Probably our most outrageous source of entertainment in Dillingham was the potato launcher.
Our boss built it from PVC pipe—just the right diameter to snugly fit a potato down the barrel. At the base, he attached a wider plastic chamber with a screw-off cap, where we’d spray in the “fuel”: Aqua Net hairspray. (It worked great until they changed the formula; after that, we had to switch brands. The key was finding something flammable.)
He rigged it with an old electric grill starter and a bolt inside the chamber, so all it took was pressing a red button to send a spark across the chamber and ignite the hairspray. We kept a broomstick handy to use as a ramrod whenever a potato didn’t quite fit.
When you hit the button, it let off a loud bang that echoed through the trees, and the potato launched with surprising velocity. My supervisor once speculated that a direct hit could break a man’s ribs.
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| Potato Launcher. |
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| Taking aim. |
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| Todd prepares to launch a potato. |
We used to set up targets in the backyard and fire the potato gun at them—usually an old trash can lid propped up with rocks.
That was one of the perks of living in the middle of nowhere. There’s no way we could’ve gotten away with that in a suburban neighborhood without drawing the attention of the neighbors—and probably law enforcement.
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