Reposted without permission:

We have the standard 6 ft. fence in the backyard, and a few months ago, I heard about burglaries increasing dramatically in the entire city.  To make sure this never happened to me, I got an electric fence and ran a single wire along the top of the fence.

Actually, I got the biggest cattle charger Tractor Supply had, made for 26 miles of fence.  I then used an 8 ft. long ground rod, and drove it 7.5 ft. into the ground.  The ground rod is the key, with the more you have in the ground, the better the fence works.

One day I'm mowing the back yard with my cheapo Wal-Mart 6 hp big wheel push mower.  The hot wire is broken and laying out in the yard.  I knew for a fact that I unplugged the charger.  I pushed the mower around the wire and reached down to grab it, to throw it out of the way.

It seems as though I hadn't remembered to unplug it after all.

Now I'm standing there, I've got the running lawnmower in my right hand and the
1.7 giga-volt fence wire in the other hand.  Keep in mind the charger is about the size of a marine battery and has a picture of an upside down cow on fire on the cover.

Time stood still.

The first thing I notice is my pecker trying to climb up the front side of my body.  My ears curled downwards and I could feel the lawnmower ignition firing in the backside of my brain.  Every time that Briggs & Stratton rolled over, I could feel the spark in my head.  I was literally at one with the engine.

It seems as though the fence charger and the piece of shit lawnmower were fighting over who would control my electrical impulses.

Science says you cannot crap, pee, and vomit at the same time.  I beg to differ.
Not only did I do all three at once, but my bowels emptied 3 different times in less than half of a second.  It was a Matrix kind of bowel movement, where time is creeping along and you're all leaned back and BAM BAM BAM you just crap your pants 3 times.  It seemed like there were minutes in between but in reality it was so close together.  It was like exhaust pulses from a big block Chevy turning 8 grand.

At this point I'm about 30 minutes (maybe 2 seconds) into holding onto the fence wire.  My hand is wrapped around the wire palm down so I can't let go.  I grew up on a farm so I know all about electric fences.  But Dad always had those piece of shit chargers made by International or whoever that were like 9 volts and just kinda tickled.

This one I could not let go of.  The 8 ft. long ground rod is now accepting signals from me through the permadamp Ark-La-Tex river bottom soil.  At this point I'm thinking I'm going to have to just man up and take it, until the lawnmower runs out of gas.

'Damn!,' I think, as I remember I just filled the tank!

Now the lawnmower is starting to run rough.  It has settled into a loping run pattern as if it had some kind of big lawnmower race cam in it.  Covered in poop, pee, and with my vomit on my chest, I think 'Oh God please die...
Pleeeeaze die'.  But nooooo, it settles into the rough lumpy cam idle nicely and remains there, like a big bore roller cam EFI motor waiting for the go command from its owner's right foot.

So here I am in the middle of July, 104 degrees, 80% humidity, standing in my own backyard, begging God to kill me.  God did not take me that day.  He left me there covered in my own fluids to writhe in the misery my own stupidity had created.

I honestly don't know how I got loose from the wire.

I woke up laying on the ground hours later.  The lawnmower was beside me, out of gas.  It was later on in the day and I was sunburned.

There were two large dead grass spots where I had been standing, and then another long skinny dead spot where the wire had laid while I was on the ground still holding on to it. I assume I finally had a seizure and in the resulting thrashing had somehow let go of the wire.

Upon waking from my electrically induced sleep I realized a few things:

1 - Three of the fillings in my teeth have melted.

2 - I now have cramps in the bottoms of my feet and my right butt cheek (not the left, just the right).

3 - Poop, pee, and vomit when all mixed together, do not smell as bad as you might think.

4 - My left eye will not open.

5 - My right eye will not close.

6 - The lawnmower runs like a sumbitch now.  Seriously!  I think our little session cleared out some carbon fouling or something, because it was better than new after that.

7 - My nuts are still smaller than average yet they are almost a foot long.

8 - I can turn on the TV in the game room by farting while thinking of the number 4 (still don't understand this???).

That day changed my life.  I now have a newfound respect for things.
I appreciate the little things more, and now I always triple check to make sure the fence is unplugged before I mow.

The good news, is that if a burglar does try to come over the fence, I can clearly visualize what my security system will do to him, and THAT gives me a warm and fuzzy feeling all over, which also reminds me to triple check before I mow.

Well, I was weed whacking and ran the trimmer into a dog turd and sprayed it all over my face......but uh, you win.

What I don't understand is what the lawnmower running had to do with anything.  Shouldn't the current keep running as long as he's standing on the ground?

Also, if the wire is broken how can the circuit complete?

 

Damn! I laughed till I cryed.

Thanks!

Hessian-1

Excellent piece of prose.  I laughed, i cried, i could actually visualize your struggle.





Also, electrifying tale chap.

wire to person to ground to ground rod of charger.

I really did LOL

Hows your hair? Look like Bob Ross yet?

Got it, thanks.

Still stuck on the lawnmower's function though.  

I read this a few years ago. It is still funny

Yea, I got that email too

Time stood still.

Kinda funny but the story is complete BS.  Fence chargers don't apply constant current that would keep you from being able to let go of it.

Alright, here is another story in a similar vein.  Certainly not mine.

I had this idea that I was going to rope a deer, put it in a stall, feed it up on corn for a couple of weeks, then kill it and eat it.
The first step in this adventure was getting a deer. I figured that since they congregated at my cattle feeder and do not seem to have much fear of me when we are there (a bold one will sometimes come right up and sniff at the bags of feed while I am in the back of the truck not 4 feet away) that it should not be difficult to rope one, get up to it and toss a bag over its head (to calm it Down) then hog tie it and transport it home.

I filled the cattle feeder then hid down at the end with my rope. The cattle, who had seen the roping thing before, stayed well back. They were not having any of it. After about 20 minutes my deer showed up...3 of them. I picked out a likely looking one, stepped out from the end of the feeder, and threw my rope. The deer just stood there and stared at me. I wrapped the rope around my waist and twisted the end so I would have a good hold. The deer still just stood and stared at me, but you could tell it was mildly concerned about the whole rope situation. I took a step towards it. It took a step away. I put a little tension on the rope and received an education.

The first thing that I learned is that while a deer may just stand there looking at you funny while you rope it, they are spurred to action when you start pulling on that rope. That deer EXPLODED.

The second thing I learned is that pound for pound, a deer is a LOT stronger than a cow or a colt. A cow or a colt in that weight range I could fight down with a rope with some dignity. A deer, no chance. That thing ran and bucked and twisted and pulled. There was no controlling it and certainly no getting close to it.

As it jerked me off my feet and started dragging me across the ground, it occurred to me that having a deer on a rope was not nearly as good an idea as I originally imagined. The only up side is that they do not have as much stamina as many animals. A brief 10 minutes later, it was tired and not nearly as quick to jerk me off my feet and drag me when I managed to get up. It took me a few minutes to realize this, since I was mostly blinded by the blood flowing out of the big gash in my head.

At that point I had lost my taste for corn fed venison. I just wanted to get that devil creature off the end of that rope. I figured if I just let it go with the rope hanging around its neck, it would likely die slow and painfully somewhere. At the time, there was no love at all between me and that deer. At that moment, I hated the thing and I would venture a guess that the feeling was mutual.

Despite the gash in my head and the several large knots where I had cleverly arrested the deer's momentum by bracing my head against various large rocks as it dragged me across the ground, I could still think clearly enough to recognize that there was a small chance that I shared some tiny amount of responsibility for the situation we were in, so I didn't want the deer to have to suffer a slow death. I managed to get it lined up to back in between my truck and the feeder...a little trap I had set beforehand. Kind of like a squeeze chute. I got it to back in there and started moving up so I could get my rope back.

Did you know that deer bite? They do! I never in a million years would have thought that a deer would bite somebody so I was very surprised when I reached up there to grab that rope and the deer
grabbed hold of my wrist. Now, when a deer bites you, it is not like being bit by a horse where they just bite you and then let go. A deer bites you and shakes its head almost like a pit bull. They bite
HARD and it hurts. The proper thing to do when a deer bites you is probably to freeze and draw back slowly. I tried screaming and shaking instead. My method was ineffective. It seems like the deer
was biting and shaking for several minutes, but it was likely only several seconds. I, being smarter than a deer (though you may be questioning that claim by now) tricked it. While I kept it busy tearing the be Jesus out of my right arm, I reached up with my left hand and pulled that rope loose.

That was when I got my final lesson in deer behavior for the day. Deer will strike at you with their front feet. They rear right up on their back feet and strike right about head and shoulder level, and their hooves are surprisingly sharp. I learned a long time ago that when an animal like a horse strikes at you with their hooves and you can't get away easily, the best thing to do is try to make a loud noise and make an aggressive move towards the animal. This will usually cause them to back down a bit so you can escape. This was not a horse. This was a deer, so obviously such trickery would not work.

In the course of a millisecond I devised a different strategy. I screamed like woman and tried to turn and run. The reason I had always been told NOT to try to turn and run from a horse that paws at
you is that there is a good chance that it will hit you in the back of the head. Deer may not be so different from horses after all, besides being twice as strong and three times as evil, because the
second I turned to run, it hit me right in the back of the head and knocked me down.

Now when a deer paws at you and knocks you down it does not immediately leave. I suspect it does not recognize that the danger has passed. What they do instead is paw your back and jump up and down on you while you are laying there crying like a little girl and covering your head. I finally managed to crawl under the truck and the deer went away.

Now for the local legend. I was pretty beat up. My scalp was split open, I had several large goose eggs, my wrist was bleeding pretty good and felt broken (it turned out to be just badly bruised) and my back was bleeding in a few places, though my insulated canvas jacket had protected me from most of the worst of it. I drove to the nearest place, which was the co-op. I got out of the truck, covered in blood and dust and looking like hell. The guy who ran the place saw me through the window and came running out yelling "what happened"

I have never seen any law in the state of Kansas that would prohibit an individual from roping a deer. I suspect that this is an area that they have overlooked entirely. Knowing, as I do, the lengths to which law enforcement personnel will go to exercise their power, I was concerned that they may find a way to twist the existing laws to paint my actions as criminal. I swear....not wanting to admit that I had done something monumentally stupid played no part in my response. I told him "I was attacked by a deer." I did not mention that at the time I had a rope on it. The evidence was all over my body. Deer prints on the back of my jacket where it had stomped all over me and a large deer print on my face where it had struck me there.

I asked him to call somebody to come get me...I didn't think I could make it home on my own. He did. Later that afternoon, a game warden showed up at my house and wanted to know about the deer attack. Surprisingly, deer attacks are a rare thing and wildlife and parks was interested in the event. I tried to describe the attack as completely and accurately as I could...I was filling the grain hopper and this deer came out of nowhere and just started kicking the hell out of me and BIT me. It was obviously rabid or insane or something. EVERYBODY for miles around knows about the deer attack (the guy at the co-op has a big mouth).

For several weeks people dragged their kids in the house when they saw deer around and the local ranchers carried rifles when they filled their feeders. I have told several people the story, but NEVER anybody round here. I have to see these people every day and as an outsider...a city folk"...I have enough trouble fitting in without them snickering behind my back and whispering "there is the dumb-ass that tried to rope the deer."

That was funnier than the credit card signing thing from yesterday.



My wife even thought it was funny!

Not mine, but kills me every time I read it.

wtf still laughing

Hahah, I almost died laughing so hard at the balloon story.

That was the part I liked too.

Damn... my co-workers think I've lost my mind... I was laughing pretty hard at the balloon thing, then he mentioned his wife finding it in the morning, and I lost it. Completely.

I was living on one of Dad's Farms and had to keep the electric fence on the Hog Lot in good repair. This wasn't one of those namby pamby TSC chargers with one ground rod, no this was an evil made in New Zealand mega chargers that requires 3 ground rods set 8 feet apart. The dry sows on pasture stayed 3 feet away from that evil fence.

I am walking the fence looking down to see if any dirt had been rooted up onto it to short it out. Some hogs are bright enough to short the fence to facilitate an escape. I failed to see the feeder line run at head height in front of me. BAM right on the forehead. The voltage took my spi al column as the easiest route of return to ground. The world went red then black as I flopped like a fish out of water.

I hopped up to my feet as soon as the seizures ceased hoping against hope that no one had seen my fall from grace. There stands my buddy Randy laughing so hard he couldn't stand up straight. He had stopped by and my wife told him where he might find me. Well, he found me and then asked if I could do it again as that was too funny.

Fence chargers don't clamp as in the OP they pulse off and on so ask to gain compliance from livestock through the application of pain. They do however hurt like hell if you take a CNS hit.

I never dreamed slowly cruising through a residential neighborhood could be so incredibly dangerous!

Studies have shown that motorcycling requires more decisions per second, and more sheer data processing than nearly any other common activity or sport. The reactions and accurate decision making abilities needed have been likened to the reactions of fighter pilots! The consequences of bad decisions or poor situational awareness are pretty much the same for both groups too.

Occasionally, as a rider I have caught myself starting to make bad or late decisions while riding. In flight training, my instructors called this being “behind the power curve”. It is a mark of experience that when this begins to happen, the rider recognizes the situation, and more importantly, does something about it. A short break, a meal, or even a gas stop can set things right again as it gives the brain a chance to catch up.

Good, accurate, and timely decisions are essential when riding a motorcycle…at least if you want to remain among the living. In short, the brain needs to keep up with the machine.

I had been banging around the roads of east Texas and as I headed back into Dallas, found myself in very heavy, high-speed traffic on the freeways. Normally, this is not a problem, I commute in these conditions daily, but suddenly I was nearly run down by a cage that decided it needed my lane more than I did. This is not normally a big deal either, as it happens around here often, but usually I can accurately predict which drivers are not paying attention and avoid them before we are even close. This one I missed seeing until it was nearly too late, and as I took evasive action I nearly broadsided another car that I was not even aware was there!

Two bad decisions and insufficient situational awareness…all within seconds. I was behind the power curve. Time to get off the freeway.

I hit the next exit, and as I was in an area I knew pretty well, headed through a few big residential neighborhoods as a new route home. As I turned onto the nearly empty streets I opened the visor on my full-face helmet to help get some air. I figured some slow riding through the quiet surface streets would give me time to relax, think, and regain that “edge” so frequently required when riding.

Little did I suspect…

As I passed an oncoming car, a brown furry missile shot out from under it and tumbled to a stop immediately in front of me. It was a squirrel, and must have been trying to run across the road when it encountered the car. I really was not going very fast, but there was no time to brake or avoid it—it was that close.

I hate to run over animals…and I really hate it on a motorcycle, but a squirrel should pose no danger to me. I barely had time to brace for the impact.

Animal lovers, never fear. Squirrels can take care of themselves!

Inches before impact, the squirrel flipped to his feet. He was standing on his hind legs and facing the oncoming Valkyrie with steadfast resolve in his little beady eyes. His mouth opened, and at the last possible second, he screamed and leapt! I am pretty sure the scream was squirrel for, “Banzai!” or maybe, “Die you gravy-sucking, heathen scum!” as the leap was spectacular and he flew over the windshield and impacted me squarely in the chest.

Instantly he set upon me. If I did not know better I would have sworn he brought twenty of his little buddies along for the attack. Snarling, hissing, and tearing at my clothes, he was a frenzy of activity. As I was dressed only in a light t-shirt, summer riding gloves, and jeans this was a bit of a cause for concern. This furry little tornado was doing some damage!

Picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and leather gloves puttering maybe 25mph down a quiet residential street…and in the fight of his life with a squirrel. And losing.

I grabbed for him with my left hand and managed to snag his tail. With all my strength I flung the evil rodent off the left of the bike, almost running into the right curb as I recoiled from the throw.

That should have done it. The matter should have ended right there. It really should have. The squirrel could have sailed into one of the pristinely kept yards and gone on about his business, and I could have headed home. No one would have been the wiser.

But this was no ordinary squirrel. This was not even an ordinary pissed-off squirrel.

This was an evil attack squirrel of death!

Somehow he caught my gloved finger with one of his little hands, and with the force of the throw swung around and with a resounding thump and an amazing impact he landed square on my back and resumed his rather anti-social and extremely distracting activities. He also managed to take my left glove with him!

The situation was not improved. Not improved at all. His attacks were continuing, and now I could not reach him.

I was startled to say the least. The combination of the force of the throw, only having one hand (the throttle hand) on the handlebars, and my jerking back unfortunately put a healthy twist through my right hand and into the throttle. A healthy twist on the throttle of a Valkyrie can only have one result. Torque. This is what the Valkyrie is made for, and she is very, very good at it.

The engine roared as the front wheel left the pavement. The squirrel screamed in anger. The Valkyrie screamed in ecstasy. I screamed in…well…I just plain screamed.

Now picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a slightly squirrel torn t-shirt, and only one leather glove roaring at maybe 70mph and rapidly accelerating down a quiet residential street…on one wheel and with a demonic squirrel on his back. The man and the squirrel are both screaming bloody murder.

With the sudden acceleration I was forced to put my other hand back on the handlebars and try to get control of the bike. This was leaving the mutant squirrel to his own devices, but I really did not want to crash into somebody’s tree, house, or parked car. Also, I had not yet figured out how to release the throttle…my brain was just simply overloaded. I did manage to mash the back brake, but it had little affect against the massive power of the big cruiser.

About this time the squirrel decided that I was not paying sufficient attention to this very serious battle (maybe he is a Scottish attack squirrel of death), and he came around my neck and got IN my full-face helmet with me. As the faceplate closed partway and he began hissing in my face I am quite sure my screaming changed tone and intensity. It seemed to have little affect on the squirrel however.

The rpm’s on The Dragon maxed out (I was not concerned about shifting at the moment) and her front end started to drop.

Now picture the large man on the huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a very ragged torn t-shirt, and wearing one leather glove, roaring at probably 80mph, still on one wheel, with a large puffy squirrel’s tail sticking out his mostly closed full-face helmet. By now the screams are probably getting a little hoarse.

Finally I got the upper hand…I managed to grab his tail again, pulled him out of my helmet, and slung him to the left as hard as I could. This time it worked…sort-of. Spectacularly sort-of, so to speak.

Picture the scene. You are a cop. You and your partner have pulled off on a quiet residential street and parked with your windows down to do some paperwork.

Suddenly a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a torn t-shirt flapping in the breeze, and wearing one leather glove, moving at probably 80mph on one wheel, and screaming bloody murder roars by and with all his strength throws a live squirrel grenade directly into your police car.

I heard screams. They weren't mine...

I managed to get the big motorcycle under directional control and dropped the front wheel to the ground. I then used maximum braking and skidded to a stop in a cloud of tire smoke at the stop sign at a busy cross street.

I would have returned to fess up (and to get my glove back). I really would have. Really. But for two things. First, the cops did not seem interested or the slightest bit concerned about me at the moment. One of them was on his back in the front yard of the house they had been parked in front of and was rapidly crabbing backwards away from the patrol car. The other was standing in the street and was training a riot shotgun on the police cruiser.

So the cops were not interested in me. They often insist to “let the professionals handle it” anyway. That was one thing. The other? Well, I swear I could see the squirrel, standing in the back window of the patrol car among shredded and flying pieces of foam and upholstery, and shaking his little fist at me. I think he was shooting me the finger…

That is one dangerous squirrel. And now he has a patrol car…

I took a deep breath, turned on my turn-signal, made an easy right turn, and sedately left the neighborhood.

As for my easy and slow drive home? Screw it. Faced with a choice of 80mph cars and inattentive drivers, or the evil, demonic, attack squirrel of death...I’ll take my chances with the freeway. Every time.

And I’ll buy myself a new pair of gloves.

OHMYFUCKINGGOD



Funniest thing, I have ever read, in my entire life!



 

I heard a story about a couple guys standing on a golf tee waiting to hit when a couple of squirrels chasing one another in a tree decided to take to land.  One (or both, I can't remember) squirrel ran down the tree accross the tee, up one guy's leg around his chest and down the other leg.  It all happened in an instant, was funny as hell, but left the guy all bloody from the scratches.

Damn Squirrel Cong

Yep, when I was a kid I walked forehead-first into a pretty powerful hot wire and got knocked out. It felt like someone swatted me in the forehead with a rock. Had a bruise too.

Tag for future reading

I was riding home from work one night, and since my route took me through some rural farmland with no traffic, I turned my music up and wicked the throttle up into the high double digits. High beam on, because a cow-motorcycle collision would ruin my night completely. Only downside was the bugs-they flocked to the high beam. Moths, mosquitoes, flies and some vile little green bug that smelled like rotting vegetation when I caught one in the chin vent. As I was cruising along, focused on the bike and the road, forgetting the stress of the workday, I noticed what appeared to be a gigantic moth fluttering at the far edge of my high beam's throw.

Alllow me to restate that-my internal dialogue went a bit like this: "Man, that's gotta be the biggest" *SMAACK*

It was not a moth. I cleverly deduced this from the giant leathery wing that wrapped itself around my visor. It was a bat. And it had just tried to take me off my motorcycle, and for all I knew, was now climbing up my backpack to take its revenge.

Full on panic stop-front brake, back brake, downshift, all fast, all at the same time. I skidded to a stop, jumped off the bike and started stripping out of my gear by the light of the headlamp. Backpack, jacket and helmet, all inspected for wounded and pain maddened bat. No sign of the winged demon, so I started putting my gear back on-jacket, backpack, what the fuck is this on my helmet?

Closer inspection revealed that I had nothing to fear from the attacking bat-the impact had apparently caused his insides to venture outside. All over my helmet. There are quite a few parts inside a bat, and they were now all over the outside of my brand new Arai.

Im sorry...having worked on and tangled with quite a number of electric fences ive got to call BS.

For starters, even the hottest fence isnt going to keep you frozen to the wire.
Also, they pulse, not send a steady stream of electricity down range like house/line wiring does.

Does it hurt? Yeah...some feel like getting hit with a board.
To the point of evacuating your bowels...I think not.

Also the part about the ground wire is BS. If its grounded its grounded...sinking a 50' pole in the ground is no better than a 10" stake.

That's the funniest one yet.  

Ease up Clarence, what are you an engineer or something?  This is a story, a funny one at that, which I received by email.  I don't doubt that some (or all) of it is fabricated.  The point is to make you chuckle, which apparently you didn't.

+1

Pretty sure he's a member here.  Has a picture of his Valkyrie as his avatar.

Not nearly on par with most of these stories, but mine is true.

I was mountain biking when I lived in North Carolina, and my dog was running along beside me.  We were passing through the Duke Forest which is mostly just trees and trails, but apparently there are a few homes with gardens scattered about too.

Those gardeners must have problems with deer, because they have their gardens surround by electric fence fire at about the 2 1/2 foot mark.  Keep in mind my dog is juuuust short of 2 1/12 feet tall at the shoulder.

His tail now, that sticks straight up and curls over his back when he's running, and easily gives him another 8 inches of height.

I don't know if you could put a rocket pack on a dog, but I do know if you zap one with an electric fence on the tail they can easily double their normal top speed.  I don't know what the hell he thought was chasing him, but he wasn't about to let it catch him and he wasn't interested in turning around to find out what the hell it was either.

Tag for future distribution....

Posted Via AR15.Com Mobile

This thread has seriously made my day, and made my wife question my sanity. Thanks much!

FTW!

I agree but our fencer, much like the op claims to have isn't going to let you get loose the first pulse but bring you back to it.....  3-4 very very unpleasant  jolts and you'll get free.....

And for the guy who claims the grounds or how many don't matter, they do...

+1

The stories had me in tears laughing, the image of the dog being 'chased' put me on the floor.

TRG

There is a similar story to the op's about a stun gun.

Found it:

Last weekend I saw something at Larry's Pistol & Pawn Shop that sparked my interest. The occasion was our 22nd anniversary and I was looking for a little something extra for my wife.What I came across was a 100,000-volt, pocket/purse-sized taser. The effects of the taser were supposed to be short lived, with no long-term adverse affect on your assailant, allowing her adequate time to retreat to safety.... WAY TOO COOL!

Long story short, I bought the device and brought it home. I loaded two triple-a 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 arch of electricity darting back and forth between the prongs.

Awesome!!!

Unfortunately, I have yet to explain to Betty 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 triple-a 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 & blood moving target. I must admit I thought about zapping Gracie (for a fraction of a second) and thought better of it. She is such a sweet cat. 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. Was 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 taser in another. 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; 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 inch in circumference; pretty cute really and loaded with two itsy, bitsy triple-a batteries) thinking to myself, "no possible way!" What happened next is almost beyond description, but I'll do my best...

I'm sitting there alone, Gracie looking on with her head leaned to one side as to say, "don't do it master," reasoning that a one-second burst from such a tiny little ole thing couldn't hurt all that bad.. I decided to
give myself a one-second burst just for the heck of it. I touched the prongs to my naked thigh, pushed the button, and HOLY MOTHER OF GOD, WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION *(&*&%^%$(@#^&$^!

I'm pretty sure Giant Haystacks 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, nuts nowhere to be found, with my left arm tucked under my body in the oddest position, and tingling in my legs. The cat was standing over
me making meowing sounds I had never heard before, licking my face, undoubtedly thinking to herself, "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 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.
How did they up 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. I'm still looking for my nuts. I'm offering a significant reward for their safe return!

One of my favorites:

Taken from www.ubersite.com

Site has MANY other classics. Check out the "Most Viewed Messages" section on the left hand side.

True story.

I was in grad school in Sydney, living on campus. There were two Danish guys in the dorm, Mike and Lasse, who had kept in contact with some Danish girls who were going to another university out in the sticks, around dairy and emu farms. Since I didn't have any family around, and had no money to fly home for the holidays, they were nice enough to invite me to their little Scandanavian Christmas.

Things started out great. I was the only non-Dane in the room, but everyone was so nice, I was really starting to feel welcome. Then they prepared the Gluck.

If you don't know what it is (as I didn't then), let me explain: Gluck is a traditional Danish holiday drink made from hot wine, but there are spices and nuts and rasins and shit in there too. I guess you have to have been raised on it, because I could barely choke it down. But since I was a guest, I did my best to smile and swallow. I drank entirely too much of it. ENTIRELY too much.

Later on that night, after everyone was a bit lopsided, the American bashing started. Not mean spirited, or anything, but needling just the same. You know, things like, "Why do you love war so much?", "Why are Americans so fat?", and "What makes you think cow tipping is so funny?"

I was trying, without much effort or success, to defend myself. I explained that I didn't think cow tipping was particularly funny, and that I had never actually been cow tipping. So of course Mike and Lasse start screaming, "Let's do it! I want to see an American tip a cow! That would be funny as hell!"

I said Fuck no, I'm not tipping a cow, but everyone was really into it, and Mike and Lasse said that they'd go with me and tip as well. In my drunken mindset, it started to make more and more sense to me, so I reluctantly said Okay.

So we went out into a field that has maybe six or seven cows in it, and Goddamn if Mike didn't pick out the fucking biggest cow. He said, "Tip that one. Just walk up to it an push it over." Are you fucking kidding me? The cow must have weighed 500 pounds. There was no way I was going to just push it over. I said as much to Lasse, and he said, "Okay, get a running start."

Well all right...that made much more sense...I got about 50 feet away from the cow and took off. I got up a good head of steam, and ducked my shoulder at the last minute for the best impact. I even aimed high for the best leverage possible.

Lessons learned from that experience:

1. Cows are fucking heavy.

2. Cows are fucking hard as rocks.

3. I am fucking stupid.

I just about fractured my clavicle, and the cow shuffled over about half a step and walked off, leaving my stupid, drunk ass whimpering in the mud. The rest of the cows woke up and sort of wandered off. Mike and Lasse were pissing themselves in laughter. I picked myself up off the ground and resigned myself to taking the walk of shame back into the house.

As we were walking back, we passed a Momma cow and her little calf. I don't know anything about animal husbandry, but I guess the calf was maybe a year old. Cutest little thing. Mike pushed the calf over. He didn't say anything, didn't look to Lasse or myself for approval, just suddenly pushed him over. And started laughing like a lunatic.

The Momma cow freaked out. She gave a scary ass cow scream, which I had never heard before and hope to God in heaven that I never hear again. Jesus Christ, I nearly shit myself. I had no idea that a cow could make a horror-movie scream like that. Then the cow charged. Fuck, you never saw three drunks run like that. Suddenly, I remembered a joke from my childhood. Something about running from a hungry bear: I don't have to be faster than the bear, I just have to be faster than you.

Lessons learned from that experience:

1. Cows are fucking scary fast.

2. Drunk people can't run.

I was clearly in the lead, running back toward the fence. I hopped nimbly over (har har) and promptly spewed all over myself. Purple fluid, nuts and raisins came shooting out of my mouth like the pie eating contest in "Stand By Me". It was evidently quite spectacular.

Mike came over next, but it was obvious that Lasse wasn't going to make it. I guess he thought he was being chased by a bear, because he decided to fall down and play dead, but it was clear the cow wasn't to be had so easily. She stopped, rolled Lasse over with her nose, and started sniffing him. For a minute I thought his ruse was going work. Then the calf trotted over, and I swear, with God as my witness, monkey-stomped Lasse in the nutsack. Then the Momma and baby just walked away. Lasse projectile vomited in a fashion very similar to my own. Mike and I stood there, open-mouthed, disbelieving.

We never spoke of the incident again.

The above statement gets me every time!

I do think the originator of this is a member.

All of these stories =

most of the time i sleep with my right hand covering my nuts. I dont know why but its the way I sleep. Well sometimes, right when im about to fall asleep, my legs will kick or move suddendlty and violently. This has caused me to kick my wife many times. Well a few months ago I was laying in bed, in a twilight state, hand on my nuts. When all of a sudden, instead of kicking my legs, I clamped down on my nuts with my hand, causing immense pain.