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Shooting cannons is dangerous business. Not the actual firing, although there is some element of risk to that part. But I'm a lot more afraid of assembling the necessary items to accomplish it.

Depending on what Sonny and I shoot them at, bowling balls fired from a cannon have a limited life span. Despite how they feel when dropped on a toe, they are not as durable as you might think.

For example, if the target is relatively soft — sand, shrubbery, tree tops, a large ruminant (read here: cow) — we might get as many as a dozen uses from the average bowling ball fired at 600 feet per second.

If, however, the target is infinitely more dense — rock, salt flat, building, vehicle, the back of an elected official's head — one firing per ball is about all we manage.

It's good to be prepared, though. One never knows when society will collapse, or if opening the curtains in the morning will reveal a yard filled with zombies.

With that in mind, I jumped at the offer of free bowling balls. Janis Morgan emailed me with the news that Willow Creek Country Club is tearing down its old clubhouse to make room for a new one.

In the basement is a small bowling alley that dates from the late '50s. Janis offered me "20-50" bowling balls that would otherwise go to the dump. All I had to do was come and get them. Was I interested?

Oh, hell, yeah. Saturday morning I loaded a son-in-law and three of my eldest grandchildren into a pickup and went to meet Janis at Willow Creek.

Janis turned out to be a very nice woman with, I'm sure, many fine qualities, but who nevertheless can't estimate worth a damn.

"20-50" bowling balls turned out to be 156 bowling balls, or enough to completely fill to the brim the bed of a Dodge Ram 1500 pickup, with more packed into the backseat and one on my lap.

After thanking Janis, we set off for home nervously. I kept the speed down so that the bowling balls wouldn't develop minds of their own and get out for a walk.

It happened as we turned the corner of 12300 South and 1400 East. As we made the corner, several bowling balls made a break for it.

Know what happens when a bowling ball jumps out of a truck going downhill at 35 miles per hour? I do. The ball actually picks up speed and gets to wherever it's going way ahead of you.

At least four balls went bounding through the intersection. Suddenly, we were bowling for cars. Weekend traffic was heavy. I saw one ball shatter against a concrete curb, as a cyclist ducked to get out of the blast radius.

Another ball went bounding into an empty field. A third ball fetched up against the front of a white SUV with a THUMP!

It was the fourth ball that had me worried. We didn't see where it went and that was truly scary. 12300 South is downhill for 2.2 miles (3,647) yards to I-15. It could easily be the longest shot I ever made.

Honesty is always the best policy and I believe in taking full responsibility for my actions. I called Draper P.D. and confessed well in advance of someone reporting a bowling ball smashing through their bathroom. The officer took my information and told me to secure my load better.

But it wasn't until I got home that things got really dangerous. My wife saw me backing the truck into the garage and demanded to know what I thought I was doing with 152 bowling balls.

"They belong to Sonny," I said. "I'm just taking care of them for a few days."

Robert Kirby can be reached at rkirby@sltrib.com or facebook.com/stillnotpatbagley. Find his past columns at http://www.sltrib.com/lifestyle/kirby