Old Swede

Yet more, from the Swede:

If you had the choice, what way would you like us humans to be rendered extinct?

Damn the man! That’s a better meme than mine.

Just for that, a joke about Swedes:

Once upon a time there was a young and recently-qualified commercial pilot, who got a job flying a Twin Otter floatplane around some big lakes somewhere in the North American continental landmass. He was told by his boss to go to a particular lake and thence to extract some moose hunters, who had been taken out there by his predecessor some time ago, together with their accoutrements and impedimenta.

Arriving at the lake, he discovered the moose hunters to be very big lads indeed, and by now accompanied by several dead moose and the dismantled components of several more, which had not been listed on the list of accoutrements and impedimenta for the outbound flight (logically enough).

As the hunters stuffed the well-made but smallish aircraft with tents, rifles, ammo boxes, portable abbatoirs and the corpses answerable thereunto and finally themselves, the pilot was considering matters of weight and balance.

“You know, boys,” he says, “I’m not sure I’m going to be able to take off on this little lake with all this stuff on board.”
“Goddam!” explains the largest hunter. “We did the exact same thing last year. Same guys, same gear; exact same kinda plane, too! Only that time, of course, we had old Swede flying us.”

The young pilot considers this.

“Right, no time to lose!” he exclaims, removing a moose’s head from the copilot’s seat and replacing it with the largest hunter (thus keeping the C of G well forward), upon whom he places a headset with a view to intimidating the fellow into silence, at least for the time being.

Floatplanes being unable to make braked takeoffs, he then mutters certain incantations known only to initiates and slams both throttles open.

The Twin Otter, a fine aircraft, gamely spools up its Pratt and Whitneys and duly takes off.

Unfortunately it does this having used up rather more of the lake than is prudent, and its path of climb intersects, with mathematical inexorability, the edge of an endless forest on the shore.

The wings come off first, then the tail; the fuselage, strongly-made, settles amongst the trees with a most melancholy series of sound-effects but fortunately only minor damage to its contents.

As it does so, the pilot hears the largest hunter yell into the intercom:

“Goddam! The exact same thing happened last year, with old Swede!”