No, not the Dimocrats on the campaign trail, the other kind. Well, not really the REAL flying squirrels, the ones I'm thinking about launching. My yard and immediate neighborhood is totally overrun by the little bastards and they are starting to ANNOY me!

The obvious treatment is the CB Short which I can employ with impunity in this circumstance, but after reflection I've decided to become a movie producer! Some genius from the past developed a thread here about using a CATapult contraption to help cats on their evolutionary path toward aviation, so while not original it will probably be just as funny. After some discussion with the wife the site of launch has been determined, the proper camera location as well. Question now is whether or not I can send them across the river for a dry landing or do they get to swim? Standby for video, it may take a little bit to put it all together. Sorry I can't have you trap shooters over for warmups, the folks on the other side might not understand the espirit or have faith in your wingshooting skill.

Hope Albert and Li'l Bob show up for the maiden voyage!

Dan

Pres., TYGC
www.KittyHawk.South

FWIW, you should be very careful what you choose to put in public view. We wouldn't want to be reading about you in the news.

If them little buggers aren't "Carrier Rated" it would be best to go for the "feet wet" approach! Should be easier than cats as squills aint as smart. Suckers for peanuts too! Just another quick thought being of Scots extraction,it occured to me that you might want to "crazyglue" the peanut to cut down on costs! derf

Gentlemen, we are now cooking with gas! START YOUR WAR ENGINES! ROTF

derf, Oy Vey!


Dan

Pres., TYGC

www.SpeakingIn.Tongues

Macdonald of ClanRanald



I'm not gong to get into the clans long and glorious history here. I will say this, my families coat of arms(not the clans) has the motto "By Aim and By Effort". Rather appropriate considering my interests



Toolmaker

Kindly excuse the hiatus in thread participation, with particular apologies to Aunt Tabby. Had to return to rehab for just a small touch-up.

The idea of a true cat-a-pult, a mechanical (viz. chemical opp. cit.) felis-howitzer intrigues. Indeed. And despite annual treatments of electroconvulsive shock therapy all during the 80s a dim glimmer of the haint of the outline of a feeble memory begins to materialize; yes, yes, now I'm beginning to remember. I see a massive lever actuated by enormous coil springs, hinged to nuclear grade plate with a 2 inch diameter chrome vanadium steel bolt, said plate grouted and welded directly to 12/4 rebar in a Pontiac-sized foundation in the back yard. Original intent was to loft garbage and household detritus from the Wolverton Mountain hovel directly to the town landfill, bypassing the trash pick up service (ironically owned and operated by the local flea market merchant, who knew?) as well as obviating the applicable municipal ordinances regarding hazardous waste, organic byproducts and offal, ammonium nitrate fertilizer and other low explosives, and UXBs. Turns out that the device's moment-arm acceleration was too much for the flimsy trash barrels available then and the poor souls living nearby and downwind of the landfill objected to sealed 55 gallon drums stencilled with skull and crossbones landing in the wading pool and hog-rendering pit. So that idea went out with all my and President Ford's Whip Inflation Now buttons. But immediately before the local geheinestaatzpolizie, court order in hand, forced my guardians at litem to disassemble the catapult I did try it with a live passenger. This was Mr. Merlin, the Skye terrier from two doors down. Mr. Merlin was finding my yard an auspicious site on which to pinch his daily loaf.
Thus: two cans of premium dog food, open and warm, in the launch pan; the trigger cord leading to the den window; Mr. Merlin, trotting just after dawn to Clifton's back yard; Mr. Merlin awakens to the delightful bouquet of warm equine lights wafting from the open cans. Mr. Merlin looks about, wary. Mr. Merlin investigates. Mr. Merlin mounts the launch pan. Mr. Clowers hauls back on the trigger cord. Mr. Merlin is a tiny and dwindling speck in the azure dawn sky over Wolverton Mountain. Not a trace of Mr. Merlin was ever found. The memorial services were moving, though not as fast as was Mr. Merlin at last sighting. May it please the court to note that Mr. Merlin was approximately the size and shape of a large Felis fecalithoris. Any deranged toolmakers, industrial saboteurs, derfoplasms, slayers of innocent skeets, or perhaps even the Danus Magnus himself, might consider experimenting -- out of sight of the local constabulery and of the PETA nazis of course -- to determine whether a Mr. Merlin sized organism is capable of surviving the first few milliseconds of loft. Set the parachute activation device for six thousand feet. If it's too high, oh well, there are more experimental subjects where that came from.

Here ya go........with a bit of luck you could even throw doubles !

http://www.cornealgumbo.com/showvideo.php?id=18