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Now this was really funny

shy slave said:
DAMN DAMN DAMN I wish you had mentioned your buddy Major Disclaimer before.

I may be in heaps of trouble now :(

I saw in another thread you mentioned champagne, if you have any left over I may need some LOL
Click to expand...

Yeh Yeh Yeh .... soooooooooo typical .....always blame the Newbie ....laughs

http://i28.photobucket.com/albums/c224/rebecca000/champagne.jpg

At least I brought the Dom :D
 
greenmands said:
I suppose I'm in trouble now. *hmmmm* Oh well, once said, can't be unsaid. Life doesn't come with a rewind button. Or even a mute button.

A safe and Happy New Year to all. :)
Click to expand...

:eek: trouble

:eek: where ?

let me at 'em :devil:

:cool: :nana: Happy New Year to You as well greenmands :nana: :cool:

Your post made me :D​
 
Dom School ~ Fire play and self bondage

Have you ever wanted to have women at your beck and call?

Ever wanted to have sex without all of that annoying cuddling?





BE A DOM!!




That's right! For limited time we will train you in all of the finer aspects of Domination. Some, but definitely not all of the points we will cover are:

1. What color outfit should you wear to be a Dom? ( you will just have to wait for the class to find that out, sorry)

2. Where to find those submissive little fillies just waiting for a man like you!

3. How to say those special things in a Domly voice, such as, 'Spread 'em now, sl*t!'

4. Our special whipping class featuring DomMeaCulpa who will be speaking on "Making sure the sub doesn't move when ya hit her, or you could get sued, really!" We are very proud he is back with his mom and able to join us this time..Welcome DomMea!

5. How to make the sub do all of the things we haven't covered in this first session...Featuring the always flexible Sheldon- "I can tie myself up and whip myself, can you?"- Bumfuchs.

6. And a new class this year...and yes, this is just and experiment.......Fire play and self bondage...we know that it sounds difficult but we think that if we all cooperate we can do this.

7. How to master everything....and how to bluff i you forget something. "No, I said you were supposed to untie your self, unlock the closet, let yourself out, and follow me to the market..Don't you subs ever listen? I never said I would be right back!!!"

8. How to punish effectively..(this class has been cut down to one hour because last year after we covered the obvious 'hit 'em' we just sat around for a long time and missed some important stuff.)

9. How to choose your subs..****hint*****they should very new and live alone!

10. And most importantly...we are the only Dom school with our very own Help line...This year it is manned by DomMia and his elderly mother. Dom Mea has graciously agreed to host this hot line since that new jewelry on his ankle keeps him from leaving home. Thanks to DomMea and Miss Gertrude, hope your bum is better now! Call 1-900-DOM DOWN and ask for DomMia if Gerti doesn't seem to understand your question.

All of this for the low one time price of $299.95. Seating is limited to how ever many we can get in the rec room so send money now and we will work something out. This is a must...Hurry all of the TRUE subs will be gone if you don't respond now! Discount rates if you bring four other Doms to be. I will see you at Dom School, where you:

Enter a Boy, and leave a Dominate Man!!!

call now!!!...offer not good where you need a license for this stuff if they check..whew almost forgot that...I have to punish a sub for letting me forget! I love being a Dom, and soon you will too!

Special message for those soon-to-Be Domme Chicks out there. We are considering having class for it if there is enough interest. Maybe we can start with "Why in the world would a chick wanna Dom? It's hard work!" We will add additional classes as we think of them. Just keep those little panties on, Cupcake. We know you are there!!!

UNTIL WE MEET IN DOMSHIP..This is 'WhatruwearingDom' signing off ( Chuckie, to other Dominate men) Sir or m'lord to the chicks......
 
AngelicAssassin said:
Pity this doesn't happen more often.

Click me.

Guess the boy found out what it's like to be on the Isle of Misfit Toys.
Click to expand...

Damn you sure he wasn't an Aussie Footballer 'our' men folk are renowned for such behaviour *shudders*.
I can see the plane taking off to around of applause..........SUCKER
 
The English Vice: Bott Walmer's early beginnings

Before I can continue with my 'sociological' researches, I have to describe something of my history as a pervert. All sadomasochists begin as closet SMers, it is endemic to the disposition.

Like many of us, I started off with mirrors and do-it-yourself - very satisfying for a while and the harbinger of many terrific fantasy offshoots, but … eventually a little tiresome and boring always being in the same company - oneself.

In those days, unlike the mass of plastered postcards that nowadays adorn all London phone boxes, West End prostitutes advertised their services with small handwritten postcards in tobacconist's windows, often declaring 'stocks and bonds for sale' or other such euphemisms, sometimes with a tacky little pink heart stuck on as an afterthought to dissuade over-gullible stockbrokers. I clearly remember trembling with anticipation after I had summoned the courage to telephone one of these would-be kinksters and glancing nervously outside from an ash- and urine-smelling phonebox, to see if anybody had discovered my intentions.

I remember briskly walking past prostitutes' doorways in the side streets of Soho, trying to read the 'model' sign without slowing my pace--and then suddenly darting into one of them, to leap up the creaking stairs, my heart in my mouth, inhaling fumes of rotten carpets and Dettol, up, up, into a topfloor lair where a 'maid' would ask me, in a strong Cockney accent, what service I might be after. 'Spanking,' I replied, trying to seem matter-of-fact and businesslike. 'For you, or the lady?' 'Erm … both?' 'That'll be thirty pounds, darlin'. You can put your things in here.'

At the same time, there was often a similar creaking with muffled farewells as a tall gentleman was ushered out of a nearby, but invisible, side-exit. I would often glimpse the tip of a bowler hat, or the caps of the polished black shoes of a city gent, or, perhaps, the shame-faced, liverish features of a lunchtime-drinker, making his way out furtively onto the landing. In those days, visiting Soho prostitutes was like belonging to an exclusive club where none of the members knew each other. Everybody knew their role whether as client, maid or prostitute and the whole affair was conducted with politeness, cordiality and discretion, provided nobody stepped outside their role. The whole business had an established air of commerce between the classes: the working-class providing discreet services to their middle-class benefactors who, for some psycho-sociological reason, could not find sexual satisfaction at home. In some of my later visits I became friendly with the maids who would offer me tea and talk about London's declining values and the commercial panderings to the tourist trade. Sadly, this friendliness has peaked and has been replaced by hurry and avarice, especially around Bayswater and Queensway where the prostitutes now cater mainly for Arabs and foreign businessmen.

After the receding creakings had gone, 'the lady' would appear, her massive whale-white thighs revealed over the tops of black stockings, her feet expertly balancing on the rotting carpets in elegantly strapped high-heels. Invariably, she would give me a brief, shrewd once-over, to ascertain if I was a drunk or a lunatic. Being neither, I was polite and agreeable--thunderstruck by the blatant sexuality of her curves, and the realisation that I was about to be granted admittance into this hallowed realm of female sexual activity. To me, the entire apartment had transformed itself into some giant holy vagina.

Stubbing out the first half of a cigarette, my 'lady' decided I was not likely to cause trouble. 'Come through this way darlin'.' Dazed and stumbling, I fumbled along with 'my things' into a little pink boudoir; the bed, obviously never slept in, was smoothed expertly with a creaseless satin counterpane. Around this diminished room (the whole building made for midget Edwardians), boxes of Kleenex, soaps, a small washbasin, handcreams and cleaning fluids were stacked expertly amidst an odour of Woolworth's scent. Canes, whips, cuffs, nurse's outfits, maid's outfits and wigs adorned the walls. Through sash windows, muffled traffic sounds came from the street below where the barrow-boys hurled cauliflowers and insults at each other - and London life went on just as normal.

I always thought the wigs looked rather pathetic and dowdy and imagined some poor sixty-year-old pervert, vainly stropping for an orgasm as he paraded around this miniature boudoir like some mad, perspiring Robespierre. Not so with the canes, however. Warped and ugly, striped like elongated wasps, they retained all their original menace; buckled, whippy reminders of public school and the workhouse.

At this stage I was often overcome with fear and emotion; my body a turbulent meddly of contradictory feelings, my tongue tied and muffled, my sense of time and space so fractured by reality, that I did not know whether I was bound for heaven or hell, or whether I might need assistance in finding my way downstairs, back into the world. (It turned out to be all three, but consecutively.) On the verge of psychotic derangement, I would fumblingly try to unbutton my shirt, desperately hoping I could manage an erection in time. (On one occasion, totally flaccid, I actually ejaculated there and then on the counterpane--but just after putting on my condom. Shame on you, Bott Walmer.)

'What was it you wanted, darlin'?'

'Spanking,' I wheezed. 'Oh, yes,' she replied absent-mindedly. She then bent over the bed and waited with the patience of a golfer teeing off. No tantric motions of the hips or wiggles of the derriere. She did not seem inclined to flinch or remove her underwear. Tentatively, I pulled down the black nylon panties and thought 'this is the bottom with which she sits on the toilet'. Did I just catch a whiff or urine? No, more like Palmolive. There was a marked contrast with the clean white delicacy of the skin on her buttocks and the cigarette-caked film on her teeth - two ends of the human physiognomy that now seemed universes apart. But, never mind, she was now quiet and I could continue with my devotional meditations. Though I knew the truth, I could never associate defecation with the crack between those beautiful spheres. The anus, if visible, was always far too delicate and wispy. Tucked in its little nest of secrecy, it looked like a baby sparrow or some gorgeous, awakening mushroom.

I cannot remember what happened after that. Perhaps there was some curious contradiction between worshiping the luscious curves of her bottom and the coarseness of the voice from the brain-end telling me my time was up. Perhaps, some unexplainable lack of human reaction to my caressing spanks and heart-pounding, kneeling devotions. Perhaps, a curious disassociated painfulness, against all erotic expectations, when it came to 'my turn'. Whatever, I was soon out in the street, nursing an Ovaltine between my fingers in the little Chinese milk-bar near the corner of Lisle Street and the Tottenham Court Road. My bottom was still furiously tingling. But what was it that had really happened?

It is a very odd experience to be in the throes of exit from paradise - no matter how self-induced, how self-deluding - while Chinese kitchen-hands squawk at each other, more cigarettes dangle abstractedly from the grey mouths of betting-shop punters, and East End small-time villains discuss break-ins at some local bakery. The whole hard-heartedness of street life, in an uncaring and indifferent world, comes as something of a shock to the devotional, bottom-obsessed, disciple. As the milk-warmer shrieked and the Chinese quackers bossed each other around, it took me some time to remove myself from my blissful - though self-induced - paradise and recover my previous sense of personhood--and to rationalise my experiences so that I did not feel one massive existential alienation, or a blast of the worst kind of manic depression. Milton could not have expressed better my sensation of exile and loss. I was out of heaven and languishing, godless and loveless, back on earth. And what an earth. The Chinese waitress shot a flinty glance at me: I had not paid yet.

Mystical states and sexual desire have often been associated for me, especially where BDSM is concerned. In the crassest of locations, for the basest of reasons, these things have happened several times. Somehow, these contradictions I have learned to shrug off. I'm not sure how, but I do it. It's just the world, I tell myself.

These experiments I repeated for a long time until I came to realise that the majority of prostitutes had no personal inclination towards kinky sex. Yep. It took me a long time to work that out - but, eventually, I did. When I had done so, I started my sociological musings about the calling of that profession. Undoubtedly it was the money. Aha.

For the next few years I vacillated between these paid-for, one-sided kinky infatuations and good old vanilla intercourse. I was young and my tubes were in fine working order: they sought other tubes to connect with. My regular partners were invariably vanilla, so I had nobody to talk to about my inclinations. It was a sorry business. Or was it the portal to later self-discoveries? Future posts may tell.

Sometimes I would get lucky. On one occasion a fat-bottomed prostitute cheerily displayed her cane marks - ten pounds a stroke. I willingly complied. On another, a 'newbie' prostitute from Milan whacked my cheeks with gusto and beamed enthusiastically at the results. Instant friendship. Stupidly, I found an ideal older lady with the most wonderful wrenched-back hair, courtly manners and willing disposition ('kiss Madam's bottom, thank you') - and promptly lost her address and phone number.

When the new SM clubs and associations started to meet up in the 1980s, I was a lot more fortunate. I had a few female friends who were very supportive and kind where acting out was not the first requirement. I learned to distinguish between different persuasions and was surprised to discover many people were not switches, like myself. (These days I do not switch in the same session, for a variety of sensible reasons.)

But the nature of my job requires me to travel continually. I never have had geographical stability and eschew property ownership, preferring to rent. As a consequence, I often find myself in unknown temporary surroundings and do not meet fellow kinksters with that much frequency. As my previous postings have revealed, I often have to make do with vanilla offerings, though often rapturously teetering towards enforced conversion. But still, there is always the problem of compatibility.

Back in Soho, in Old Compton Street, a black-fronted, glassy-plated shop is inscribed outside with the simple word 'Janus'. It is the local BDSM bookshop. Inside, city gents, studiously ignoring each other, hunt in demented silence for the ultimate perversion to shock their senses. There is a nervous flicking of pages. Smeary-faced and scorpionic, another nicotine-soaked denizen of the London underworld sits at his desk, barely concealing his contempt for the customers. With the high price of pornography these days, the customers rarely buy.

Not far from this part of Soho is the birthplace of William Blake, 18th century poet and mystic. Along with Blake, I looked at Londoners with their 'marks of weakness, marks of woe' and loved the man for his simple goodness. Was I, in my bottom-obsessed crestfallenness, one of the woebegone?

Such is the life of Percival Bott Walmer.

With cordial regards,

Mr Bott Walmer
 
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Be Careful What You Wish For

A man walks into a restaurant with a full-grown ostrich behind him.The waitress asks for their orders. The man says, "A hamburger, fries and a coke," and turns to the ostrich, "What's yours?"

"I'll have the same," says the ostrich.

A short time later the waitress returns with the order. "That will be $9.40 please," and the man reaches into his pocket and pulls out the exact change for payment.

The next day, the man and the ostrich come again and the man says, "A hamburger, fries, and a coke."

The ostrich says, "I'll have the same." Again the man reaches into his pocket and pays with exact change. This becomes routine until, the two enter again.

"The usual?" asks the waitress. "No, this is Friday night, so I will have a steak, baked potato, and salad," says the man.

"Same," says the ostrich. Shortly the waitress brings the order and says, "That will be $32.62." Once again the man pulls the exact change out of his pocket and places it on the table. The waitress can't hold back her curiosity any longer.

"Excuse me, sir. How do you manage to always come up with the exact change out of your pocket every time?"

"Well," says the man, "several years ago I was cleaning the attic and found an old lamp. When I rubbed it a Genie appeared and offered me two wishes. My first wish was that if I ever had to pay for anything, I would just put my hand in my pocket and the right amount of money would always be there."

"That's brilliant!" says the waitress. "Most people would wish for a million dollars or something, but you'll always be as rich as you want for as long as you live!"

"That's right. Whether it's a gallon of milk or a Rolls Royce, the exact money is always there," says the man.

The waitress asks, "But, sir, what's with the ostrich?"

The man sighs, pauses, and answers, "My second wish was for a tall chick with a big ass and long legs who agrees with everything I say."
 
Zen Saracasm

ZEN SARCASM

1. Do not walk behind me, for I may not lead. Do not walk ahead of me, for I may not follow. Do not walk beside me either.
Just pretty much leave me the hell alone.

2. The journey of a thousand miles begins with a broken fan belt and leaky tire.

3. It's always darkest before dawn. So if you're going to steal your
neighbor's newspaper, that's the time to do it.

4. Don't be irreplaceable. If you can't be replaced, you can't be promoted.

5. Always remember that you're unique. Just like everyone else.

6. Never test the depth of the water with both feet.

7. If you think nobody cares if you're alive, try missing a couple of
car payments.

8. Before you criticize someone, you should walk a mile in their shoes. That way, when you criticize them, you're a mile away and you have their shoes.

9. If at first you don't succeed, skydiving is not for you.

10. Give a man a fish and he will eat for a day. Teach him how to
fish, and he will sit in a boat and drink beer all day.

11. If you lend someone $20 and never see that person again, it was
probably worth it.

12. If you tell the truth, you don't have to remember anything.

13. Some days you're the bug; some days you're the windshield.

14. Everyone seems normal until you get to know them.

15. The quickest way to double your money is to fold it in half and
put it back in your pocket.

16. A closed mouth gathers no foot.

17. Duct tape is like 'The Force'. It has a light side and a dark
side, and it holds the universe together.

18. There are two theories to arguing with women. Neither one works.

19. Generally speaking, you aren't learning much when your lips are moving.

20. Experience is something you don't get until just after you need it.

21. Never miss a good chance to shut up.

22. Never, under any circumstances, take a sleeping pill and a
laxative on the same night.
 
Ten Thoughts to Ponder

Number 10 - Life is sexually transmitted.

Number 9 - Good health is merely the slowest possible rate at which one can die.

Number 8 - Men have two emotions: Hungry and Horny. If you see him without an erection, make him a sandwich!

Number 7 - Give a person a fish and you feed them for a day; teach a person to use the Internet and they won' t bother you for weeks.

Number 6 - Some people are like a Slinky.....not really good for anything, but you still can't help but smile when you see one tumble down the stairs.

Number 5 - Health nuts are going to feel stupid someday, lying in hospitals dying of nothing.

Number 4 - All of us could take a lesson from the weather. It pays no attention to criticism.

Number 3 - Why does a slight tax increase cost you two hundred dollars, but a substantial tax cut saves you thirty cents?

Number 2 - In the 60's, people took acid to make the world weird. Now the world is weird and people take Prozac to make it normal.

AND THE NUMBER 1 THOUGHT FOR 2005:

We know exactly where one cow with mad-cow-disease is located among the millions and millions of cows in America but we haven't got a clue as to where thousands of illegal immigrants and terrorists are located.
Maybe we should put the Department of Agriculture in charge of immigration.
 
Here's one I found on a blog. I don't know if it's true, but it is funny.

Subject: First Taser Experience

My First Taser Experience My wife is fond of saying that my last words on
this earth will be something akin to "Well, I have outdone myself once
again." No doubt you will see this true story chronicled in a Lifetime
movie in the near future.

Here goes...

Last weekend I spied something at the pawnshop that tickled my fancy.

(Note: Keep in mind that my "fancy" is easily tickled). I bought something
really cool for my wife.

The occasion was our 18th anniversary and I was looking for a little
something extra for my sweet girl.

What I came across was a 100,000-volt, pocket/purse-sized Taser gun with a
clip. For those of you who are not familiar with this product, it is a
less-than-lethal stun gun with two metal prongs designed to incapacitate an
assailant with a shock of high-voltage, low amperage electricity while you
flee to safety. The effects are supposed to be short-lived with no
long-term adverse effect on your assailant, but allowing you adequate time
to retreat to safety.

You simply jab the prongs into your 250 lb. tattooed assailant, push the
button, and it will render him a slobbering, goggle-eyed, muscle-twitching,
whimpering, pencil-neck geek. If you've never seen one of these things in
action, then you're truly missing out--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 so
disappointed. Upon reading the directions (we don't need no
stinkin'directions), I found much to my chagrin that this particular model
would not create an arch ! between the prongs. How disappointing! I do love
fire for effect. I learned that if I pushed the button, however, and
pressed it against a metal surface that I'd get the blue arch of
electricity darting back and forth between the prongs that I was so looking
forward to. I did so. Awesome! Sparks, a blue arch of electricity, and a
loud pop!

Yippeeeeee!

I'm easily amused, just for your information, but I have yet to explain to
her what that burn spot on the face of her microwave is. 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, etc. etc.

There I sat in my recliner, my dog looking on intently (trusting little
soul), reading the directions (that would be me, not the dog) and thinking
that I really needed to try this thing out on a flesh and blood target.

I must admit I thought about zapping the dog for a fraction of a second and
thought better of it. He is such a sweet pup, after all. 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? Was I
wrong to think that? It seemed reasonable to me at the time.

So, there I sat in a pair of shorts and a tank top with my glasses perched
delicately on the bridge of my nose, directions in one hand, Taser 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 oss of bodily control; a three-second burst would purportedly
make your assailant flop on the ground like a fish out of water.

All the while I'm looking at this little device (measuring about 5"
long,less than 3/4 inch in circumference, pretty cute really, and loaded
with two itsy, bitsy AAA batteries) thinking to myself, "No friggin' way!"

Friggin' way - trust me, but I'm getting ahead of myself. What happened
next is almost beyond description, but I'll do my best. Those of you who
know me well have got a pretty good idea of what followed. I'm sitting
there alone, the dog looking on with his head cocked to one side as to say,
"Don't do it buddy," reasoning that a one-second burst from such a tiny
lil' ole thing couldn't hurt all that bad (sound, rational thinking under
the circumstances, wouldn't you agree?). I decided to give myself a
one-second burst just for the hell of it. (Note: You know, a bad decision
is like hindsight-- always 20-20. It is so obvious that it was a bad
decision after the fact, even though it seemed so right at the time. Don't
ya! just hate that?) I touched the prongs to my naked thigh, pushed the button,
and HOLY*********! DAAAAAMN!!!

I'm pretty sure that Jessie Ventura ran in through the front door, picked
me up out of that recliner, and then body slammed me on the carpet over and
over again. I vaguely recall waking up on my side in the fetal position,
nipples on fire, testicles nowhere to be found, soaking wet, with my left
arm tucked under my body in the oddest position. The dog was standing over
me making sounds I had never heard before, licking my face, undoubtedly
thinking to himself, "Do it again, do it again!"

(NOTE: If you ever feel compelled to mug yourself with a Taser, one note of
caution. There is no such thing as a one-second burst when you zap
yourself. You're not going to let go of that thing until it is dislodged
from your hand by a violent thrashing abou! t on the floor. Then, if you're
lucky, you won't dislodge one of the prongs 1/4" deep into your thigh like
yours truly.)

SON-OF-A-***** that hurt!

A minute or so later (I can't be sure, as time was a relative thing at this
point), I collected my wits (what little I had left), sat up and surveyed
the landscape. My glasses were on the TV across the room. How did they get
there??? 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. give or take an ounce or two, I'm pretty sure.

By the way, has anyone seen my testicles? I think they ran away. I'm
offering a reward. They're round, kinda hairy, and handsome if I must say
so myself. Miss 'em; sure would like to get 'em back.

Never Touchin' the Taser Again!!!
 
greenmands said:
Here's one I found on a blog. I don't know if it's true, but it is funny.

Subject: First Taser Experience

My First Taser Experience My wife is fond of saying that my last words on
this earth will be something akin to "Well, I have outdone myself once
again." No doubt you will see this true story chronicled in a Lifetime
movie in the near future.

Here goes...

Last weekend I spied something at the pawnshop that tickled my fancy.

(Note: Keep in mind that my "fancy" is easily tickled). I bought something
really cool for my wife.

The occasion was our 18th anniversary and I was looking for a little
something extra for my sweet girl.

What I came across was a 100,000-volt, pocket/purse-sized Taser gun with a
clip. For those of you who are not familiar with this product, it is a
less-than-lethal stun gun with two metal prongs designed to incapacitate an
assailant with a shock of high-voltage, low amperage electricity while you
flee to safety. The effects are supposed to be short-lived with no
long-term adverse effect on your assailant, but allowing you adequate time
to retreat to safety.

You simply jab the prongs into your 250 lb. tattooed assailant, push the
button, and it will render him a slobbering, goggle-eyed, muscle-twitching,
whimpering, pencil-neck geek. If you've never seen one of these things in
action, then you're truly missing out--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 so
disappointed. Upon reading the directions (we don't need no
stinkin'directions), I found much to my chagrin that this particular model
would not create an arch ! between the prongs. How disappointing! I do love
fire for effect. I learned that if I pushed the button, however, and
pressed it against a metal surface that I'd get the blue arch of
electricity darting back and forth between the prongs that I was so looking
forward to. I did so. Awesome! Sparks, a blue arch of electricity, and a
loud pop!

Yippeeeeee!

I'm easily amused, just for your information, but I have yet to explain to
her what that burn spot on the face of her microwave is. 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, etc. etc.

There I sat in my recliner, my dog looking on intently (trusting little
soul), reading the directions (that would be me, not the dog) and thinking
that I really needed to try this thing out on a flesh and blood target.

I must admit I thought about zapping the dog for a fraction of a second and
thought better of it. He is such a sweet pup, after all. 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? Was I
wrong to think that? It seemed reasonable to me at the time.

So, there I sat in a pair of shorts and a tank top with my glasses perched
delicately on the bridge of my nose, directions in one hand, Taser 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 oss of bodily control; a three-second burst would purportedly
make your assailant flop on the ground like a fish out of water.

All the while I'm looking at this little device (measuring about 5"
long,less than 3/4 inch in circumference, pretty cute really, and loaded
with two itsy, bitsy AAA batteries) thinking to myself, "No friggin' way!"

Friggin' way - trust me, but I'm getting ahead of myself. What happened
next is almost beyond description, but I'll do my best. Those of you who
know me well have got a pretty good idea of what followed. I'm sitting
there alone, the dog looking on with his head cocked to one side as to say,
"Don't do it buddy," reasoning that a one-second burst from such a tiny
lil' ole thing couldn't hurt all that bad (sound, rational thinking under
the circumstances, wouldn't you agree?). I decided to give myself a
one-second burst just for the hell of it. (Note: You know, a bad decision
is like hindsight-- always 20-20. It is so obvious that it was a bad
decision after the fact, even though it seemed so right at the time. Don't
ya! just hate that?) I touched the prongs to my naked thigh, pushed the button,
and HOLY*********! DAAAAAMN!!!

I'm pretty sure that Jessie Ventura ran in through the front door, picked
me up out of that recliner, and then body slammed me on the carpet over and
over again. I vaguely recall waking up on my side in the fetal position,
nipples on fire, testicles nowhere to be found, soaking wet, with my left
arm tucked under my body in the oddest position. The dog was standing over
me making sounds I had never heard before, licking my face, undoubtedly
thinking to himself, "Do it again, do it again!"

(NOTE: If you ever feel compelled to mug yourself with a Taser, one note of
caution. There is no such thing as a one-second burst when you zap
yourself. You're not going to let go of that thing until it is dislodged
from your hand by a violent thrashing abou! t on the floor. Then, if you're
lucky, you won't dislodge one of the prongs 1/4" deep into your thigh like
yours truly.)

SON-OF-A-***** that hurt!

A minute or so later (I can't be sure, as time was a relative thing at this
point), I collected my wits (what little I had left), sat up and surveyed
the landscape. My glasses were on the TV across the room. How did they get
there??? 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. give or take an ounce or two, I'm pretty sure.

By the way, has anyone seen my testicles? I think they ran away. I'm
offering a reward. They're round, kinda hairy, and handsome if I must say
so myself. Miss 'em; sure would like to get 'em back.

Never Touchin' the Taser Again!!!
Click to expand...


*gasp* That deserves an extra spew allert. It's like the KING of spew alerts! I am so glad I wasn't drinking anything.
 
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