My relationship with drones oscillates between two states: hatred and extreme hatred. I consider that drone shooting should be an Olympic sport, I don't see any need why people incapable of driving inside a single lane with their cars should be allowed to pilot small planes over our heads, and I think that, as a rule, if you need to fly a drone at night you can't possibly be doing anything good.

What we know so far from the Biden Administration on the Defense issue is a compelling reason to be very concerned.
My hatred for these things was forged last year, when a friend asked me to help him find his damn drone, which had fallen in the middle of a dense forest, on an abandoned farm of about 300 square meters, completely covered with all the bushes in the world, to which God gave the privilege of having the sharpest spikes to protect them from predators, and idiots looking for drones.
Under a full sun, it was summer, my friend and I combed every corner of the farm, with no more help than that provided by a couple of wooden sticks to make our way. My friend considers the field to be somewhat too messy and dirty, and his approach to the brambles and gorse was only circling and superficial, however much he kept leading from afar like a hot-blooded trainer. But, at the same time, he wasn't willing to give in either. He wanted his drone. And he pouted at me, as if he had suddenly regressed all of a sudden to the age of an infant.
So I, who have a short fuse, decided to go through each and every one of the dense clouds of brambles with my shorts and my summer shirt looking for the damn drone, with the intention of finding it at once and at any cost. But it didn't show up. What did show up was the moon, which became night at the opposite end of the farm from the exit to the road, and I wandered for minutes that seemed like hours between scratches, expletives, and the occasional flying stick angrily aimed at where I calculated my friend's head would be in the middle of the g...