(not really) a poem for thursday.

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Glorious Days Abound.

Getting the potato cannon out was a really good idea. We had been drinking for a couple of hours and had like 15 extra potatoes, and besides it was still too early to go to the bar. The first few hit the fence with a huge bang, frankly I’m surprised they didn’t break through those helpless little planks. By the fifth or sixth potato the twist-flint had kind of malfunctioned and wasn’t working that well, probably gummed up from all the hairspray, so we just took it out. Flounder thought that sparking it with his lighter was a good idea, and who am I to argue. We stuffed the potato in and filled the back chamber with hairspray to the predetermined count of five, and I braced myself for the forthcoming kick. A few seconds passed with no audible pop so I opened my eyes and loosened my grip and asked Flounder what the hold up was.

“Can’t seem to get the flame in the hole.” he said.

This was a real issue. As I reflected on this query my arms started to relax, and my body de-tensed, leaning backward slowly, the barrel of the potato cannon was ever more pointing sky-ward. Aiming off into the great expanse of space. Then there was the pop. Flounder, it seemed, had gotten the flame in the hole. The potato was projectile.

Normally this was cause for celebration, clanking of beer cans and congratulatory pats about the neck and upper back. But in the here and now we had problems.

The potato was headed up and over our safety fence to a location unknown. Seeing as how I lived in a populated neighborhood this was cause for concern. My fellow city-dwellers had glass windows that could be broken, and cars that could be dented, and dispositions that could be ill-tempered. While their property damage and probable lack of understanding worried me, it was the prospective monetary loss I was to undoubtedly incur that set my nerves flaring.

Problem two: Flounder’s burns. The flame, as previously purported, went in the hole, the flame then came back out of the hole, with gusto. The blast of heat sent Flounder tumbling to his back-side screaming something about “third degree burn, my god, I think I lost an eye.” The thought of these ghastly wounds was some what alarming. Should I call 911 now, or inspect the carnage first, then call to be better prepared to explain our current emergency. I chose to inspect first, and in turn, the right decision. My dear friend had in fact not lost an eye, but only half an eyebrow, and his “third degree burns” were merely second degree burns and when the smoke cleared I could barely even smell the stink of charred flesh.

To settle his oncoming post traumatic stress I cracked him a fresh can of beer and talked in soft tones. I spent a minute or two gently wiping the tears from his eyes and remarking that his new look of one and a half total eyebrows was possibly trend-setting. This calmed him and brought him back to the reality in which he was going to be OK.

At this juncture we heard no sirens and I was not face to face with a displeased near-by resident and Flounder had regained his typical fervor, so we continued on with two things that put smiles on our faces; we shot-gunned another beer and we loaded the potato cannon. It was Flounder’s turn to shoot.

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About Pineapple

He tried to call himself, "Malibu." But, you know the rules - you don't get to pick your own nickname. The word "pineapple" came to mind. Sorta tropical, spikey & rough, sweet on the inside. And so a nickname was born. "Bike mechanic, poet, sage, former collegiate hockey star. Ok, maybe not a star." (This should really be updated. He works for New Belguim now.) "i am full time bicycle mechanic, and all around nice guy. like to ride bikes, but not very far. like poetry, candle-light dinners, and short walks on the beach. i don't like getting hassled, and i don't like capitalization." Fort Collins, Colorado, USA

14 Replies to “(not really) a poem for thursday.”

  1. I just pee’d my pants thinking about a potatoe launching over the fence in an urban setting… The possible carnage!!!

  2. Guys-

    A friend of my son’s made a potato gun and fired it once. I shit you not: the city’s SWAT team responded and they locked down two schools adjacent. Jesus H. Christ, I feel sorry for kids these days. No wonder all they do is play xbox.

    Now back in my day, we used to funnelate overripe oranges and lit bundles of firecrackers, and AIM for nearby buildings. That was cool, huh huh heh heh


  3. You two are fucking complete total idiots. Obviously the alcohol only makes it worse. Next time, why don’t one of you try standing in FRONT of your cannon.

  4. Glad to hear that thing is getting some good use. Let me tell ya, I like the flint, love it strong. Give the white gas a try, thank me later. (use way less then you think you need or it wont work)

  5. DB, et al–

    OMG, I am totally in love. I know you saw her first, but the line starts here, pal [indicating a point directly behind me].


  6. No way Jose.

    That sweet Southern poontang is officially mine.

    Lock, stock and smoking potato gun barrel.

    Long live the South….[insert Rebel yell here]