...Estableciendo conexión...
...Protocolo Sombra v1.95 iniciado...

...Transmisión finalizada - finalizando carga...
...Carga finalizada. Unidad Bastion E-54 comprometida...

...Terminando conexión...
fuck off blizzard, just release her already.

I'm Quinsicious Carter

I haven't exercised in like three months

so, how long do you think until the game gets that one update

the one that changes the game completely and forever, dividing the fanbase in half, alienating old fans yearning for "the good old overwatch" and spitting venom at any new player who has anything positive to say about the new metagame

prolly a couple years at least

I hope

Quote from: Nightrider on October 13, 2016, 04:27:31 PM

Quote from: Desty on October 13, 2016, 03:20:34 PM

Quote from: Scarecrow on October 13, 2016, 02:56:35 PM

Quote from: Desty on October 12, 2016, 09:44:56 AM

Quote from: challengerX on October 11, 2016, 03:24:12 PM

Quote from: Scarecrow on October 11, 2016, 03:21:26 PM

Quote from: challengerX on October 11, 2016, 03:19:43 PM

Quote from: Scarecrow on October 11, 2016, 03:16:21 PM

Quote from: Desty on October 11, 2016, 11:52:33 AM

Quote from: Nightrider on October 11, 2016, 10:06:28 AM

Quote from: Desty on October 11, 2016, 08:31:35 AM

Are you gonna let a brother in on this or what

It's not in Gävle.

Are you gonna tell me it's not in Germany too? The fuck do I care if it's not in Gävle?

Oh, you're German.
I guess that explains… how you are.

He's not German.

Then why would he care if it's not in Germany?

English is his third language, I believe. What he meant was he doesn't care if it's not in Gävle because he doesn't live there, should he care that it's not in Germany also (because he doesn't live there either).

You're telling me I'm the one in wrong?

He told me it's not in Gävle, so I asked him if he's gonna keep on telling me where it's not. Germany being one of those.

I wasn't trying to tell you that you're in the wrong, I was just confused.

Yeah, it shows that you have no idea what you're talking about.

To be fair, saying you wouldn't care if it's not in Germany either is a weird thing to say. You could've just said "Why would I care if it's not in Gävle, I don't live there". This is why people question what you say all the time (no offense). You make super vague statements and call any one who is confused (so literally everyone on the forum) stupid.

Yeah, it was vague, and on its own it'd be confusing to those with a preconceived idea of where I live, but that's where the second part comes in. By asking you why I should care if it's not in a certain location I make it clear that that location isn't relevant to me. If you still don't get it, then, yes, you are stupid.

You made it clear that the location wasn't relevant to you, but why it wasn't relevant is what got everyone baffled. Everyone understood that you didn't care where it was, you said you didn't. What was confusing was saying you wouldn't care if it was in Germany either.

They only way I'd be more excited for this would be if they resurrected Peter Cushing and got Tarkin in this film

They could have the guy they used in the background in Episode III.




edit: found this one Cushing's eikipedia page:

In late August 2015, it was reported that Cushing, who has been deceased for more than 20 years, would be digitally resurrected via CGI to appear in the role once again for Rogue One, the upcoming first movie from the Star Wars Anthology

Spoiler

I want this

I got this

This looks pretty cool, thanks for the tip.

me too thanks  😂🔫

Quote from: Nightrider on October 11, 2016, 11:56:34 AM

Quote from: Desty on October 11, 2016, 11:52:33 AM

Quote from: Nightrider on October 11, 2016, 10:06:28 AM

Quote from: Desty on October 11, 2016, 08:31:35 AM

Are you gonna let a brother in on this or what

It's not in Gävle.

Are you gonna tell me it's not in Germany too? The fuck do I care if it's not in Gävle?

Because you live there? I guess I could PM you some details if you want though.

Where'd ya get that idea? And please do. I've been trying to find this via google searches but I'm coming up dry.

Because you've said you lived there back when I did? But yeah I'll PM you

Great place to meet chicks. Usually lunch is catered and free. Probably gonna be a lot of fun if you're picked.

Even if lunch isn't free, the daily pay is more than enough to cover that. I'd mainly do it for fun.

What film?
What's the pay?

Don't know what film it is, pay is about 25€ per day.

You gon take this dick or nah?

Aside from normal extras they're actually looking for people who are willing to be naked on camera lol

There were a lot of things we couldn't do in an SR-71, but we were the fastest guys on the block and loved reminding our fellow aviators of this fact. People often asked us if, because of this fact, it was fun to fly the jet. Fun would not be the first word I would use to describe flying this plane. Intense, maybe. Even cerebral. But there was one day in our Sled experience when we would have to say that it was pure fun to be the fastest guys out there, at least for a moment.
It occurred when Walt and I were flying our final training sortie. We needed 100 hours in the jet to complete our training and attain Mission Ready status. Somewhere over Colorado we had passed the century mark. We had made the turn in Arizona and the jet was performing flawlessly. My gauges were wired in the front seat and we were starting to feel pretty good about ourselves, not only because we would soon be flying real missions but because we had gained a great deal of confidence in the plane in the past ten months. Ripping across the barren deserts 80,000 feet below us, I could already see the coast of California from the Arizona border. I was, finally, after many humbling months of simulators and study, ahead of the jet.
I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for Walter in the back seat. There he was, with no really good view of the incredible sights before us, tasked with monitoring four different radios. This was good practice for him for when we began flying real missions, when a priority transmission from headquarters could be vital. It had been difficult, too, for me to relinquish control of the radios, as during my entire flying career I had controlled my own transmissions. But it was part of the division of duties in this plane and I had adjusted to it. I still insisted on talking on the radio while we were on the ground, however. Walt was so good at many things, but he couldn't match my expertise at sounding smooth on the radios, a skill that had been honed sharply with years in fighter squadrons where the slightest radio miscue was grounds for beheading. He understood that and allowed me that luxury.
Just to get a sense of what Walt had to contend with, I pulled the radio toggle switches and monitored the frequencies along with him. The predominant radio chatter was from Los Angeles Center, far below us, controlling daily traffic in their sector. While they had us on their scope (albeit briefly), we were in uncontrolled airspace and normally would not talk to them unless we needed to descend into their airspace.
We listened as the shaky voice of a lone Cessna pilot asked Center for a readout of his ground speed. Center replied: "November Charlie 175, I'm showing you at ninety knots on the ground."
Now the thing to understand about Center controllers, was that whether they were talking to a rookie pilot in a Cessna, or to Air Force One, they always spoke in the exact same, calm, deep, professional, tone that made one feel important. I referred to it as the " Houston Center voice." I have always felt that after years of seeing documentaries on this country's space program and listening to the calm and distinct voice of the Houston controllers, that all other controllers since then wanted to sound like that, and that they basically did. And it didn't matter what sector of the country we would be flying in, it always seemed like the same guy was talking. Over the years that tone of voice had become somewhat of a comforting sound to pilots everywhere. Conversely, over the years, pilots always wanted to ensure that, when transmitting, they sounded like Chuck Yeager, or at least like John Wayne. Better to die than sound bad on the radios.
Just moments after the Cessna's inquiry, a Twin Beech piped up on frequency, in a rather superior tone, asking for his ground speed. "I have you at one hundred and twenty-five knots of ground speed." Boy, I thought, the Beechcraft really must think he is dazzling his Cessna brethren. Then out of the blue, a navy F-18 pilot out of NAS Lemoore came up on frequency. You knew right away it was a Navy jock because he sounded very cool on the radios. "Center, Dusty 52 ground speed check". Before Center could reply, I'm thinking to myself, hey, Dusty 52 has a ground speed indicator in that million-dollar cockpit, so why is he asking Center for a readout? Then I got it, ol' Dusty here is making sure that every bug smasher from Mount Whitney to the Mojave knows what true speed is. He's the fastest dude in the valley today, and he just wants everyone to know how much fun he is having in his new Hornet. And the reply, always with that same, calm, voice, with more distinct alliteration than emotion: "Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground."
And I thought to myself, is this a ripe situation, or what? As my hand instinctively reached for the mic button, I had to remind myself that Walt was in control of the radios. Still, I thought, it must be done - in mere seconds we'll be out of the sector and the opportunity will be lost. That Hornet must die, and die now. I thought about all of our Sim training and how important it was that we developed well as a crew and knew that to jump in on the radios now would destroy the integrity of all that we had worked toward becoming. I was torn.
Somewhere, 13 miles above Arizona, there was a pilot screaming inside his space helmet. Then, I heard it. The click of the mic button from the back seat. That was the very moment that I knew Walter and I had become a crew. Very professionally, and with no emotion, Walter spoke: "Los Angeles Center, Aspen 20, can you give us a ground speed check?" There was no hesitation, and the replay came as if was an everyday request. "Aspen 20, I show you at one thousand eight hundred and forty-two knots, across the ground."
I think it was the forty-two knots that I liked the best, so accurate and proud was Center to deliver that information without hesitation, and you just knew he was smiling. But the precise point at which I knew that Walt and I were going to be really good friends for a long time was when he keyed the mic once again to say, in his most fighter-pilot-like voice: "Ah, Center, much thanks, we're showing closer to nineteen hundred on the money."
For a moment Walter was a god. And we finally heard a little crack in the armor of the Houston Center voice, when L.A.came back with, "Roger that Aspen, Your equipment is probably more accurate than ours. You boys have a good one."
It all had lasted for just moments, but in that short, memorable sprint across the southwest, the Navy had been flamed, all mortal airplanes on freq were forced to bow before the King of Speed, and more importantly, Walter and I had crossed the threshold of being a crew. A fine day's work. We never heard another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast.
For just one day, it truly was fun being the fastest guys out there.