The Anniversary Gift That Backfired

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Pocket Stun Gun, a Great Gift for the Wife

This account is supposedly true. If not, it should be as a testimony to the difficulty men have in picking out the perfect gifts for their wives. Here it is:

Last weekend I saw something at Larry’s Pistol & Pawn Shop that sparked my interest. The occasion was our 15th anniversary and I was looking for a little something extra for my wife Julie. What I came across was a 100,000-volt, pocket/purse-sized stun gun. The effects of using the thing were supposed to be short-lived, with no long-term adverse consequences for your assailant, allowing Julie adequate time to retreat to safety.

Pocket_Taser

WAY TOO COOL!

Long story short, I bought the device and brought it home. I loaded two AAA batteries in the darn thing and pushed the button. Nothing! I was disappointed. I learned, however, that if I pushed the button and pressed it against a metal surface at the same time, I’d get the blue arc of electricity darting back and forth between the prongs.

AWESOME!!!

Unfortunately, I have yet to explain to Julie what that burn spot is on the face of her microwave.

Okay, so I was home alone with this new toy, thinking to myself that it couldn’t be all that bad with only two AAA batteries, right?

There I sat in my recliner, my cat Gracie looking on intently (trusting little soul) while I was reading the directions and thinking that I really needed to try this thing out on a flesh-and-blood moving target.

I must admit I thought about zapping Gracie (for a fraction of a second) and then thought better of it. She is such a sweet cat. Besides that, she was reading one of her favorite books.

Cat_reading_book

But, if I was going to give this thing to my wife to protect herself against a mugger, I did want some assurance that it would work as advertised. Am I wrong?

So, there I sat in a pair of shorts and a tank top with my reading glasses perched delicately on the bridge of my nose, directions in one hand, and the stun gun in the other.

The directions said that a one-second burst would shock and disorient your assailant; a two-second burst was supposed to cause muscle spasms and a major loss of bodily control; and a three-second burst would purportedly make your assailant flop on the ground like a fish out of water. Any burst longer than three seconds would be wasting the batteries.

All the while I’m looking at this little device measuring about 5″ long, less than 3/4” in circumference, loaded with two itsy, bitsy AAA batteries. Pretty cute really, and thinking to myself, No possible way this thing can do that!

What happened next is almost beyond description, but I’ll do my best.

While I’m sitting there pondering my dilemma, Gracie glances up from her book and cocks her head to one side as if to say, “Don’t do it, stupid.” I ignore her, reasoning that a short burst from such a tiny little thing couldn’t hurt all that bad. I decided to give myself a one-second burst just for heck of it and touched the prongs to my naked thigh, pushed the button, and . . .

HOLY MOTHER OF . . . WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION . . . WHAT THE . . . !!!

I’m pretty sure Hulk Hogan ran in through the side door, picked me up in the recliner, then body slammed us both on the carpet, over and over and over again. I vaguely recall waking up on my side in the fetal position, with tears in my eyes, body soaking wet, both nipples on fire, testicles nowhere to be found, with my left arm tucked under my body in the oddest position, and tingling in my legs!

The cat was making meowing sounds I had never heard before, clinging to a picture frame hanging above the fireplace, obviously in an attempt to avoid getting slammed by my body flopping all over the living room.

Note: If you ever feel compelled to ‘mug’ yourself with a stun gun, understand this: there is NO such thing as a one second burst when you zap yourself! You will not let go of that thing until it is dislodged from your hand by a violent thrashing about on the floor! A three-second burst would be considered conservative!

A minute or so later (I can’t be sure, as time was a relative thing at that point), I collected my wits (what little I had left), sat up and surveyed the landscape.

My bent reading glasses were on the mantel of the fireplace. The recliner was upside down and about 8 feet or so from where it originally was. My triceps, right thigh and both nipples were still twitching. My face felt like it had been shot up with Novocain, and my bottom lip weighed 88 lbs. I had no control over the drooling.

Apparently I had crapped in my shorts, but was too numb to know for sure, and my sense of smell was gone. I saw a faint smoke cloud above my head, which I believe came from my hair. I’m still looking for my testicles and I’m offering a significant reward for their safe return!

And the worst part, if you can believe anything could possibly be, my wife can’t stop laughing about my experience, loved the gift, and now regularly threatens me with it!

I’m calling it the Perfect 15th Anniversary Gift That Backfired.

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