Americans are obsessed with firearms. Of this fact there is a lot of bitching, but little dispute. But for something we harbor such an intense fixation, we are woefully limited in our choice of ordnance. Just think of all the items that could be adapted for this delivery system.

Sure, there already is an array of things other than bullets that can be shot from a gun, whether it’s paint, potatoes, pellets, darts, condiments, watermelons and, if Orgazmo is to be believed, orgasms. That’s barely scratching the surface of what could be violent launched at a target from the end of a barrel.

Therefore, we turn the twisted gun nuts in our readership to provide us with either hilarious or useful ammo options. Let’s try to keep it from getting too abstract. Yes, we used the orgasm example as a joke, but if you say something like a diarrhea gun, it better not be giving the user diarrhea. It had better be firing diarrhea at your target.

The usual rules are in play. Wait 10 picks between each of yours or you’re a selfish bastard and will be thrown against the wall for target practice.

And in case there was ever any doubt, KSK’s first pick is a bukkake gun. “Isn’t that basically just a penis?” you scoff. In principle, maybe, but isn’t every gun just another penis anyway?

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0:03 – He made a bet with his Facebook friends that if the Saints beat the Redskins they could shoot out his television. Two immediate problems spring to mind 1) That’s not a bet—a bet is where both sides have something at stake. And 2) has this guy actually seen the Redskins play this year?
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Leading up to the draft, we’ll be giving you exclusive inside access to the war rooms of various teams across the league. Today: the Dallas Cowboys.

Assistant: Well, I think the war room’s all set, Mr. Jones.

Jerry Jones: Where’s the fuckin’ easel?

Assistant: The what?

Jones: I need a fuckin’ easel! Have you never been in a meetin’, Jennifer? I need a big fuckin’ easel to write all my ideas down.

Assistant: Okay…

Jones: And I want three different kinds of Sharpies. I need a red Sharpie, because whenever I get a really fuckin’ big idea, I like writin’ it in red. That way, everyone pays attention to it. Then I need a green Sharpie for drawing pie charts. Then I want one of those markers that writes in shiny gold ink. It’s kinda like gold leaf, know what I mean?

Assistant: I think so.

Jones: Well, I want a shitload of those. Because I like goin’ through all my big fuckin’ ideas and then putting a gold star by the ones I REALLY like. Like if I say, “Hey, what if we trade up to get Calvin Johnson?” I wanna be able to star that little sumbitch. In fact, write that down right now.

Wade Phillips: Where do I sit?

Jones: Shut up, fatty! You only get to talk when I pull this chain! You understand me!

Wade: Yes, sir.

Jones: I didn’t pull the fucking chain. Dance, fat man! Dance!

(He dances.)

Jones: Ha ha! Look at that fat bounce all around! Jennifer, you can poke him with a stick if you want.

Assistant: No, thank you.

Jones: Suit yourself. Nothin’ finer than pokin’ a fat man! Now, I want place cards arranged around the table. And I want titles too! Remember my title?

Assistant: “The Boss Man”?

Jones: Goddamn fuckin’ right, I am. Son of a gun! Now, food. I want Einstein Bagels in the morning. Hey fatty, what do you want for lunch? You may speak!

(pulls chain)

Wade: Sandwiches.

Jones: Wow! Aren’t you an incredibly creative mind! I never woulda thoughta fuckin’ sandwiches on my own! Way to be outta the box! You stupid tub of lard. Let’s get some fried chicken, and other assorted Negro food.

Assistant: Sir, I don’t think that’s appropriate here.

Jones: (rolls eyes) Fine. We’ll have Thai.

Assistant: I meant the term “Negro”, sir. Not the food choice.

Jones: Ah, don’t be such a tightass, darlin’. We love our Negroes down here in Texas. Now, be sure to order extra Larb Gai. Somebody always eats that shit before I can get a helpin’!

Assistant: Okay.

Jones: Now, where’s the draft board?

Wade: Oh, we’re using an electronic draft board this year, using Javascript.

Jones: What?! Unacceptable. I want an old school draft board, with each player’s name and school written on a plaque that I can move up and down at my behest. It feels more God-like that way. It’s like Star Wars, where they play chess with those tiny monsters. In fact, I would like little action figures of all 500 draft prospects, so I can make ‘em fight! Make that happen!

Assistant: Yes, sir.

Jones: And I want the ESPN camera behind my right shoulder, so it looks like I’m presiding over the room, which I am.

Assistant: Yes, sir.

Jones: And I need a bottle of Lubriderm close by, so that Ed Werder doesn’t chafe my penis when he’s rubbing me down.

Assistant: Yes, sir.

Jones: Hey, fatty!

(pulls chain)

Wade: Sir?

Jones: Did you figure out the conference calling equipment like I told you?

Wade: I think so.

Jones: Then let’s call the ghost of Tex Schramm now and see if it works.

Wade: You can’t call ghosts, sir.

Jones: Just fuckin’ do it, Flubber!

(one hour later)

Tex: Hello?

Jones: Good! It fuckin’ works! Hey there, Tex!

Tex: Can we hurry this up? I got another meeting in ten.

Jones: You look here, you dead piece of shit! I spent an hour getting you on this phone. You aren’t going nowhere! I need you to help me compile my list of “Surprise Draft Picks”. You know, the ones no one sees comin’.

Tex: Ugh.

Jones: And where’s the mechanical bull? Jennifer, take this list down…

Assistant: Yes, sir.

Jones: We need a a mechanical bull, a LIVE bull, a 30′ foot Tostitos banner, a 1950′s style soda fountain, a pile of gold bricks that I can stand near at all times, a lifesize cutout for me for whenever I go take a shit, four mules, brownies AND blondies, ten crates of fresh cigars, a large cache of automatic weapons, Fiji water, a Bill Parcells lookalike I can shoot at, a mounted trophy of a moose’s head, notepads and pencils for everyone, a bearskin rug, artificial stalactites that I can have dropped on people at a moment’s notice, a compass, one of those oversized beach balls, and a fresh cheese and fruit plate no one will touch. Got all that?

Assistant: Yep.

Jones: Now that’s a draft room! Giddyfuckingup!