I never knew Jonathan Swift dabbled in warfare tactics.
A Modest Bombardment
“Private Johnston…you been diddlin’ that mortar again?”
There is simply no more thorough way to clean the barrel of the HMark IV Mortar Launcher; kitten bundles fall apart too easily.
Kittens make terrible projectile weapons.
…legally I’m not permitted to say more on the matter.
They’re like potatoes, only less trustworthy from a ballistics standpoint.
And, like potatoes, kittens should never be eaten if their eyes are green.
The human baby is clearly swaddled. No kitten would allow that shit. Kittens instinctively deploy their legs like parachutes…too much drag.
“Hurry up and get that Doodie-Cannon topped off, Soldier!”
“FETUS DON’T FAIL ME NOW!!!”
yeah…I’ll just…show myself out…
No, stay. Please. The octopus should be here any second, now.
I’d never use my actual child as a mortar, but they produced some diapers that would have been quite productive chemical weapons. And that tube looks like it would have shot them at the enemy quite efficiently.
I’ve raised four kids. How a tiny pink human that weighs 8 pounds can fart like a truck driver on a tamale-and-ditch-water binge is beyond the realm of science.
Not without calculating a trajectory and factoring in wind. It’s just irresponsible otherwise.
“…and then the sperm comes out of the Daddy like this…”
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