In article k.net,
says...
"It will consist of a calibrated load cell to be inserted into the rectum
before flight. Clearly, just prior to any significant catastrophic event
there will be extraordinary involuntary constriction of the rectal sphincter
muscles which will cause the load cell to activate."

My neighbor and I built kayaks from scratch. He came up with this design
with a pretty round bottom. His theory was that it would be initially
unstable, but as it rolled over, it would become more stable. I had a more
conventional design. When we tried his out, I found that the kayak was
constantly causing involuntary constriction of my rectal sphincter muscles.
In fact I commented on such when I got out.

I have never flown a plane like that, but I have read about them. I expect
we would get many more false ELT activations.

And, every carrier landing would activate the ELTs.

hell even Hercs, remember this email doin the rounds?
bloody funny

Subject: USMC C-130 night flight into Bagdad


This is from a colorful writer from the 1st
Marine Air Wing based at MCAS Miramar, (The guy ought to write for a
living.....) by the way imagine what an RNZAF pilot might be thinking
after the end of the 2nd paragraph.


There I was at six thousand feet over central Iraq, two hundred eighty
knots and we're dropping faster than Paris Hilton's panties. It's a
typical September evening in the Persian Gulf; hotter than a rectal
thermometer and I'm sweating like a priest at a Cub Scout meeting. But
that's neither here nor there. The night is moonless over Baghdad
tonight, and blacker than a Steven King novel. But it's 2004, folks, and
I'm sporting the latest in night combat technology - namely,
hand-me-down night vision goggles (NVGs) thrown out by the fighter boys.


Additionally, my 1962 Lockheed C-130E Hercules is equipped with an
obsolete, yet, semi effective missile warning system (MWS). The MWS
conveniently makes a nice soothing tone in your headset just before the
missile explodes into your airplane. Who says you can't polish a turd?


At any rate, the NVGs are illuminating Baghdad International Airport
like the Las Vegas Strip during a Mike Tyson fight. These NVGs are the
cat's ass. But I've digressed.

The preferred method of approach tonight is the random shallow. This
tactical maneuver allows the pilot to ingress the landing zone in an
unpredictable manner, thus exploiting the supposedly secured perimeter
of the airfield in an attempt to avoid enemy surface-to-air-missiles and
small arms fire.

Personally, I wouldn't bet my pink ass on that theory but the approach
is fun as hell and that's the real reason we fly it.

We get a visual on the runway at three miles out, drop down to one
thousand feet above the ground, still maintaining two hundred eighty
knots. Now the fun starts. It's pilot appreciation time as I descend
the mighty Herk to six hundred feet and smoothly, yet very
deliberately, yank into a sixty degree left bank, turning the aircraft
ninety degrees offset from runway heading. As soon as we roll out of
the turn, I reverse turn to the right a full two hundred seventy degrees
in order to roll out aligned with the runway.

Some aeronautical genius coined this maneuver the "Ninety/Two-Seventy."
Chopping the power during the turn, I pull back on the yoke just to the
point my nether regions start to sag, bleeding off energy in order to
configure the pig for landing.

"Flaps Fifty!, Landing Gear Down!, Before Landing Checklist!" I look
over at the copilot and he's shaking like a cat ****ting on a sheet of
ice. Looking further back at the navigator, and even through the NVGs,
I can clearly see the wet spot spreading around his crotch. Finally, I
glance at my steely eyed flight engineer. His eyebrows rise in unison
as a grin forms on his face. I can tell he's thinking the same thing I
am.... "Where do we find such fine young men?"

"Flaps One Hundred!" I bark at the shaking cat. Now it's all aim point
and airspeed. Aviation 101, with the exception there' are no lights, I'm
on NVGs, it's Baghdad, and now tracers are starting to crisscross the
black sky. Naturally, and not at all surprisingly, I grease the
Goodyear's on brick-one of runway 33 left, bring the throttles to
ground idle and then force the props to full reverse pitch. Tonight,
the sound of freedom is my four Hamilton Standard propellers chewing
through the thick, putrid, Baghdad air. The huge, one hundred thirty
thousand pound, lumbering whisper pig comes to a lurching stop in less
than two thousand feet. Let's see a Viper do that!

We exit the runway to a welcoming committee of government issued Army
grunts. It's time to download their beans and bullets and letters from
their sweethearts, look for war booty, and of course, urinate on
Saddam's home.

Walking down the crew entry steps with my lowest bidder, Beretta 92F, 9
millimeter strapped smartly to my side, look around and thank God, not
Allah, I'm an American and I'm on the winning team. Then I thank God I'm
not in the Army.

Knowing once again I've cheated death, I ask myself, "What in the hell
am I doing in this mess?" Is it Duty, Honor, and Country? You bet your
ass. Or could it possibly be for the glory, the swag, and not to
mention, chicks dig the Air Medal. There's probably some truth there
too. But now is not the time to derive the complexities of the superior,
cerebral properties of the human portion of the aviator-man-machine
model. It is however, time to get out of this ****-hole. Hey copilot ,
clean yourself up! And how's 'bout the 'Before Starting Engines
Checklist."

God, I love this job!"

--
Duncan