I'm not sure how exactly I can shoot anyone with the machinegun now that I'm facing up into the air at a 90-degree angle. Oh, here we go, now we're just sideways. I don't know who's driving this Battlefield 1942 tank or what his ultimate destination is, but it appears that he's moving of his own volition taking into consideration neither the accomplishment of our objectives nor the prevention of the enemy reaching theirs.

Part of the problem is that about a minute ago he rotated the turret a full 180 degrees, so that now he's facing the rear of the tank. I can only imagine the blind confusion he must be going through, as the tank appears to move forward every time he hits the back button, and vice-versa.

Of course, this may have been to our advantage. He's trying to back up -- or maybe go forward -- and appears completely by accident to have positioned the strong front armor of the tank toward the enemy. Confused German soldiers are trying to sneak "behind" the tank, only to find themselves in front of it, and, in their befuddlement, I gun them down with the top machinegun.

Ah, we're no longer sideways on a hill -- we now appear to be backing into a fencepost.

I can see in my mind's eye the driver of this tank, sitting at home in a darkened room, perhaps lit by the diffuse glow of a lava lamp and the glittering reflections of a beaded curtain. Between each spastic jerk of the tank in a random direction, he pauses to stare blearily at the top left corner of his monitor. He considers the rotation of his turret moving independently of the tank's whirling treads to have some sort of cosmic significance, linked, and yet, sovereign. Perplexed by such deep thoughts, he pauses to stick his face into a four-foot high angry clown bong filled with the most powerful Turkish Skunk Hash imaginable. He inhales, deeply.

Any moment now he'll come around and look back at his monitor, where he will wonder -- perhaps, nearly as confused as I am -- how we managed to drive INSIDE this windmill. The Germans have stopped throwing stick grenades and are now staring, slackjawed, at the smoking beast with the backwards turret. They, as I, are probably wondering if it were possible that they, too, could have a hit -- just one hit -- of whatever powerful mind-altering muscle-destabilizing spatially-perverting narcotic this guy must be on. But we can only dream.