delete me

[WSCT321]

wrong group

Edited May 19 by WSCT321
wrong group

[WSCT321]

whoops wrong group, how do I delete this post?

[SteveShannon]

You don’t. But get ready for a raft of shit.

[back4more70]

3 hours ago, jtjbt20x said:

wrong group

You presume that there is a right group

[BoxCar]

9 hours ago, back4more70 said:

You presume that there is a right group

or a left group??

[WRQC527]

4 hours ago, BoxCar said:

or a left group??

Two left groups don't make a right group. But three do.

[OffRoaderX]

This one time, at band camp, I found myself in a hell that only Xenu could punish me with: a gathering of licensed sad-H.A.M.s. I thought I was in for a fun-filled weeknd filled with music, but no, instead, I got stuck with a bunch of overgrown man-children playing with their glorified walkie-talkies.

From the moment I arrived, I knew I was in trouble. These guys, who were clearly incapable of any meaningful social interaction, swarmed the place like a plague of dorks. They had all the charm of a root canal and twice the ego. Imagine an army of Sheldons from The Big Bang Theory, but without any of the redeeming qualities or comedic timing. That’s what I was up against.

It all started innocently enough. I was trying to enjoy the campfire when a group of them descended on me. They were babbling in a language that was a mix of Klingon and technobabble, discussing radio frequencies and antenna designs as if they were secrets to eternal life. Their leader, a guy I’ll call Bob because he looked like every Bob you’ve ever met, decided he needed to “educate” me on the wonders of ham radio. I swear, if he had a ham-radio-shaped soapbox, he would have stood on it.

“Yo! Bob,” I said, “what’s the frequency for tuning into some good music?” It was a joke, a simple, harmless joke. But Bob, with all the wit and humor of a malfunctioning robot, started giving me a lecture on frequency bands and how important it is to get a license - he must have said "i've been a licensed ham-radio operator for over 25 years" over 20 times.

Every time I tried to engage in normal human-conversation, it was like talking to a brick wall. A brick wall that talked back, but only to explain in excruciating detail why you were wrong about everything. These guys couldn’t recognize sarcasm if it slapped them in the face and called them stupid. I tried to make a joke about their radios being a way to compensate for something, but they just nodded seriously and started discussing the size of their antennas. I kid you not.

The other operators were no better. They were like drones, each waiting for their turn to speak about their precious radios, completely unaware that no one else cared. Conversations were like passing around a hot potato, except the potato was a steaming pile of boredom, and no one wanted to let go of it. It was mind-numbing.

One night, after enduring yet another lecture from Bob about the superiority of Morse code, I lost it. I stood up and said, “Look, I get that you guys are into this stuff, but I came here to relax, not to join your cult. Can we, for the love of Xenu, talk about something else for five minutes?”

They stared at me like I had just spoken in tongues. Then, Bob, with his usual cluelessness, said, “But amateur radio is the best way to relax! You just haven’t experienced it properly yet. You should get your ham ticket!”

At that moment, I fantasized about using Bob’s radio as a blunt instrument. Instead, I walked away, muttering curses under my breath. I retreated to my tent, trying to block out the sound of their droning voices and the endless beeping of Morse code. I couldn’t believe I had paid to be in this dork-fest.

As the days dragged on, I learned to tune them out. I found solace in the woods, away from the incessant chatter and the constant hum of their radios. I survived band camp, but just barely. I walked away with a story that would make for great campfire tales, but also a newfound appreciation for the blissful silence of solitude.

In the end, I was not assimilated, and thank Xenu for that. I escaped with my sanity mostly intact, but I knew one thing for sure: never again would I underestimate the sheer, unrelenting boredom that comes with a bunch of licensed sad-hams. 

[WSAM454]

 

so.... you were in the wrong group?

[WRQC527]

1 hour ago, OffRoaderX said:

This one time, at band camp, I found myself in a hell that only Xenu could punish me with: a gathering of licensed sad-H.A.M.s. I thought I was in for a fun-filled weeknd filled with music, but no, instead, I got stuck with a bunch of overgrown man-children playing with their glorified walkie-talkies.

From the moment I arrived, I knew I was in trouble. These guys, who were clearly incapable of any meaningful social interaction, swarmed the place like a plague of dorks. They had all the charm of a root canal and twice the ego. Imagine an army of Sheldons from The Big Bang Theory, but without any of the redeeming qualities or comedic timing. That’s what I was up against.

It all started innocently enough. I was trying to enjoy the campfire when a group of them descended on me. They were babbling in a language that was a mix of Klingon and technobabble, discussing radio frequencies and antenna designs as if they were secrets to eternal life. Their leader, a guy I’ll call Bob because he looked like every Bob you’ve ever met, decided he needed to “educate” me on the wonders of ham radio. I swear, if he had a ham-radio-shaped soapbox, he would have stood on it.

“Yo! Bob,” I said, “what’s the frequency for tuning into some good music?” It was a joke, a simple, harmless joke. But Bob, with all the wit and humor of a malfunctioning robot, started giving me a lecture on frequency bands and how important it is to get a license - he must have said "i've been a licensed ham-radio operator for over 25 years" over 20 times.

Every time I tried to engage in normal human-conversation, it was like talking to a brick wall. A brick wall that talked back, but only to explain in excruciating detail why you were wrong about everything. These guys couldn’t recognize sarcasm if it slapped them in the face and called them stupid. I tried to make a joke about their radios being a way to compensate for something, but they just nodded seriously and started discussing the size of their antennas. I kid you not.

The other operators were no better. They were like drones, each waiting for their turn to speak about their precious radios, completely unaware that no one else cared. Conversations were like passing around a hot potato, except the potato was a steaming pile of boredom, and no one wanted to let go of it. It was mind-numbing.

One night, after enduring yet another lecture from Bob about the superiority of Morse code, I lost it. I stood up and said, “Look, I get that you guys are into this stuff, but I came here to relax, not to join your cult. Can we, for the love of Xenu, talk about something else for five minutes?”

They stared at me like I had just spoken in tongues. Then, Bob, with his usual cluelessness, said, “But amateur radio is the best way to relax! You just haven’t experienced it properly yet. You should get your ham ticket!”

At that moment, I fantasized about using Bob’s radio as a blunt instrument. Instead, I walked away, muttering curses under my breath. I retreated to my tent, trying to block out the sound of their droning voices and the endless beeping of Morse code. I couldn’t believe I had paid to be in this dork-fest.

As the days dragged on, I learned to tune them out. I found solace in the woods, away from the incessant chatter and the constant hum of their radios. I survived band camp, but just barely. I walked away with a story that would make for great campfire tales, but also a newfound appreciation for the blissful silence of solitude.

In the end, I was not assimilated, and thank Xenu for that. I escaped with my sanity mostly intact, but I knew one thing for sure: never again would I underestimate the sheer, unrelenting boredom that comes with a bunch of licensed sad-hams. 

[back4more70]

1 hour ago, OffRoaderX said:

This one time, at band camp,

This could be your best video yet

[Jaay]

On 5/19/2024 at 2:26 PM, OffRoaderX said:

This one time, at band camp, I found myself in a hell that only Xenu could punish me with: a gathering of licensed sad-H.A.M.s. I thought I was in for a fun-filled weeknd filled with music, but no, instead, I got stuck with a bunch of overgrown man-children playing with their glorified walkie-talkies.

From the moment I arrived, I knew I was in trouble. These guys, who were clearly incapable of any meaningful social interaction, swarmed the place like a plague of dorks. They had all the charm of a root canal and twice the ego. Imagine an army of Sheldons from The Big Bang Theory, but without any of the redeeming qualities or comedic timing. That’s what I was up against.

It all started innocently enough. I was trying to enjoy the campfire when a group of them descended on me. They were babbling in a language that was a mix of Klingon and technobabble, discussing radio frequencies and antenna designs as if they were secrets to eternal life. Their leader, a guy I’ll call Bob because he looked like every Bob you’ve ever met, decided he needed to “educate” me on the wonders of ham radio. I swear, if he had a ham-radio-shaped soapbox, he would have stood on it.

“Yo! Bob,” I said, “what’s the frequency for tuning into some good music?” It was a joke, a simple, harmless joke. But Bob, with all the wit and humor of a malfunctioning robot, started giving me a lecture on frequency bands and how important it is to get a license - he must have said "i've been a licensed ham-radio operator for over 25 years" over 20 times.

Every time I tried to engage in normal human-conversation, it was like talking to a brick wall. A brick wall that talked back, but only to explain in excruciating detail why you were wrong about everything. These guys couldn’t recognize sarcasm if it slapped them in the face and called them stupid. I tried to make a joke about their radios being a way to compensate for something, but they just nodded seriously and started discussing the size of their antennas. I kid you not.

The other operators were no better. They were like drones, each waiting for their turn to speak about their precious radios, completely unaware that no one else cared. Conversations were like passing around a hot potato, except the potato was a steaming pile of boredom, and no one wanted to let go of it. It was mind-numbing.

One night, after enduring yet another lecture from Bob about the superiority of Morse code, I lost it. I stood up and said, “Look, I get that you guys are into this stuff, but I came here to relax, not to join your cult. Can we, for the love of Xenu, talk about something else for five minutes?”

They stared at me like I had just spoken in tongues. Then, Bob, with his usual cluelessness, said, “But amateur radio is the best way to relax! You just haven’t experienced it properly yet. You should get your ham ticket!”

At that moment, I fantasized about using Bob’s radio as a blunt instrument. Instead, I walked away, muttering curses under my breath. I retreated to my tent, trying to block out the sound of their droning voices and the endless beeping of Morse code. I couldn’t believe I had paid to be in this dork-fest.

As the days dragged on, I learned to tune them out. I found solace in the woods, away from the incessant chatter and the constant hum of their radios. I survived band camp, but just barely. I walked away with a story that would make for great campfire tales, but also a newfound appreciation for the blissful silence of solitude.

In the end, I was not assimilated, and thank Xenu for that. I escaped with my sanity mostly intact, but I knew one thing for sure: never again would I underestimate the sheer, unrelenting boredom that comes with a bunch of licensed sad-hams. 

You went to the Wrong band camp !

[H8SPVMT]

PLEASE, someone find his meds.... and administer a double dose!

Bob