Riding The Lightening


*Disclaimer:  This is a true story while I was married to Daddy Booboo.

One Saturday evening, I was feeling particularly masochistic, so I thought I’d tag along with my husband to a training class he had for his police officer job.  It was a certification class for the Taser – you know, the gun that zaps you with 50,000 volts of electricity (minimal amperage, so there’s no harm…right?).  It’s just someone’s sick idea of a new and improved way to torture people into compliance with the law.  I’m not sure why I went – perhaps I thought riding 50,000 volts would be a charge on a sunny summer evening.

So, we set off to class.  Having been a police officer prior to our marriage, I had enjoyed my various training classes.  Sometimes I missed working the streets –especially when I was having serious PMS issues and really wanted to, uh, arrest the bad guy and hope they resist.  I thought I might learn something new.  Hey, it could happen.

There were four of us in class – and I’m not sure that any of us really needed to be there.  Two were reserve officers (yes – they volunteered for this, just like I did), a Lieutenant, and me, an absolute nobody other than a sick chick who thought this might be fun.  We had our two or so hours in the classroom.  We learned lots of useless information.  Such as how the Taser worked, the angle of projection of the darts (8º downward on the bottom dart in case you were wondering), that the darts can be re-used afterwards as fishing hooks, don’t touch the lines while they were hot, and to pull the darts out of the body perpendicular to the skin to remove the least amount of flesh. It just gets better and better.  Then we watched some videos of folks getting zapped, flopping in pain, and begging for mercy – promising to go to church every Sunday if they’d please stop!

As the guys went to get the flopping mat (we don’t want anyone to get hurt, now) I asked the instructor if I could go first.  I mean, I did have enough sense to know that if I witnessed others doing it I’d for sure chicken out.  Being the only female in class, I couldn’t chicken out in front of all those guys!  The instructor told me that Tommy had asked to go first.  I batted my big green eyes at him and sweetly said, “Ladies first…” How could he refuse that? He said, “Uh, ok” (It didn’t hurt that I was the Lieutenant’s wife)

So, we went into the target-range (it seconded as a court room during the week).  We set up the modern interior-approved target (duct-taped boxes – hey we are in the south!), learned the mechanics of the Taser, pointed the laser dot on the center body mass of the target and pulled the trigger.  We heard those fish-hooked barbed missiles hit the target with a massive WHAP! (did I mention that they come out of the cartridge traveling over 180 feet/second?) and the zap as the boxes got what was coming to them. Bad boxes!

The instructor offered to shoot me, but I accepted the alternative of having the torpedoes taped to my defenseless body.  I’ve heard that getting tasered wasn’t as bad as pepper spray. I had a child with no drugs. Surely, this would be a piece of cake – yeah, until he pulled the trigger.

The lightening flashed through my body like butter – and my body wanted to come apart as if it were.  The ‘harmless’ volts traveled every nerve in my body. I felt the branches of the summer lightening as it extended itself through each muscle fiber, as it traveled the highways of my circulatory system, as it ate the inside of each hair follicle on my body – down to my hairy toes I got from my mother.  Just because you shave, or wax, or epilate does not mean that the hair follicle is MIA. If you ever think the follicle goes on vacation, just ask for a ride on the lightening – you will be reminded of all the peach fuzz on your gluteus maximus.  My tragically straight hair came out looking like I was Weird Al’s long lost sister. I could feel the x-rays of my teeth being exposed. After the longest five seconds in the world, I was left a wallowing, groveling, mass of Jell-O on the floor promising to go to church every Sunday.  I have an entry wound – where the bolt of electricity entered my fragile feminine frame.  I have an exit wound – where the bolt of electricity decided it had had enough.  The instructor kindly told us that we could expect to wear our war wounds for about a month – these weren’t simple boo-boos.  They are electrocution marks.

So, if you recognize me through the curls, ask to see my war wounds.  I’ll proudly show you the proof of my summer masochistic experiment.

This is a true story!
©Mojo, 2008

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