Okay, give.
I have read that in the F4U it was due to the air inlets on the leading edge of the wings. The Japanese facing it called it ‘Whistling Death.’ It’s not as loud as the Ju-88.
It always makes me think of Eddie Izzard’s Star Wars Canteen bit. “This is not a game of who the fuck are you.”
Also in the “Every Sperm is Sacred” portion of The Meaning of Life.
The SBD had dive brakes on its wings, as did the A-36 Apache (the dive-bomber variant of the P-51).
Cousin Buster was elderly and retired and liked to keep up his little garden. He worked in it nearly every day. He took the shovels and rakes and implements of destruction out to it in a wheelbarrow. He’d also take along something to drink and a snack. He’d work until he was tired, then he’d set the wheelbarrow upright to give himself some shade, and he’d sit in it to have a little rest.
One day, it got to be dinnertime, and the neighbors looking through their kitchen window noticed that he was still napping. They went over to check and he had passed away.
I’ve never been sure about the next part of the story. This happened in Oregon, and the story had been repeated through a number of people before it got to me.
The story is that when the ambulance or pickup van came, the gurney couldn’t get down the gravel pathway to the garden. The story is that they trundled him down to the curb in the wheelbarrow. That might have been embellishment.
His wife, Doris, would not have objected. She wouldn’t have objected to adding it to the story either, though. So I’ll never really know.
But has that trope happened in a movie after about 1930?
Dumbo, 1941?
Should children’s movies be excluded from this consideration, given that extremely antiquated tropes get recycled in them, long after their best before-date? I don’t know.
I come from a long line of story-tellers. If you get 80% true in one, that’s doing pretty good.
That’s a great story. Thanks for sharing. I’d like to leave like that (and wouldn’t mind about the wheelbarrow).
It was my father’s favorite family story, even if it was from Mom’s side of the family. He thought of it as the perfect way to go - including the wheelbarrow.
I come from a practical people.
When said to an airport airline helpdesk operative who could not get said demanding twerp onto a full plane; she picks up the mike and broadcasts:
“We have a gentlemen here who does not know who he is! Will his carer please step forward!”.
Just watched that clip on YT, thanks! It was hilarious. They beat him with a xylophone.
Hopping threads to ask…do any farmers actually go by “Farmer [Lastname]”?
I’ll bet if someone called him “Farmer Brown”, he’d ask “So, city boy, whatchoo tryin’ to sell me?”
(Same if they rang the doorbell on the front door, instead of knocking on the back door like decent folk do)
Some chefs get called ‘Chef firstname’.
Nurses are called ‘Nurse Lastname’.
A variant of “don’t you know who I am” happened at the art store where I worked. Just after the manager locked the doors they loudly thump. I look over but there’s nothing. Manager goes out a side exit to look around while I close out the registers.
Turns out a pompous lawyer had plowed right into the locked doors assuming we were still open. He angrily accused us of closing valuable minutes too early saying “I bill out at $400 an hour!” 
The doors opened outward, BTW.
I have had, “Don’t you know who I am?” in real life. I’ve done it.
My local sports bar, where I’m a regular. Hell, I’m more than a regular; I’m there so often, that I’m sure that I pay the light bill and/or the phone bill monthly. I once received mail there, the sender not knowing where else to send it. Anyway, I’m in my usual place at the bar. My beer is in front of me on the bar, my coat is on the back of the barstool. I head for the washroom. When I come back, about three yahoos have occupied my barstool, and the two barstools either side.
“Excuse me, that’s my seat,” I said politely.
“Fuck you, we’re here now. Take off.”
“I don’t think so. That’s my beer,” I pointed, “and that’s my coat,” I pointed again.
“Yeah, well, I know the owner, and he said this was fine.”
“Do you know who I am?” I asked.
“You’re just some asshole. My buddy owns this place.”
“Is that so? Rob?” I called over Rob the owner, who was a personal friend. “You know these guys?”
“Never seen them before,” Rob said. “They giving you trouble?”
“Yeah.”
Rob hollered for the bouncer who escorted the guys out. Once they were gone, Rob said to me, “They obviously didn’t know who you were.”
Great story, thanks for sharing!
[quasi-zombie reply]
But deserts can have Dry quicksand which can be almost as bad if not worse (since you cannot float on the dry kind).
I note from the Wikipedia page you cite that
It sounds as if upwelling air takes the place of upwelling water in “dry quicksand”, and I have to think that’s a pretty uncommon circumstance. I’m surprised to learn that it occurs at all.
If pressed, I would have guessed that “dry quicksand” would be the outcome of incredibly fine-grained sand. which can practically flow. I once worked in a factory making refractory cement, and the stuff was so finely ground that it was like this. Instead of piling up it tended to flow into thin layers. The damned stuff got everywhere, including into your breathing mask. I had to take two baths after I got home. I don’t know how the stuff would react in bulk, but I suspect if you got into a deep deposit of anything like this you wouldn’t need the air or water welling up from underneath. The saving grace is that such finely ground stuff is probably rare in nature.
(Although – who knows? – may it’d be like fine corn starch, acting as a thixotropic fluid.)