Suckas be thinkin' they can supplant the greatest Opposite-poppin'-and-lockin' story of all time. OF ALL TIME! I be all like "Nyuh-UH!"

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Da Illest Ground Speed Peep - Talez from tha Blackbird

I don't give a fuck of any ludicrous speedin tickets so I can't participate up in todizzlez QOTD yo, but it did remind mah crazy ass of mah straight-up SR-71 story.

This be a expanded excerpt from Brian Schulz book Sled Driver : Flyin tha Worldz Fastest Jet.(which happens ta be outta print n' ludicrously high-rollin' now, I wish I had looted a cold-ass lil copy when I could have afforded it).

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There was a shitload of thangs we couldn't do up in a SR-71 yo, but we was tha fastest muthafuckas on tha block n' loved remindin our fellow aviatorz of dis fact. Muthafuckas often axed our asses if, cuz of dis fact, dat shiznit was funk ta fly tha jet. Fun would not be tha straight-up original gangsta word I would use ta describe flyin dis plane. Intense, maybe. Even cerebral. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. But there was one dizzle up in our Sled experience when we would gotta say dat dat shiznit was pure funk ta be tha fastest muthafuckas up there, at least fo' a moment.

It occurred when Walt n' I was flyin our final hustlin sortie. We needed 100 minutes up in tha jet ta complete our hustlin n' attain Mission Locked N Loaded status. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Somewhere over Colorado our crazy asses had passed tha century mark. Our thugged-out asses had made tha turn up in Arizona n' tha jet was struttin flawlessly. My fuckin gauges was wired up in tha front seat n' we was startin ta feel pretty phat bout ourselves, not only cuz we would soon be flyin real missions but cuz our crazy asses had gained a pimped out deal of confidence up in tha plane up in tha past ten months. Rippin across tha barren deserts 80,000 feet below us, I could already peep tha coast of California from tha Arizona border n' shit. I was, finally, afta nuff humblin monthz of simulators n' study, ahead of tha jet.

I was beginnin ta feel a lil' bit sorry fo' Walta up in tha back seat. There da thug was, wit no straight-up phat view of tha incredible sights before us, taxed wit monitorin four different radios. This was phat practice fo' his ass fo' when we fuckin started flyin real missions, when a prioritizzle transmission from headquartas could be vital. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack. Well shiiiit, it had been difficult, too, fo' me ta relinquish control of tha radios, as durin mah entire flyin game I had controlled mah own transmissions. But dat shiznit was part of tha division of dutizzles up in dis plane n' I had adjusted ta dat shit. I still insisted on rappin' on tha radio while we was on tha ground, however n' shit. Walt was so phat at nuff thangs yo, but his schmoooove ass couldn't match mah expertise at soundin smooth on tha radios, a skill dat had been honed sharply wit muthafuckin years up in fighta squadrons where tha slightest radio miscue was groundz fo' beheadin yo. Dude understood dat n' allowed mah crazy ass dat luxury.

Just ta git a sense of what tha fuck Walt had ta contend with, I pulled tha radio toggle switches n' monitored tha frequencies along wit his muthafuckin ass. Da predominant radio chatta was from Los Angelez Center, far below us, controllin everyday traffic up in they sector. Shiiit, dis aint no joke. While they had our asses on they scope (albeit briefly), we was up in uncontrolled airspace n' normally would not rap ta dem unless we needed ta descend tha fuck into they airspace.

We listened as tha shaky voice of a lone Cessna pilot axed Centa fo' a readout of his wild lil' freakadelic ground speed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Centa replied: "November Charlie 175, I be showin you at ninety knots on tha ground."

Now tha thang ta KNOW bout Centa controllers, was dat whether they was rappin' ta a rookie pilot up in a Cessna, or ta Air Force One, they always was rappin up in tha exact same, calm, deep, professional, tone dat made one feel blingin. I referred ta it as tha " Houston Centa voice." I have always felt dat afta muthafuckin yearz of seein documentaries on dis ghettoz space program n' listenin ta tha calm n' distinct voice of tha Houston controllers, dat all other controllaz since then wanted ta sound like that, n' dat they basically done did. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! And it didn't matta what tha fuck sector of tha ghetto we would be flyin in, it always seemed like tha same muthafucka was rappin'. Over tha muthafuckin years dat tone of voice had become somewhat of a cold-ass lil comfortin sound ta pilots everywhere, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. Conversely, over tha years, pilots always wanted ta ensure that, when transmitting, they sounded like Chuck Yeager, or at least like Jizzy Weezy. Betta ta take a thugged-out dirtnap than sound wack on tha radios.

Just moments afta tha Cessnaz inquiry, a Twin Beech piped up on frequency, up in a rather superior tone, askin fo' his wild lil' freakadelic ground speed. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! "I have you at one hundred n' twenty-five knotz of ground speed." Boy, I thought, tha Beechcraft straight-up must be thinkin he is dazzlin his Cessna brethren. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Then outta tha blue, a navy F-18 pilot outta NAS Lemoore came up on frequency. Yo ass knew right away dat shiznit was a Navy jock cuz da perved-out muthafucka sounded straight-up def on tha radios. "Center, Dusty 52 ground speed check". Before Centa could reply, I be thankin ta mah dirty ass, hey, Dusty 52 has a ground speed indicator up in dat million-dollar cockpit, so why is he askin Centa fo' a readout, biatch? Then I gots it, ol' Dusty here is makin shizzle dat every last muthafuckin bug smasher from Mount Whitney ta tha Mojave knows what tha fuck legit speed is. Dat punk tha fastest dude up in tha valley todizzle, n' he just wants mah playas ta know how tha fuck much funk he is havin up in his freshly smoked up Hornet fo' realz. And tha reply, always wit dat same, calm, voice, wit mo' distinct alliteration than emotion: "Dusty 52, Center, our crazy asses have you at 620 on tha ground."

And I thought ta mah dirty ass, is dis a ripe thang, or what, biatch? As mah hand instinctively reached fo' tha mic button, I had ta remind mah dirty ass dat Walt was up in control of tha radios. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Still, I thought, it must be done - up in mere secondz we'll be outta tha sector n' tha opportunitizzle is ghon be lost. That Hornet must die, n' take a thugged-out dirtnap now, nahmeean?. n' you KNOWS bout all of our Sim hustlin n' how tha fuck blingin dat shiznit was dat our phat asses pimped well as a cold-ass lil crew n' knew dat ta jump up in on tha radios now would destroy tha integritizzle of all dat our crazy asses had hit dat shiznit toward becoming. I was torn.

Somewhere, 13 milez above Arizona, there was a pilot beatboxin inside his space helmet. Then, I heard dat shit. Da click of tha mic button from tha back seat. That was tha straight-up moment dat I knew Walta n' I had become a cold-ass lil crew. Straight-up professionally, n' wit no emotion, Walta spoke: "Los Angelez Center, Aspen 20, can you give our asses a ground speed check?" There was no hesitation, n' tha replay came as if was a everydizzle request. "Aspen 20, I show you at one thousand eight hundred n' forty-two knots, across tha ground."

Yo ass KNOW dat shiznit was tha forty-two knots dat I was horny bout tha best, so accurate n' proud as a muthafucka was Centa ta serve up dat shiznit without hesitation, n' you just knew da thug was smiling. But tha precise point at which I knew dat Walt n' I was goin ta be straight-up phat playaz fo' a long-ass time was when he keyed tha mic once again n' again n' again ta say, up in his crazy-ass most fighter-pilot-like voice: "Ah, Center, much props, we showin closer ta nineteen hundred on tha scrilla."

For a moment Walta was a god. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! And we finally heard a lil crack up in tha armor of tha Houston Centa voice, when L.A.came back with, "Roger dat Aspen, Yo crazy-ass shiznit is probably mo' accurate than ours. Yo ass thugs gotz a phat one."

It all had lasted fo' just moments yo, but up in dat short, trippy sprint across tha southwest, tha Navy had been flamed, all mortal airplanes on freq was forced ta bow before tha Mackdaddy of Speed, n' mo' blinginly, Walta n' I had crossed tha threshold of bein a cold-ass lil crew fo' realz. A fine dayz work. We never heard another transmission on dat frequency all tha way ta tha coast.

For just one day, it truly was funk bein tha fastest muthafuckas up there.