What does God fly?

Beautiful. That and what Jim wrote. Makes me glad I logged on tonight.
Some old friends and I have a grass-strip fly in this weekend, and it'll be
my last day in the syndicate as time and distance have made it uneconomical
to stay in the group. I think I'll take this along and recite it to the
assembled brethren (and sistren) after the flying day is done, the sun has
set, the loves of our lives have been tied down for the night, and a few
pints have passed the lips. I think they'll appreciate it.

Shawn
PS - God flies a Pitts, and, once again, so does Curtis. :-)

"N93332" wrote in message
...
"Jim Burns" wrote in message
...
Oh, well, I forgot to mention...
by that time the last suite at the world renown Alexis Park Inn and
Suites
will be finished. A little purple neon sign (shaped like a well known
Cherokee Pathfinder) will adorn a little cloud advertising the famous
resort, which has magically been relocated to the North 40 of OSH.

You and Mary will spend your afternoons basking in the sun while reclined
in
Barcaloungers out near the edge of Rwy 9/27 watching the never ending
arrivals and departures of the worlds most historic and famous airplanes
and
their captains.

In heaven, beer will have no effect on your piloting ability, so when
your
famous guests arrive for an evening of great food, fine beer, and
outrageous
lies, a quick flight or command performance by the offender will always
be
expected.

Found this:

I hope there's a place, way up in the sky,
Where pilots can go, when they have to die.
A place where a guy can buy a cold beer
For friend and a comrade, whose memory is dear.

A place where no doctor or lawyer can tread,
Nor a management type would ere be caught dead;
Just a quaint little place, full of good cheer,
Where they like to sing loud, and sip on a cold beer;
The kind of a place where a lady could go
And feel safe and protected, by the men she would know.

There must be a place where old pilots go,
When their paining is finished, and their airspeed gets low,
Where the whiskey is old, and the women are young,
And songs about flying and dying are sung,
Where you'd see all the fellows who'd flown West before,
And they'd call out your name, as you came through the door.
Who would buy you a drink, if your thirst should be bad,
And relate to the others, "He was quite a good lad!"

And then through the mist, you'd spot an old guy
You had not seen in years, though he taught you to fly.
He'd nod his old head, and grin ear to ear;
And say, "Welcome, my son, I'm pleased that you're here."

"For this is the place where true flyers come,
When their journey is over, and the war has been won."
"They've come here at last to be safe and alone
From the government clerks and the management clone."
"Politicians and lawyers, the Feds and the noise."
"Where all hours are happy, and these ole boys
Can relax with a cool one, and a well deserved rest."
"This is heaven, my son ... You've passed your last test!"