Date: Mon, 4 Jun 2001 09:51:55 -0400 (EDT)
Subject: humor:  puppy humor

How To Photograph A New Puppy

1. Remove film from box and load camera

2. Remove film box from puppy's mouth and throw in trash

3. Remove puppy from trash and brush coffee grounds from muzzle

4. Choose a suitable background for photo

5. Mount camera on tripod and focus

6. Find puppy and take dirty sock from mouth

7. Place puppy in pre-focused spot and return to camera

8. Forget about spot and crawl after puppy on knees

9. Focus with one hand and fend off puppy with other hand

10. Get tissue and clean nose print from lens

11. Take flash cube from puppy's mouth and throw in trash

12. Put cat outside and put peroxide on the scratch on puppy's nose

13. Put magazines back on coffee table

14. Try to get puppy's attention by squeaking toy over your head

15. Replace your glasses and check camera for damage

16. Jump up in time to grab puppy by scruff of neck and say, "No,
outside!  No, outside!"

17. Call spouse to clean up mess

18. Fix a drink

19. Sit back in Lazy Boy with drink and resolve to teach puppy "sit" and
"stay" the first thing in the morning

Date: Tue, 5 Jun 2001 09:51:55 -0400 (EDT)
Subject: humor:  QOTD

  "A domineering man married a mere wisp of a girl. He came back from his 
honeymoon a chastened man. He'd become aware of the will of the wisp." 

Date: Wed, 6 Jun 2001 08:25:29 -0400 (EDT)
Subject: humor:  More Statistics on Christmas

++++++++ From the Australian Bureau of Statistics

* 3 people die each year testing if a 9V battery works on their tongue.

* 142 people were injured in 1998 by not removing all the pins from new 
shirts.

* 58 people are injured each year by using sharp knives instead of 
screwdrivers.

* 31 people have died since 1996 by watering their Christmas tree while
the fairy lights were plugged in.

* 19 people have died in the last 3 years by eating Christmas decorations
they believed were chocolate.

* 4 broken arms were reported last year after cracker pulling incidents.

* 101 people since 1997 have had to have broken parts of plastic toys
pulled out of the soles of their feet.

* 18 people had serious burns in 1998 trying on a new jumper with a
lighted cigarette in their mouth.

* 543 people were admitted to casualty in the last two years after opening
bottles of beer with their teeth or eye socket.

* 5 people were injured last year in accidents involving out of control
Scalextric cars. (slot cars)

Date: Thu, 7 Jun 2001 15:12:50 -0400 (EDT)
Subject: humor:  .sig OTD

  The Phoenicians were not great philosophers... they pondered the simpler 
questions, like "If I stick this spear in you, can I take your stuff?", 
"Do you have relatives that would be mad if I took your stuff?", and "Can
my relatives beat up your relatives?"

Doug Robarchek

Date: Fri, 8 Jun 2001 10:20:21 -0400 (EDT)
Subject: humor:  Bumper Sticker

"Suburbia: where they tear down the all of trees, and pave it over with
streets named after them..."

Date: Mon, 11 Jun 2001 08:59:24 -0400 (EDT)
Subject: humor:  Bring Your Parent To Work Day

  A grade school teacher was asking his pupils what their parents did for
a living. "Tim, you be first. What does your mother do all day?"

  Tim stood up and proudly said, "She's a doctor."

  "That's wonderful. How about you, Amy?"

  Amy shyly stood up, scuffed her feet and said, "My father is a mailman."

  "Thank you, Amy" said the teacher. "What does your parent do, Billy?"

  Billy proudly stood up and announced, "My daddy plays piano in a 
whorehouse."

  The teacher was aghast and went to Billy's house and rang the
bell. Billy's father answered the door. The teacher explained what his son 
had said and demanded an explanation.

  Billy's dad said, "I'm actually a system programmer specializing in 
TCP/IP communication protocol on UNIX systems. How can I explain a thing
like that to a seven-year-old?"

Date: Tue, 12 Jun 2001 09:33:53 -0400 (EDT)
Subject: humor:  bumper sticker OTD 
 
in honor of the VA primaries today... they expect less than 3 percent of
the registered voters (they never advertised the primaries), but have 4
people running for Attorney General and 3 for Lt Governor... so whomever
gets the primary will probably do so with around 1 percent of the 
registered voters... hence, from the Keynoter:

  "I dont approve of political jokes. I've seen too many of them get
elected."

 
Date: Thu, 14 Jun 2001 09:21:07 -0400 (EDT)
Subject: humor: Religions


*QUESTION: How many church people does it take to change a lightbulb?
 
Charismatics: Only one. Hands are already in the air.
 
Roman Catholics: None. They use candles.
 
Pentecostals: Ten. One to change the light bulb, and nine to pray against
the spirit of darkness.
 
Presbyterians: None. God has predestined when the lights will be on and
off.
 
Episcopalians: Eight. One to call the electrician, and seven to say how
much better they liked the old bulb.
 
Mormons: Five. One man to change the bulb, and four wives to tell him how
to do it.
 
Unitarians: We chose not to make a statement either in favor of or against
the light bulb. However, if you have found in your own journey that light
bulbs work for you, that is fine. You are invited to write a poem or
compose a modern dance about your personal relationship with your light
bulb and present it next month at our annual light bulb Sunday service
in which we will explore a number of light bulb traditions, including
incandescent, fluorescent, three-way, long-life, and tinted, all of which
are equally valid paths to luminescence.
 
Baptists: At least fifteen. One to change the light bulb, and two or three
committees to approve the change. Oh, and also a casserole.
 
Lutherans: None. Lutherans don't believe in change.
 
Methodists: A whole congregation. One to change the light bulb, and the
rest of the congregation to be sure that he doesn't backslide.
 

Date: Fri, 15 Jun 2001 08:34:10 -0400 (EDT)
Subject: humor:  test taking...

  A not necessarily well-prepared student sat in his life science
classroom, staring at a question on the final exam paper. The question 
directed: "Give four advantages of breast milk. "What to write?  He
sighed, and began to scribble whatever came into his head, hoping for the
best: 

1.  No need to boil.                                                            
2.  Never goes sour.                                                            
3.  Available whenever necessary.                                               

  So far so good........maybe.  But the exam demanded a fourth answer. 

  Again, what to write?
                                                                                
  Once more, he sighed.  He frowned.  He scowled, then sighed
again. Suddenly, he brightened.  He grabbed his pen, and triumphantly, he
scribbled his definitive answer:                               

4.  Available in attractive containers of varying sizes.                        
                                                                                
He received an A.           

Date: Mon, 18 Jun 2001 13:48:52 -0400 (EDT)
Subject: humor:  Sister Marlena

  Sister Marlena entered the Monastery of Silence and the Abbot said, 
"Sister, this is a silent monastery. You are welcome here as long as you 
like, but you may not speak until I direct you to do so."

  Sister Marlena lived in the monastery for 5 years before the Abbot said 
to her, "Sister Marlena, you have been here for 5 years. You can speak two
words." Sister Marlena said, "Hard bed." "I'm sorry to hear that," the
Abbot said, "We will get you a better bed."

  After another 5 years, Sister Marlena was called by the Abbot. "You may 
say another two words, Sister Marlena." "Cold food," said Sister Marlena,
and the Abbott assured her that the food would be better in the future.

  On her 15th anniversary at the monastery, the Abbott again called Sister 
Marlena into his office. "Two words you may say today." "I quit," said
Sister Marlena. "It is probably best," said the Abbott. "You've done
nothing but bitch since you got here."

Date: Tue, 19 Jun 2001 09:03:08 -0400 (EDT)
Subject: humor:  slightly revised...

from my brother... :)

-----

Are you tired of all those mushy "friendship" poems that always sound good
but never actually come close to reality? Well, here is a 
"friendship" poem that really speaks to true friendship and truth itself.

Friend,

  When you are sad... I will get you drunk and help you plot revenge 
against the sorry bastard who made you sad.

  When you are blue... I'll try to dislodge whatever is choking you.

  When you smile... I'll know you finally got laid.

  When you are scared... I will rag you about it every chance I get.

  When you are worried... I will tell you horrible stories about how much
worse it could be and to quit whining.

  When you are confused... I will use little words to explain it to your
dumb ass.

  When you are sick ... stay away from me until you're well again. I don't
want what you have.

  When you fall... I will point and laugh at your clumsy ass.

  This is my oath,... I pledge to you 'till the end.
      
*    Why you may ask?
*    Because you're my friend.

  Send this poem to ten of your closest friends and get depressed because
you realize you only have 2 friends, and one of them is not speaking to
you right now anyway.

PS: A friend will help you move. A really good friend will help you move a
body...

PPS: You don't have to send this to anyone...

Date: Wed, 20 Jun 2001 09:19:57 -0400 (EDT)
Subject: humor:  QOTD

  "The real reason large families benefit society is because at least a
few of the children in the world shouldn't be raised by beginners." 

Date: Thu, 21 Jun 2001 08:52:13 -0400 (EDT)
Subject: humor:  comparisons of the military branches

  In an effort to ensure proper training and readiness among the military
services, Congress has approved the following changes to basic principles
of recruit training: 

Haircuts 

Marines: Heads will be shaved. 
Army: Stylish flat-top's for all recruits. 
Navy: No haircut standard. 
Air Force: Complete makeovers as seen on the Jenny Jones show. 

Training Hours: 

Marines: Reveille at 0500, train until 2000. 
Army: Reveille at 0600, train until 1900. 
Navy: Get out of bed at 0900, train until 1100, lunch until 1300, train
until 1600. 
Air Force: 
Awaken at 1000, breakfast in bed, train from 1100 to 1200, lunch at 1200,
train from 1300 to 1400, nap at 1400, awaken from nap at 1500, training
ceases at 1500.

Meals: 

Marines: Meals, Ready-to-Eat 3 times a day. 
Army: One hot meal, 2 MRE's. 
Navy: 3 hot meals. 
Air Force: Catered meals prepared by the Galloping Gourmet, Julia Child,
and Wolfgang Puck and Emeril Lagasse. All you can eat.

Leave And Liberty: 

Marines: None. 
Army: 4 hours a week. 
Navy: 2 days a week. 
Air Force: For every four hours of training, recruits will receive eight
hours of leave and liberty. 

Protocol: 

Marines: Will address all officers as "Sir," and refer to the rank of all
enlisted members when speaking to them (i.e., Sgt.  Smith). 
Army: Will address all officers as "Sir," unless they are friends, and
will call all enlisted personnel  "Sarge." 
Navy: Will address all officers as "Skipper," and all enlisted personnel
as "Chief." 
Air Force: All Air Force personnel shall be on a first name basis with
each other. 

Decorations/Awards: 

Marines: Medals and badges are awarded for acts of gallantry and bravery
only. 
Army: Medals and badges are awarded for every bullet fired, hand grenade
thrown, fitness test passed, and bed made. 
Navy: Will have ships' engineers make medals for them as desired. 
Air Force: Will be issued all medals and badges, as they will most likely
be awarded them at some point early in their careers anyway. 

Camouflage Uniforms: 

Marines: Work uniform, to be worn only during training and in field 
situations. 
Army: Will wear it anytime, anywhere. 
Navy: Will not wear camouflage uniforms, they do not camouflage you on a
ship.  (Ship Captains will make every effort to attempt to explain this to
sailors.) 
Air Force: Will defeat the purpose of camouflage uniforms by putting blue
and silver chevrons and colorful squadron patches all over them. 

Career Fields: 

Marines: All Marines shall be considered riflemen first and foremost. 
Army: It doesn't matter, all career fields promote to E-8 in first 
enlistment anyway. 
Navy: Nobody knows.  The Navy is still trying figure out what sailors in
the ABH, SMC, BNC and BSN rates do anyway. 
Air Force: Every recruit will be trained in a manner that will allow them
to leave the service early to go on to higher paying civilian jobs. 

Date: Fri, 22 Jun 2001 08:51:43 -0400 (EDT)
Subject: humor:  Candidate for the "Ambiguous Headline of the Year" award

  From the Spring 2001 Multicultural Messenger (the newsletter of the
Center for Multicultural Human Services):  

"CMHS Wins $500K Grant to Help Torture Survivors"

Date: Mon, 25 Jun 2001 08:51:15 -0400 (EDT)
Subject: humor:  aviation thoughts

High Flight (with FAA Annotations)

Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth(1),
And danced(2) the skies on laughter silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed(3) and joined the tumbling mirth(4)
Of sun-split clouds(5) and done a hundred things(6)
You have not dreamed of --
Wheeled and soared and swung(7)
High in the sunlit silence(8).
Hov'ring there(9)
I've chased the shouting wind(10) along and flung(11)
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long delirious(12), burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights(13) with easy grace,
Where never lark, or even eagle(14) flew;
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space(15),
Put out my hand(16), and touched the face of God(17).

(from John Gillespie Magee Jr., "High Flight")

-----

FAA SUPPLEMENT to "High Flight"

1. Flight crews must insure that all surly bonds have been slipped
entirely before aircraft taxi or flight is attempted.

2. During periods of severe sky dancing, the FASTEN SEATBELT sign must
remain constantly illuminated.

3. Sunward climbs must not exceed the maximum permitted aircraft ceiling.

4. Passenger aircraft are prohibited from joining the tumbling mirth.

5. Pilots flying through sun-split clouds must comply with all applicable
visual and instrument flight rules.

6. These hundred things are forbidden by the regulations of the Federal
Aviation Administration.

7. Wheeling, soaring, and swinging will not be accomplished simultaneously
except by pilots in the flight simulator or in their own aircraft on their
own time.

8. Be advised that sunlit silence will occur only when a major engine
malfunction has occurred.

9. "Hov'ring there" will constitute a highly reliable signal that a flight
emergency is imminent.

10. Forecasts of shouting winds are available from the local FSS.
Encounters with unexpected shouting winds should be reported by pilots.

11. Be forewarned that pilot craft-flinging is a leading cause of
passenger airsickness.

12. Should any crewmember or passenger experience delirium while in the
burning blue, submit an irregularity report upon flight termination.

13. Windswept heights will be topped by a minimum of 1,000 feet to prevent
massive airsickness-bag use.

14. Aircraft engine ingestion of, or impact with, larks or eagles should
be reported to the FAA and the appropriate aircraft maintenance
facility.

15. Air Traffic Control (ATC) must issue all special clearances for
treading the high untresspassed sanctity of space.

16. FAA regulations state that no one may sacrifice aircraft cabin
pressure to open aircraft windows or doors while in flight.

17. The "face of God" is highly restricted airspace. Touching it is
absolutely prohibited. Violation may result in loss of license and other
sanctions.

Date: Tue, 26 Jun 2001 16:52:04 -0400 (EDT)
Subject: humor:  He wanted a legacy...

  Even after eight years in office, former President Bill Clinton will
only have three quotes in the 17th edition of Bartlett's Familiar
Quotation, the high and mighty source of who said what.

Curious? The quotes are:

"I experimented with marijuana a time or two. And I didn't like it, and I
didn't inhale and never tried it again." - March 1992.

"I am going to say this again: I did not have sexual relations with that
woman, Miss Lewinsky." -January 1998.

"It depends on what the meaning of the word 'is' is. If the - if he - if
'is' means is and never has been, that is not - that is not the only one
thing. It means there is none. That was a completely true statement." -
August 1998.

Date: Wed, 27 Jun 2001 10:18:44 -0400 (EDT)
Subject: humor:  Let's see if I understand how America works lately

If a woman burns her thighs on the hot coffee she was holding in her lap
while driving, she blames the restaurant.

If your teen-age son kills himself, you blame the rock 'n' roll music or
musician he liked.

If you smoke three packs a day for 40 years and die of lung cancer, your
family blames the tobacco company.

If your daughter gets pregnant by the football captain you blame the
school for poor sex education.

If your neighbor crashes into a tree while driving home drunk, you blame
the bartender.

If your cousin gets AIDS because the needle he used to shoot heroin was
dirty, you blame the government or not providing clean ones.

If your grandchildren are brats without manners, you blame television.

If your friend is shot by a deranged madman, you blame the gun
manufacturer.

And if a crazed person breaks into the cockpit and tries to kill the
pilots at 35,000 feet, and the passengers kill him instead, the mother of
the deceased blames the airline.

I must have lived too long to understand the world as it is anymore. So if
I die while my old, wrinkled ass is parked in front of this computer, I
want you to blame Bill Gates, OK?

Date: Thu, 28 Jun 2001 08:53:12 -0400 (EDT)
Subject: humor:  Californian reality check

  Columnist P.J. O'Rourke, writing in the Oklahoman, has an interesting
take on the Golden State energy woes: "California is in the midst of an
enormous stupidity crisis.

  Californians have been sitting in the dark because they didn't turn the
lights on. They say they're short of electricity. Yes, they are. Between
1988 and 1998, California's electricity consumption increased by 15
percent. Meanwhile, California's capacity to generate electricity shrank
by 5 percent, even as the state hesitated to build new power lines to tap
into neighboring states' power supplies.
  "Californians didn't want dams across their rivers, derricks on their
ocean, power lines across their borders or fossil fuel smoke in their sky.
These might interfere with all the smart things Californians do, such as
hang-glide. California was going to rely on 'negawatts' dramatic power
conservation. (But California regulators put price controls on electricity
that lowered prices, and even Californians weren't dumb enough to skip a
bargain.) And California was going to rely on alternative power
generation. With all the puffery from Silicon Valley dot.com startups,
wind farms wouldn't be a problem. But it turns out that alternative power
generation is an alternative, mostly, to generating power.
  "President Bush was wrong to grant an extension of executive orders
requiring out-of-state utilities to supply power to California. And
everyone is wrong to listen to Californians whine about electricity
deregulation. There never was any deregulation. The California Public
Utilities Commission merely changed its regulations, which apparently
weren't stupid enough to meet Golden State standards...
  "This is like requiring A&P to sell you porterhouse at $2 a pound, no
matter what the price of beef on the hoof. Imagine how many steaks there
would be, and how many supermarkets. Go to one of those boarded-up grocery
stores, purchase a phantom T-bone, screw it into a ceiling fixture, and
try to light your house. You're in California."

Date: Fri, 29 Jun 2001 09:32:28 -0400 (EDT)
Subject: humor:  The "Car and Driver" review of the M1 Abrams MBT

Car and Driver May 2001

M1A1 Abrams Main Battle Tank

In which our man attains a sense of personal empowerment that Deepak
Chopra just wouldn't understand.

By Tony Assenza

  The M1A1 Abrams main battle tank is the final vehicular response in U.S.
foreign policy initiatives. When shuttle diplomacy fails and the world's
buttheads tax our patience beyond the point of mere talk, the Abrams is
what we send to indicate that Kofi Annan is out of the loop and now we
mean business. When one of these 65-ton beasts shows up in the carport of
the presidential palace, the choice is give up or get squashed.

  In the food chain of terrain-gobbling tracked vehicles, the Abrams,
which is built in Lima, Ohio, is the top predator, the numero uno tank. It
can flatten a hundred Ford Expeditions without breaking stride and reduce
enemy armor to a grimy blob in the dirt in less time than it takes you to
say, "Okay, I quit." It's the ultimate off-road vehicle. And frankly, we
can't resist the opportunity to test the ultimate anything. Especially if
there's a 120mm cannon attached to it.

  Whatever Modena is to the Ferrari and Abingdon is to worshippers of the
sacred octagon, the National Training Center at Fort Irwin in California's
Mojave Desert is that thing to tank people. Arranging a visit to Fort
Irwin for a test drive and some big-gun plinking required hardly any
haggling, begging, or even a permission slip from the Secretary of
Defense. I expected a lot of bureaucracy, forms in triplicate, and a
background check for known Assenza subversives. What I got from Maj. Barry
Johnson, the public affairs officer, was, "No problem. When would you like
to come?" The whole process was as complicated as ordering a Happy Meal.

  The host unit for my two days at Fort Irwin, just north of Barstow, was
the 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment (ACR). It's also known as the Blackhorse
Regiment, a name that dates to the days when they still rode horses and
there were a lot fewer stars on our flag. The primary mission of the 11th
these days is to act as the OPFOR (opposing force) for visiting armor
units from all over the country--for that matter, all over the planet. At
the tank firing range, Staff Sergeant Harris, a Gulf War vet, tank
commander, and master gunner, was assigned to be my instructor. He took
part in Stormin' Norman's Hail Mary play in the huge sweep deep into the
Iraqi end zone, and spent 22 straight hours on the move looking for
uniformed Iraqis to pan-fry. We spent a few familiarization hours crawling
over and through one of the half-dozen tanks that had completed gunnery
qualification. The first thing that struck me about the Abrams was not how
massive it is, but actually how compact it is for all the hardware it
carries.

  Lesson No. 1 about the Abrams is that there's no graceful way of getting
in. You need to be young and limber, which is probably why 45-year-old
guys aren't heavily recruited by the Army.

  Lesson No. 2 is that leading-edge American tank technology has created
an amazing array of equipment on which you can bang your head, shine your
elbows, and scuff your shins. Dropping down into the gunner's station is
like crawling inside an industrial-size clothes dryer that someone has
already partly filled with the contents of a steel mill. With practice, of
course, you learn all the Twyla Tharp moves necessary to avoid all the
stuff that can raise a bump or remove dermal surfaces. But to the novice,
it's like jumping into a wood chipper.

  Sergeant Harris was a patient instructor. He said nothing to make me
feel like a dweeb as he watched me clang and bank-shot my way to the
gunner's station.

  Once inside, the tank is surprisingly comfortable. With the exception of
the crew seat bottoms, there isn't one soft or padded surface anywhere in
this machine. Automotive-style ergonomics are yet to make an appearance in
tank design. But then you realize that lots of soft plastic and rich
fabric is just that much more stuff that can catch fire when the
penetrators start flying.

  There are four crew stations in an Abrams. The driver is way up front,
all by his lonesome. The gunner sits to the right of the main gun on a
seat the size of a barstool. The commander is directly behind and above
the gunner, with his feet practically on the gunner's shoulders. The
loader is located to the left of the gun.

  When the tank is buttoned up, everyone views the world through vision
ports. The commander has a series of ports built into his hatch and has
almost 360-degree visibility. The driver can see for about 180 degrees.
However, if you want to simulate the gunner's view through his single
port, tape a shoebox to your head and cut a hole about the size of a tape
cassette in the bottom. It's as panoramic as glaucoma.

  Most of the time, the gunner is looking through the GPS-LOS targeting
system. That's Gunner's Primary Sight-Line of Sight, which uses
sophisticated optical and thermal imaging, and the gun points where that
gunner is looking. This is why you see tanks in battle traveling in
staggered formations with the guns pointed in every direction. The idea is
to quarter the compass so nothing sneaks up and thwangs them.

  With the sun setting and my initial orientation coming to a close, we
headed to the Distinguished Visitors' Quarters (DVQ). The DVQ is
comparable to a budget motel. It was neat and comfortable, there was cable
TV complete with an all-Fort-Irwin-all-the-time channel, and I didn't see
any $600 toilet seats.

  At 7:30 the next morning, Sergeant Harris met me at the tank simulators
looking fresher than I did, even though he'd slept just five hours. The
simulators are housed in structures that look like shipping containers,
and they're powered by generators that are themselves roughly the size of
the tank. They supply juice for the wall-to-wall computers and for the
Arctic-strength climate-control system. The computers need to be kept
within a narrow temperature and humidity range, roughly the climate you
find in your fridge's salad crisper. The simulator replicates the stations
occupied by the gunner and commander, but you walk up to it, rather than
dropping down. The gunner's basic job is to scan the world ahead through
the GPS-LOS system, spot targets, and shoot them with the main gun.
There's a switch that magnifies the view three times and 10 times. The gun
is aimed and fired by means of control paddles that would feel familiar to
any nine-year-old with a Nintendo. The manufacturer's label on the paddles
said Cadillac-Gage, which made me wonder if they were available with
wood-grain and a landau option.

  Paddle operation is utterly simple. You scan the landscape by traversing
and elevating the gun with the paddles until you find a target. This is
done in 3X, which has a wider field of view than 10X. Once you acquire a
target, you switch to 10X magnification. This makes the target bigger and,
consequently, easier to aim at and kill. You center the reticle on the
target and press the laser button and the magic happens. The fire-control
computer calculates things like wind speed and direction, lead angle
measurement, the bend of the gun measured by the muzzle reference system,
and data from the pendulum static cant sensor in the center of the turret,
and then it makes automatic adjustments to the gun barrel. The
calculations take less than the proverbial blink of a dirty thought, and
you're presented with the calculated range in the sight. You squeeze the
triggers, the gun fires, and if you did it right--it's hard to do it
wrong--the target cooks off like a sparkler. In combat conditions, the
firing system has an 85-percent first-shot kill probability.

  Computer tank fighting like this really isn't much different from a
video game. Except, of course, that this one costs as much as a skyscraper
in downtown Tokyo, and if you break it, Senate committees get together and
mutter your name in disparaging tones. Nonetheless, computers are
ultimately cheaper than buying a lot of $4.3 million practice tanks for
the recruits to play with.

  Sergeant Harris ran me through three scenarios that got progressively
more difficult. In the first one, I killed everything in sight because my
computer opponents were apparently simulating the reactions of overweight
businessmen after a three-martini lunch. Piece of cake. In the second
scenario, the targets weren't so inert. Some of them actually moved to
evade my storm of simulated steel. To hit the movers, you laser and track
by keeping the reticle on them. The fire-control computer does the rest.
Some of my braver cyber opponents had the nerve to shoot back. I got most
of them. The quicker ones slipped away behind hills and farmhouses. I was
starting to sweat.

  In the third scenario, multiple targets, including tank-killing
helicopters, started popping up and lobbing ordnance at me. And there were
unexpected infantry charges. These were simulated by red dots apparently
armed with antitank weapons. I had to hose them down with the 7.62mm
coaxial machine gun before they killed me. The problem of staying alive
became acute by the middle of scenario three. While I was busy with an
enemy tank, a tank-killing helicopter popped over a ridge and killed me.
By the end of this session, I was drenched, and I'd died so many times I
thought I was Shirley MacLaine.

  Sergeant Harris was supportive. "You did better than a lot of our
recruits," he said. He was kind not to remind me that to qualify for tank
duty his recruits have five more levels to survive, each tougher than the
last. The next time you hear some TV military expert flap his gums about
low-stress video-game wars and push-button battles, I can offer a very wet
Banana Republic shirt in rebuttal. And that was just the simulator. The
next step was the real deal. We went back to the firing range. I suited up
in Nomex, gloves, balaclava, and helmet with built-in headphones, and
Twyla Tharp'd my way into the gunner's station. My concern at this point
was to try very hard not to look like Michael Dukakis in his famous
tank-commander photo op.

  Once you get used to the idea of being in a steel clothes dryer that
weighs 65 tons and is draped with depleted uranium armor and is awash with
500 gallons of fuel, with high-pressure hydraulics snaking throughout and
crammed full of explosives, the Abrams was fairly comfortable. Really. In
fact, the ride out to our first firing station was more comfortable than
the ride to the range in Major Johnson's Humvee, and with the intercom
phones on, remarkably quiet. The ride motions are a gentle back-and-forth
rocking, and the ride quality is amazingly well damped, almost cushiony.
The springing media are torsion bars, seven per side, a system that dates
back to tank designs of the 1930s. It took me all of 30 seconds to feel
completely at ease.

  The first order of business was firing the coaxial 7.62mm machine gun
and the .50-caliber M2 commander's machine gun. The coaxial gun is mounted
alongside the main gun and lives a foot away from the gunner's left ear.
The gunner aims it through the same sight as that of the main gun.
Sergeant Harris had me throw the weapon selector switch from main to
coaxial, and I took aim on a berm about 100 yards away. On his command, we
both cut loose. Through the gun sight I saw my tracers arc to the berm,
kicking up satisfying sprays of dirt as the rounds hit. I traversed left
and right, hosing the berm to make sure the Mojave Desert wouldn't
suddenly jump up and attack us.

  Then it was on to the main event--the main gun. Harris told me to look
for a retired and thoroughly shot-up Sheridan tank up on a hill. With the
naked eye it looked about the size of a muffin viewed across a football
field. Amazing how a desert can swallow something weighing as much as a
shopping mall. I found it in 3X, magnified it to 10X, and lased it. The
range readout was a shade more than 1200 yards.

  The cannon rounds are stored in a magazine behind an armored sliding
door. To get the rounds, the loader presses a flapper-type lever with his
knee to activate the door. The loader grabbed a practice round and heaved
it into the breech, a hunk of machined steel the size of a diesel V-8. I
heard "Up!" in my headphones, indicating there was a round in the chamber.
Harris cleared me to shoot. I made sure the reticle was square on my
target and squeezed the triggers.

  I've fired big guns before, stuff like .308s, .454 Casulls, and even two
memorable rounds out of a bone-crunching .600 Holland & Holland Nitro
Express, the famed elephant gun of English hunters. But none of that
prepared me for the almighty Richter-scale recoil of the tank's
German-built 120mm smooth-bore cannon. The 65-ton Abrams literally rocked
back on its torsion bars and shocks. And the view out the GPS-LOS was a
hurricane of dust. I suppose I should say that it was scary, or
disorienting, or at least sobering, as when they detonated the first
A-bomb in New Mexico and J. Robert Oppenheimer remarked, "I am become
death, the destroyer of worlds." But what it really was was empowering.
The kind of empowering that people like New Ager Deepak Chopra will never
understand. And a lot more fun than I'd ever had with pistols and rifles.

  When the dust cleared, Staff Sergeant Harris announced a hit. Through
the sight I saw that the turret on the Sheridan was no longer straight. My
round had knocked it right out of the turret ring, and it was sitting
cockeyed. "Nice shot," I heard over the headphones. Manhood redeemed.
Hippopotamic ballerina moves getting into the Abrams forgiven.

  Major Johnson had generously arranged six rounds for me to shoot, and by
the sixth round I was hooked. But completely. I wanted six more, and I was
ready to write a check to cover the cost. I don't know what heroin or
biker meth feels like, but if it feels anything like shooting a gun as big
as a utility pole accurately enough to shear the mustache off Saddam's
face, I had a 120mm monkey on my back.

  Although I'd like to credit my outstanding marksmanship for hitting
every target I shot at, the real credit goes to the targeting system. It's
one of the most sophisticated in the world, but it's also utterly simple
to operate. Witness my performance. I wouldn't go so far as to say it's
stupid-proof, but you'd have to be an australopithecine to fail to grasp
the fundamentals and successfully put steel on target. Which makes me feel
only a little better about paying too much in taxes.

  Speaking of steel, the Abrams has two basic bullets in its arsenal. The
primary tank killer is the APFSDS round, dubbed the "silver bullet" in the
Gulf War. I shot six of these, but they were practice rounds, less
powerful and cheaper, although just as accurate as the combat rounds. The
other is a HEAT round.

  The APFSDS stands for "armor piercing fin stabilized discarding sabot,"
also known as a long rod penetrator to its friends. This round contains no
explosive. The part that hurts is shaped like a long lawn dart with
built-in fins. The precise length, width, and weight of the rod is not
available, but we do know it's made of either tungsten or depleted
uranium. Because it contains no explosive, its killing power is entirely
dependent on the kinetic energy transfer as it encounters enemy steel
plate at roughly 2900 feet per second. Basically, when the long rod hits
armor, it bores its way through and creates a fountain of molten metal
inside the target, which immediately begins to consume everything inside -
munitions, hydraulics, sack lunches, pictures of your dog, etc. If it
doesn't fully penetrate, the thwang it creates is powerful enough to
fragment and shatter the interior of the armor (a condition known as
spall), creating the effects of a hand grenade. It would be hard to duck
and dodge fast enough to avoid the little chunks of steel rocketing around
the interior. Think of a frog in a blender.

  The HEAT round ("high-energy antitank") is what we think of as a
conventional explosive. Due to its cone design, it concentrates all its
explosive energy into an area the size of a quarter. On impact, the
high-velocity cone of flame burns its way through armor and does to the
squishy humans inside the hull what you would expect a welding torch to do
to a game hen.

  How far do these APFSDS rounds travel before they lose the energy
required to penetrate enemy armor? Many people would like to know. Even
when offered a free subscription to C/D, no one at Fort Irwin would say
exactly. All they would admit to was "far enough." During the Gulf War,
the reach-out-and-touch-an-Iraqi range was far enough so that the Iraqis
in their Russian armor could not touch back.

  The next order of business, the actual driving of the Abrams, was almost
anticlimactic. As was shooting the big gun, it's utter simplicity. There
is some getting used to the recumbent driving position, but if you've ever
spent time in a 65-ton Formula Ford, well, then it's very familiar.

  Steering and throttle are controlled by a motorcycle-style handlebar.
Twist the right wrist, and you go. Turn the handlebar through its narrow
range of travel, and you turn right and left. Braking is accomplished by a
large pedal under your right foot. Forward and reverse are executed by
moving a lever through a notched quadrant mounted horizontally just above
the handlebars. A panel for vital functions is located to the right at
about eye level. Basically, if nothing flashes red, you're in good shape.

  With Sergeant Harris in the commander's position and me in the driver's
hole, I took the Abrams out on the firing range. Harris warned me to stay
on the trails. I asked if that was because of danger from unexploded
ordnance or something cool like that. "It's the desert tortoises," he
said. "This is an endangered species habitat." Apparently, if the U.S.
Army squishes a tortoise, the U.S. Department of Turtles can bring our
nation's war readiness and tank training to a grinding halt.

  The throttle, connected to the 1500-horsepower gas-turbine engine, is
remarkably sensitive. With a little twist, you can move off at a modest
crawl without jerkiness. Crack it wide open, and it feels as though you've
been rear-ended by the Rocky Mountains. Even pushing 65 tons, the 3940
pound-feet of torque will cause the tank equivalent of chirping your
tires, gouging out chunks of desert.

  As you might imagine, the turning radius is, uh, generous while on the
move (at a standstill, the Abrams can pivot in place). It's like steering
a boat. You have to plan your moves and turn in early to compensate for
drift. Sustained full throttle moves the Abrams along at a speed-governed
42 mph. And even over rough desert terrain, the ride is smooth enough to
rate as comfortable. More cushy, in fact, than that of any sport-ute I've
ever driven over similar terrain. And unlike an off-road truck, there's no
banging and thudding of shocks, control arms, and bump stops. All you hear
through the headset are a distant whine and the occasional rattle of steel
treads.

  Like firing the main gun, there's a tremendous sense of empowerment
connected with driving this rig. You don't care what's in front of you,
because you can probably squash it. I'd heard that in combat crews have
disabled the speed governors and cracked along at 60 mph. No reliable
source could confirm this. Many have said that's impossible. So it's
probably impossible. Or maybe not. What I can verify is that standing on
the brakes from top speed will practically make the Abrams stand on its
nose. Although we didn't do instrumented testing, a rough estimate of the
stopping distance from 45 mph is zero feet. It feels like falling
headfirst into a sinkhole. Tank time ran out much too quickly. I was
presented with a master gunner patch by Sergeant Harris. I gave my hosts
C/D T-shirts. I think I got the better of the exchange.