One story that happened when I was in college didn't seem so funny to me at the time, but I try to be a good sport so I'll relate it to you anyway.
My brilliant comedic friend, who practiced aquatic survival techniques in the septic tank (another story altogether) and removed gutters via the toilet (another other story), and his equally brilliant brother conspired to produce the ultimate food fight weapon, a weapon so terrible that future food fights would be unthinkable, thus saving the world from that appalling carnage.
Their idea was to take a 12 gauge shotgun shell, remove the lead shot, replace it with goulash, and then fire it from a shotgun. The goulash would go "phlup" and fly across the room. All this was done in secrecy after a night of drinking beer.
Had I been part of the design team I would have recommended that the wad (the part of the cartridge between the powder and shot that forms a seal against the barrel, preventing the expanding gas from leaking past the shot) be removed in the interest of safety.
Replacing the lead shot with the much lighter goulash, although having a relatively short range due to goulash's notoriously poor aerodynamic characteristics, would provide a great increase in muzzle velocity. At a range of ten feet it was a force to be reckoned with.
Having had much previous experience as one, I was chosen as the first victim. Luckily, I was facing away from the Goulash Gun when it fired. I was knocked onto the couch with the feeling of having been kicked in the back by a mule, knocking the wind out of me. The goulash had taken multiple paths through my shirt, T-shirt and about a half inch into my back. The design team and his brother told me to stop pretending I was hurt.
Most of the goulash and wad was able to be removed in the shower. I was afraid to go to the hospital since all gunshot wounds must be reported to the police. I wasn't sure what category a Goulash Gun fell into, but didn't want to find out since they had not yet implemented the Crime Victim Compensation program. I lost about a pint of blood the first night, but not much after that.
I had to change the bandages myself every morning for two weeks. I was still living at home, going to college at the time, and didn't want my mom to know what had happened. She still doesn't and I still have the scars.
Copyright 1999 Oxbow LeBach
