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I don't know why not? And I had to look up what "Efficacy" meant. Exactly. There should be an American word. 
You know, that ALL us here in America know?
I found great synonyms for "efficacy" on the new Thesaurus.com!
You know, that ALL us here in America know? I found great synonyms for "efficacy" on the new Thesaurus.com!
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LOL - Effectiveness
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OK, folks, grab your coffee, pull up a chair, and pin back your ears, it's pretty long, but, in my opinion, well worth reading. And more to the point, it really happened, a while back, not far from a beautiful old medieval town in Shropshire...
But first, let me introduce a few of the persona to you.
First is the hero, Walter, a fine Welshman, local gun dealer, man-about town, bon viveur, Rotary Club and renowned shooter of both game and clays. He had one other pastime, but I'll leave that till later, as it is not yet pertinent. [You okay with 'pertinent' there, Mike? Just checkin']
Second is not really one person, but the group of what we over here call 'rough shooters'. These are a bunch of keen shotgunners who roam around their patch, taking opportune game that is is season and feral pigeons that are pests here, and always shootable. It's a good way to meet new people, since membership is either by invitation, or, like Walter, because there are distinct advantages to having a shoot member who is also a dealer, if you get my drift. Walter was an old hand in this particular bunch, well-known and often a PITA, as old-established shoot members can be.
Walter had a number of eye-catching tricks that he used to demonstrate to anybody who hadn't seen them before, and most of us who had, but they were usually interesting, well, at least once, like the time he set off both barrels of a Rodda of Calcutta .577 Snider Howdah pistol at the same time - that, of course, is another story for another time. His most spectacular trick, and one that never failed to get anybody's attention, was usually shown during a break in the rural ambulation, about 11 o'clock a.m. We'd all be sat down on a handy tussock or whatever, drinking our coffee and eating our sammidges, telling lies, just like one does. At some point in the break, Walter would set his eagle eye on a the latest noob to the group, and sidling over to him or her, would engage them in conversation that went something like this...
Walt [W] - 'Hello there, NAME, I couldn't help but notice that you seem to be using ACME Megathunder Maxi-Gleep cartridges. How are you finding them?
Noob [N] - 'Well, not too bad, but they tend to leave the gun pretty dirty when I've done. They seem to be pretty loose patterning, too, with holes that let the birds through, although that might just be me, haha.'
W - 'As you may have noticed, I'm using the latest from Fratelli Bratelli Vermicelli, and they are just SO clean-burning, AND tight, that I've taken on the task of selling them in my local dealership. Of course, you being a member here will get a great rate for bulk buying, OK?'
N - 'Clean-burning, eh? I'd like to see that!'
W - 'Nothing could be easier! Here, watch this! [You THINK that you know what's coming next, right? Wrong. Wait.]
At that juncture, Walter whipped out one of these cartridges from his bag, and using his trusty Gerber, hacked it open, commenting as he did so on the precision of the wad column, the finely graded shot, and lastly, the beauty of the powder, made, he assured us, by the famous Italian propellant company of Flagranti Delecto of Tuscany. Opening his hand, he carefully poured the powder onto the palm of his hand, and reaching into his pocket, produced a Zippo, lit it up and applied the flame to the little pile of powder. There was an almost instantaneous 'WHOOOOSH' as the powder disappeared in a mere wisp of smoke, leaving his hand virtually unmarked in the process. Amazing. N was amazed, and so were some of us, again. Needless to say, his sales improved as a result of this spectacular demonstration.
The year moved on, and so did the shoot, and as always happens, there were a couple of new faces by the time July happened, and we were off, on a fine Saturday morning that promised to be VERY warm.
It was, and we were all pretty happy to sit down, count the many pigeons that had fallen to our unerring marksmanship, and have a break.
I recall looking over my shoulder, where Walter was at it again with the latest Noob. Same deal, same sell, same demonstration, except that just after Walter had poured the powder onto to his hand in front of the fascinate Noob, he couldn't find his lighter. 'Ron', he called over to the driver [we had a LWB Land-Rover belonging to Ron's missus, who was a breeder of heavy horses in her spare time when she wasn't laying paving stones], 'fetch us your lighter, will'ya?' Sadly, the Landy was a distant green blob on the horizon, about ten minutes there and back, and in the interim, Walter was regaling the Noob with all kinds of anecdotes, mainly about the shooting ineptitudes of his fellows, ie, us. So what happened next didn't overly upset us.
Ron toddled back, and with a grump handed over another lighter, this one a cheap BIC. Walter took it off him with a grimace, the way that one would if somebody had handed you a doo-doo, lit it up and applied it to the little pile of powder.
There was an odd sound, rather like hearing a distant gasoline fire going 'whoomp', from the powder, almost, but not quite, eclipsed by the sound coming from Walter...
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Walter was writhing on the ground in obvious agony, whimpering and wailing all at once in his travails, and clutching his hand to his chest in a most pathetic manner. We rushed over, slowly-like, to see what might have caused this unmanly display, simply a repetition of something we'd all seen before. Well, not quite true, that.
We'd all seen the usual puff of smoke and the beaming Walter, but his time Walter had had something quite different happen to him that we had NEVER seen before. He had a neat hole, about the size of a dime, right through his hand in the centre of the palm. Yes, our Walter had made himself nothing less than a shaped charge, just like the the one in a Bazooka that can penetrate 18" of armour plate.... the powder had absorbed the sweat on his hot little handy, and made a cone - JUST the same shape that Mr Monroe used when he invented the shaped charge all those years ago. And Walter had set it off, just like the real deal, by lighting it at the pointy end.
To move on, Ron and three of us managed to drag Walter over to the Landy, and I say it took three of us, mainly because we were all falling about like loons, laffin' our heads off. Holding up our hands to our faces, pretending to look through a hole, and calling peepo, seemed to be favourite for a while. But eventually we quietened down some and drove the ten miles or so into town and the local hospital ER, where we handed over Walter to the puzzled attendant. A couple of us stayed to explain what had happened to the ER crew, one of whom actually had a bit of a cackle about it, and who can blame her?
Suffice it to say that Walter spent a few days in hospital while they sorted out a suitable skin graft, which takes me to the culmination of the yarn, if you are still with me. All of this, however, came out sometime later, and not from Walter, but his long-suffering wife at the Christmas dinner party. It seems that they had a hard time finding a suitable site from which to remove the grafting, but eventually found one on his left calf, where the skin seemed to be inordinately smooth, almost baby-smooth, in fact. This was used, with initial great success, and after a couple of weeks the medics pronounced Walter 'fixed' although he had a LOT of painful operations and physiotherapy to restore at least some of the lost ability that the 'blast' had taken from him. Imagine a dime-sized hole in the middle of YOUR palm, right?
A few weeks passed us by, and Walter reappeared on the shoot, although we had obviously seen him in his store as well. He seemed a mite subdued, like anybody who had publicly blown a hole through their own hand might be expected to be, and there was no repeat performance. There was, however, the usual joshing, especially when Walter was caught surrepticiously but frantically scratching the plam of his hand. All sorts of ribald comments followed this, I can recall. I may have even made some myself...
Finally, at Christmas, it all came out. And yet again Walter was the 'Man of the Match' when it came to providing the laffs, and laff we did. Our other Welsh shooter, Edo, actually swallowed a small dental bridge in the process. Y'see, Walter's graft HAD taken, and very well. The scar was very clean, but, not to put too fine a point on it, hairy.
Y'see, nobody at the hospital had though to ask why Walter's legs were sooooooooooooo smooth - smooth enough to be used on a part of the body where there are, usually, no hairs.
Remember I told you that Walter had one other passion?
Well, Walter was a very serious cyclist, and shaved his legs at least twice a week to improve his 'aerodynamic form'. The rest of his body was, as with most North-Walians, very hairy indeed. The graft, having taken, was simply doing what new skin, complete with hair follicles, does. And it grew hair.
tac
But first, let me introduce a few of the persona to you.
First is the hero, Walter, a fine Welshman, local gun dealer, man-about town, bon viveur, Rotary Club and renowned shooter of both game and clays. He had one other pastime, but I'll leave that till later, as it is not yet pertinent. [You okay with 'pertinent' there, Mike? Just checkin']
Second is not really one person, but the group of what we over here call 'rough shooters'. These are a bunch of keen shotgunners who roam around their patch, taking opportune game that is is season and feral pigeons that are pests here, and always shootable. It's a good way to meet new people, since membership is either by invitation, or, like Walter, because there are distinct advantages to having a shoot member who is also a dealer, if you get my drift. Walter was an old hand in this particular bunch, well-known and often a PITA, as old-established shoot members can be.
Walter had a number of eye-catching tricks that he used to demonstrate to anybody who hadn't seen them before, and most of us who had, but they were usually interesting, well, at least once, like the time he set off both barrels of a Rodda of Calcutta .577 Snider Howdah pistol at the same time - that, of course, is another story for another time. His most spectacular trick, and one that never failed to get anybody's attention, was usually shown during a break in the rural ambulation, about 11 o'clock a.m. We'd all be sat down on a handy tussock or whatever, drinking our coffee and eating our sammidges, telling lies, just like one does. At some point in the break, Walter would set his eagle eye on a the latest noob to the group, and sidling over to him or her, would engage them in conversation that went something like this...
Walt [W] - 'Hello there, NAME, I couldn't help but notice that you seem to be using ACME Megathunder Maxi-Gleep cartridges. How are you finding them?
Noob [N] - 'Well, not too bad, but they tend to leave the gun pretty dirty when I've done. They seem to be pretty loose patterning, too, with holes that let the birds through, although that might just be me, haha.'
W - 'As you may have noticed, I'm using the latest from Fratelli Bratelli Vermicelli, and they are just SO clean-burning, AND tight, that I've taken on the task of selling them in my local dealership. Of course, you being a member here will get a great rate for bulk buying, OK?'
N - 'Clean-burning, eh? I'd like to see that!'
W - 'Nothing could be easier! Here, watch this! [You THINK that you know what's coming next, right? Wrong. Wait.]
At that juncture, Walter whipped out one of these cartridges from his bag, and using his trusty Gerber, hacked it open, commenting as he did so on the precision of the wad column, the finely graded shot, and lastly, the beauty of the powder, made, he assured us, by the famous Italian propellant company of Flagranti Delecto of Tuscany. Opening his hand, he carefully poured the powder onto the palm of his hand, and reaching into his pocket, produced a Zippo, lit it up and applied the flame to the little pile of powder. There was an almost instantaneous 'WHOOOOSH' as the powder disappeared in a mere wisp of smoke, leaving his hand virtually unmarked in the process. Amazing. N was amazed, and so were some of us, again. Needless to say, his sales improved as a result of this spectacular demonstration.
The year moved on, and so did the shoot, and as always happens, there were a couple of new faces by the time July happened, and we were off, on a fine Saturday morning that promised to be VERY warm.
It was, and we were all pretty happy to sit down, count the many pigeons that had fallen to our unerring marksmanship, and have a break.
I recall looking over my shoulder, where Walter was at it again with the latest Noob. Same deal, same sell, same demonstration, except that just after Walter had poured the powder onto to his hand in front of the fascinate Noob, he couldn't find his lighter. 'Ron', he called over to the driver [we had a LWB Land-Rover belonging to Ron's missus, who was a breeder of heavy horses in her spare time when she wasn't laying paving stones], 'fetch us your lighter, will'ya?' Sadly, the Landy was a distant green blob on the horizon, about ten minutes there and back, and in the interim, Walter was regaling the Noob with all kinds of anecdotes, mainly about the shooting ineptitudes of his fellows, ie, us. So what happened next didn't overly upset us.
Ron toddled back, and with a grump handed over another lighter, this one a cheap BIC. Walter took it off him with a grimace, the way that one would if somebody had handed you a doo-doo, lit it up and applied it to the little pile of powder.
There was an odd sound, rather like hearing a distant gasoline fire going 'whoomp', from the powder, almost, but not quite, eclipsed by the sound coming from Walter...
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Walter was writhing on the ground in obvious agony, whimpering and wailing all at once in his travails, and clutching his hand to his chest in a most pathetic manner. We rushed over, slowly-like, to see what might have caused this unmanly display, simply a repetition of something we'd all seen before. Well, not quite true, that.
We'd all seen the usual puff of smoke and the beaming Walter, but his time Walter had had something quite different happen to him that we had NEVER seen before. He had a neat hole, about the size of a dime, right through his hand in the centre of the palm. Yes, our Walter had made himself nothing less than a shaped charge, just like the the one in a Bazooka that can penetrate 18" of armour plate.... the powder had absorbed the sweat on his hot little handy, and made a cone - JUST the same shape that Mr Monroe used when he invented the shaped charge all those years ago. And Walter had set it off, just like the real deal, by lighting it at the pointy end.
To move on, Ron and three of us managed to drag Walter over to the Landy, and I say it took three of us, mainly because we were all falling about like loons, laffin' our heads off. Holding up our hands to our faces, pretending to look through a hole, and calling peepo, seemed to be favourite for a while. But eventually we quietened down some and drove the ten miles or so into town and the local hospital ER, where we handed over Walter to the puzzled attendant. A couple of us stayed to explain what had happened to the ER crew, one of whom actually had a bit of a cackle about it, and who can blame her?
Suffice it to say that Walter spent a few days in hospital while they sorted out a suitable skin graft, which takes me to the culmination of the yarn, if you are still with me. All of this, however, came out sometime later, and not from Walter, but his long-suffering wife at the Christmas dinner party. It seems that they had a hard time finding a suitable site from which to remove the grafting, but eventually found one on his left calf, where the skin seemed to be inordinately smooth, almost baby-smooth, in fact. This was used, with initial great success, and after a couple of weeks the medics pronounced Walter 'fixed' although he had a LOT of painful operations and physiotherapy to restore at least some of the lost ability that the 'blast' had taken from him. Imagine a dime-sized hole in the middle of YOUR palm, right?
A few weeks passed us by, and Walter reappeared on the shoot, although we had obviously seen him in his store as well. He seemed a mite subdued, like anybody who had publicly blown a hole through their own hand might be expected to be, and there was no repeat performance. There was, however, the usual joshing, especially when Walter was caught surrepticiously but frantically scratching the plam of his hand. All sorts of ribald comments followed this, I can recall. I may have even made some myself...
Finally, at Christmas, it all came out. And yet again Walter was the 'Man of the Match' when it came to providing the laffs, and laff we did. Our other Welsh shooter, Edo, actually swallowed a small dental bridge in the process. Y'see, Walter's graft HAD taken, and very well. The scar was very clean, but, not to put too fine a point on it, hairy.
Y'see, nobody at the hospital had though to ask why Walter's legs were sooooooooooooo smooth - smooth enough to be used on a part of the body where there are, usually, no hairs.
Remember I told you that Walter had one other passion?
Well, Walter was a very serious cyclist, and shaved his legs at least twice a week to improve his 'aerodynamic form'. The rest of his body was, as with most North-Walians, very hairy indeed. The graft, having taken, was simply doing what new skin, complete with hair follicles, does. And it grew hair.
tac
Last Edited:
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Thanks Tac. I enjoy English English.
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DAMMIT, tac, you a**hole, you made me laugh so hard I rolled my fat a** right off the edge of the bed! (One of the perks of working freelance... as long as I can see the screen and my reference texts and can reach the keyboard, it doesn't matter where I work from as long as I meet schedule.)
Thanks for the laugh, I needed it. Doesn't make up for whacking my head on the air conditioner, though...
Thanks for the laugh, I needed it.
Doesn't make up for whacking my head on the air conditioner, though... 
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@tac, at least it wasn't his foreskin.
#1
July 4th, 2006, the kids wanted fireworks - expressly forbidden by their mother.
So i took a pound of pistol powder, laid it out in a long, thin line leading to a pile of powder. Take a match, light the line and burn/FOOM!
The kids are really excited by that.
"Daddy, do it again!"
"no"
"Where does gunpowder come from?"
"well, it's a mix of salt-peter, charcoal and sulphur - hold on..."
Don't ask me why I had a pound of saltpeter, so I pulled out a ceramic tile, and poured a large, equal mix of saltpeter and sugar onto it, then lit it.
It started burning bright, huge plume of white smoke, the kids are all oooh'ing and aaahhhh'ing.
Then I hear a loud "chink" and see the ceramic tile has shattered.
"Kids, get back" thinking it might shatter some more.
The burning pile settles onto the concrete, then the concrete starts to snap-crackle-pop from the burning pile.
I made them go stand in the middle of the lawn and let it burn. It created a crater in the driveway that I think you could have fit a golf ball. I patched it up some time later with that quick-crete stuff, that doesn't last a year.
#2 : Proto-pyromaniac
My best friend, Johnny, and I decide we are going to melt glass. We grab the lighter fluid (I remember it as Ronson) for mom's lighter and a empty bottle of that Almaden wine (like a 1/2 gallon size). I think we were 7.
We dump a bunch of lighter fluid into that bottle, and lit match book matches. Nothing seems to light. The matches are smouldering in the bottom of the bottle, and Johnny says, "I think it needs a few more drops." We are both leaning over the top of the bottle, trying to see inside, as he drops a few drops from the lighter fluid.
That brought in the oxygen it so desperately needed. FOOOSSSSHHHH, a flame erupted from the nozzle of the bottle like a blow torch. It must have completely enveloped our heads. Both Johnny and I had no eyelashes, eyebrows and our hair was seriously singed back, and our faces deep red. I tried to wash off the smell, no way.
Mom comes home, sees me and says, "you've been playing with matches."
#1
July 4th, 2006, the kids wanted fireworks - expressly forbidden by their mother.
So i took a pound of pistol powder, laid it out in a long, thin line leading to a pile of powder. Take a match, light the line and burn/FOOM!
The kids are really excited by that.
"Daddy, do it again!"
"no"
"Where does gunpowder come from?"
"well, it's a mix of salt-peter, charcoal and sulphur - hold on..."
Don't ask me why I had a pound of saltpeter, so I pulled out a ceramic tile, and poured a large, equal mix of saltpeter and sugar onto it, then lit it.
It started burning bright, huge plume of white smoke, the kids are all oooh'ing and aaahhhh'ing.
Then I hear a loud "chink" and see the ceramic tile has shattered.
"Kids, get back" thinking it might shatter some more.
The burning pile settles onto the concrete, then the concrete starts to snap-crackle-pop from the burning pile.
I made them go stand in the middle of the lawn and let it burn. It created a crater in the driveway that I think you could have fit a golf ball. I patched it up some time later with that quick-crete stuff, that doesn't last a year.
#2 : Proto-pyromaniac
My best friend, Johnny, and I decide we are going to melt glass. We grab the lighter fluid (I remember it as Ronson) for mom's lighter and a empty bottle of that Almaden wine (like a 1/2 gallon size). I think we were 7.
We dump a bunch of lighter fluid into that bottle, and lit match book matches. Nothing seems to light. The matches are smouldering in the bottom of the bottle, and Johnny says, "I think it needs a few more drops." We are both leaning over the top of the bottle, trying to see inside, as he drops a few drops from the lighter fluid.
That brought in the oxygen it so desperately needed. FOOOSSSSHHHH, a flame erupted from the nozzle of the bottle like a blow torch. It must have completely enveloped our heads. Both Johnny and I had no eyelashes, eyebrows and our hair was seriously singed back, and our faces deep red. I tried to wash off the smell, no way.
Mom comes home, sees me and says, "you've been playing with matches."
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Sorry, guys, I already shot my wad with the story about while a wee tyke literally startling the sh*t out of Grandpa by boobytrapping the loo with Pop-its...
Well, that and the fact that my idea of starting a grill flame is so much accelerant that at ignition the flames go higher than the house, and it takes three days for the grill to cool before cleaning...
Well, that and the fact that my idea of starting a grill flame is so much accelerant that at ignition the flames go higher than the house, and it takes three days for the grill to cool before cleaning...
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Excellent @tac . Funny, I didn't see the hairy palm coming? 
Good thing you didn't light THAT mix in the palm of your hand eh?
I haven't heard many stories like that, with the saltpeter/sugar. I don't know where me and a buddy got the info from back when, musta been 14, 1968-69? We could go to the drugstore and buy a plastic bottle of salt peter. After playing with the mix a few times we decided to play a trick on a buddy, Joe. Well after dark on the summer night we mixed up a big batch of the mix in a 1# peanut can and covered it with tin foil. Went to Joe's house, set it on the porch, banged on the door, dropped a match in the can and went into the shadows to watch the show. CRAP!! A bright white flame about 5' high shot straight up toward the porch cover!! Joe slept through the whole thing. Nothing burned down, except that peanut can, and I don't think we played with the saltpeter/sugar mix anymore.
Good thing you didn't light THAT mix in the palm of your hand eh?
I haven't heard many stories like that, with the saltpeter/sugar. I don't know where me and a buddy got the info from back when, musta been 14, 1968-69? We could go to the drugstore and buy a plastic bottle of salt peter. After playing with the mix a few times we decided to play a trick on a buddy, Joe. Well after dark on the summer night we mixed up a big batch of the mix in a 1# peanut can and covered it with tin foil. Went to Joe's house, set it on the porch, banged on the door, dropped a match in the can and went into the shadows to watch the show. CRAP!! A bright white flame about 5' high shot straight up toward the porch cover!! Joe slept through the whole thing. Nothing burned down, except that peanut can, and I don't think we played with the saltpeter/sugar mix anymore.
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Excellent @tac . Funny, I didn't see the hairy palm coming?
Good thing you didn't light THAT mix in the palm of your hand eh?
I haven't heard many stories like that, with the saltpeter/sugar. I don't know where me and a buddy got the info from back when, musta been 14, 1968-69? We could go to the drugstore and buy a plastic bottle of salt peter. After playing with the mix a few times we decided to play a trick on a buddy, Joe. Well after dark on the summer night we mixed up a big batch of the mix in a 1# peanut can and covered it with tin foil. Went to Joe's house, set it on the porch, banged on the door, dropped a match in the can and went into the shadows to watch the show. CRAP!! A bright white flame about 5' high shot straight up toward the porch cover!! Joe slept through the whole thing. Nothing burned down, except that peanut can, and I don't think we played with the saltpeter/sugar mix anymore.
The stuff we did as kids and survived !
A neighbor kid down the street made a bomb from a can, firecracker powder and strike anywhere match heads.
Oops! Forgot the fuse hole!
You guessed her. Drilled a hole in the base of the can and that puppy nuked on him, blowing a fragment into his heart! Guy staggers into the house, and falls at his mom's feet, then just expires!
I didn't think he was much of a loss, but I was fond of his mom and wish he had managed to finish his little show elsewhere!
Oops! Forgot the fuse hole!
You guessed her. Drilled a hole in the base of the can and that puppy nuked on him, blowing a fragment into his heart! Guy staggers into the house, and falls at his mom's feet, then just expires!
I didn't think he was much of a loss, but I was fond of his mom and wish he had managed to finish his little show elsewhere!
I don't know why not? And I had to look up what "Efficacy" meant. Exactly. There should be an American word.
I found great synonyms for "efficacy" on the new Thesaurus.com!
Did you look it up in an efficacious manner!
When I was a kid I bought a large package of paper caps used in cap guns. I got this great idea to SLOWLY cut them open and collect all the black powder to make one really big cap. Well it's a tedious process because if you cut them too fast they go off. After a while I had a nice little mountain pile of powder on a piece of paper. But I got cocky and started cutting them open faster. Well by golly if I didn't finally go fast enough to set one off, which proceeded to ignite the pile. A big whoosh and a giant cloud of smoke. I was at the kitchen table and my parents weren't home. I tried like heck to get the smoke and smell out of the house but it was impossible. Dad came home from work and opened the door. Let's just say he wasn't pleased. But oddly enough he kind of understood. When he was younger he would fill 35mm film canisters (made of metal back then) with black powder and a fuse for some home made grenades!
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When I was a kid I bought a large package of paper caps used in cap guns. I got this great idea to SLOWLY cut them open and collect all the black powder to make one really big cap. Well it's a tedious process because if you cut them too fast they go off. After a while I had a nice little mountain pile of powder on a piece of paper. But I got cocky and started cutting them open faster. Well by golly if I didn't finally go fast enough to set one off, which proceeded to ignite the pile. A big whoosh and a giant cloud of smoke. I was at the kitchen table and my parents weren't home. I tried like heck to get the smoke and smell out of the house but it was impossible. Dad came home from work and opened the door. Let's just say he wasn't pleased. But oddly enough he kind of understood. When he was younger he would fill 35mm film canisters (made of metal back then) with black powder and a fuse for some home made grenades!
I can neither confirm nor deny that I may or may not have attempted similar things, up to, and including 2" Sch80 PVC, canon fuse and black powder. I can also neither confirm nor deny that my life may or may not have flashed in front of my eyes when that incredibly ill-conceived toy did its thing
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Darwin took care of most of the idiots and we're probably here because we were kids who were kids. Not so today.
And I wouldn't trade it for the world. (Most of it, some of it maybe.)
And I wouldn't trade it for the world. (Most of it, some of it maybe.
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