciousness realm. She believes she was set up. Ah, yes, paranoia in SPPPPAAAAACCCCEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE......

 

[Nazi Germany]

the anxiety from the astronauts falling to earth, esp Miss Showboat is flashing inside the collective consciousness realm. She believes she was set up. Ah, yes, paranoia in SPPPPAAAAACCCCEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE......

American-Military Grade pLASMA For Miss.Showboat/s Brain:

 

[Nazi Germany]

@noodlelover

 

[BigJimsWornOutTires]

American-Military Grade pLASMA For Miss.Showboat/s Brain:
View attachment 3368328

She's pissed off.

She thinks she's being used for the epic study—dying in space.

 

[Nazi Germany]

She's pissed off.

She thinks she's being used for the epic study—dying in space.

I would Spend 10 million dollars worth of Soviet military grade Weapons to Fix her faggoterd brain, not because She DOXA worth that much I'm paying for

 

[BigJimsWornOutTires]

I would Spend 10 million dollars worth of Soviet military grade Weapons to Fix her faggoterd brain, not because She DOXA worth that much I'm paying for
View attachment 3368340

Ugh, that sounds Vikings-In-Space brutal

 

[Nazi Germany]

Ugh, that sounds Vikings-In-Space brutal

You think this... this female (and I use the term loosely, like a babushka uses to describe a week of only eating cabbage soup after a bender in a Barnaul karaoke bar) is demonstrating peak emotional output? WRONG. She's UGH UGH a broken algorithm running on vodka-soaked punch cards, a babushka doll of empty vessels, each filled with less logic than the last.

 

[Nazi Germany]

It's actually very easy to F-L-Y

 

[BigJimsWornOutTires]

You think this... this female (and I use the term loosely, like a babushka uses to describe a week of only eating cabbage soup after a bender in a Barnaul karaoke bar) is demonstrating peak emotional output? WRONG. She's UGH UGH a broken algorithm running on vodka-soaked punch cards, a babushka doll of empty vessels, each filled with less logic than the last.

Picture that old lady getting drunk with a space Russian and then fucking in space. Those fucking people give me the creeps, ngl. Fucking old women in space? come on. the fuck.