Monday, May 10, 2010

Memoir Monday: The Day I Got Pepper Sprayed.

(Hey y'all. This little thing is called Memoir Monday, and I'd be thrilled if you gave it a shot. Just jot down a story about yourself, grab my code down there, and I'll link you up to be read by all my wonderful blog buddies. The only rule? It has to be true. I am personally doing what I can to help cure your case of the Mondays. Thanks for playing along!)




This is not a "no means no" story, and I didn't try to start up a conversation with a woman or teenager in a dark alley somewhere.

I volunteered to be pepper sprayed. Yeah. I'm an idiot. And this wasn't your every day, over the counter mace. This was 5 million Scouleville unit, law enforcement grade pepper spray. It was the real deal.

Let's start at the beginning.

You've all heard me tell tales from the jail, and this is another. When I was in my late teens/early twenties, I worked for a local sheriff's department. The stories from there would fill a book, like the time a penis touched someone's nose, but probably a shorter book than most folks would want to read, unless of course you're illiterate, then you really can't even understand what I'm saying right now. Fuck you, you illiterate bastard. See? For all you know, I just told you that you have nice hair.

I've wandered a bit off track.

So this guy came to the jail one day, very official looking, badge and everything, and said he was there for our pepper spray training class. Said that if we wanted to use it, we had to go through training in order to know exactly what we were doing to people, the effects during and after spraying, and so on and so forth. We all sat down to listen to his lecture, which included a lot of "you should really use this as a last measure...blah blah blah."

They're CRIMINALS. If they so much as asked me politely for a roll of TP, I'd yell at them and pull my pepper spray out and ask, "You want some of this? Eh? Then shut the hell up!"

I wasn't really liked by the general population.

That was fine with me, so long as they stayed on the other side of those bars.

After he finished with his lecture, he told us he would need a few volunteers to help demonstrate the debilitating effects of this wonderful spray. I of course jumped up to head out the door to get some inmates for this testing, because honestly, who else would we use? I mean, it was like having lab rats in cages back there.

The instructor took my getting up to be a sign of me volunteering, and so I was quickly escorted out to the "yard" which was a parking lot/smoking area for the trustees. Once there I was told to put my back against the wall and look up. It was at this point that I knew I was going to have a bad day.

"Here it comes!" and the spray hit me in the face. (PEPPER spray, you sick fuckers) Nothing. I didn't feel a thing. It didn't hurt, it didn't burn, and I didn't drop to the ground spasming in paroxysms of agonizing torment. I blinked a couple of times and said, "Oh. Is that it?" I WAS A HERO.

The instructor was pretty upset, and he decided to try again. He shook the can a bit, then said, "Here it comes!" and again caught me full in the face. The crowd of onlookers could only stare in astonishment as I wiped my face and said, "Nothing."

The instructor was worked up real good at this point, and he decided to try a final time. "Here it comes!" Nothing. As in, nothing hit me in the face. I opened my eyes...and it was there. He finally had figured out what I was doing. Apparently, I have eyelids that are comparable to the finest steel traps. Seriously folks, I have bulletproof eyelids. I guess I was closing them each time the spray hit, because, well, I mean, who wouldn't?

But the third time, he got me. I'm here to tell you guys, it fucking HURT. It was probably one of the most painful experiences of my life. I rubbed my eyes so much, it got in my nose. This produced snot like you wouldn't believe, which I then moved back into my eyes, my hair, my ears, and my mouth. I stood in the drunk tank shower for 45 minutes trying to wash the pain away, much like that time in the alley with my scoutmaster...wait. No, wait. Pepper spray. That's the story, right?

I finally got calmed down enough to talk, and one of the people I work with said, "Travis, can I take you anywhere?" I said, "Hell, it's cooler." The rest of the afternoon was a blur of pain and sniffling, and finally I was told I could go home. As I was walking out of the door, the officer that sprayed me said, "When you take a shower, make sure you lean forward so that residual spray doesn't run down your body and get tangled up with your tackle."

I didn't listen.

Folks, that second round of pain was almost as bad as the first. Pepper spray on your balls is probably one of the worst feelings EVER.

Did I learn a valuable lesson about pepper spraying inmates? As much as I hate to say it, I sure did. I only sprayed on more the entire time I was there, and I really felt bad about it afterwards.

Moral of the story?

Always lean forward in the shower after you've been pepper sprayed because you volunteered on accident because you're a cocky douche who thought inmates weren't people.

Other Non-Pepper Sprayed Walks Down The Memory Alley Today: (GO READ THEM!)

Madmother's Memoir Monday: Like Sands Through The Hour Glass...

Ally's Memoir Monday

Micki's Memoir Monday: My Dad And The Epic Deodorant Fail.

Daffy's Memoir Monday: Oh Yes, I SMASHED It.

Juicebox's Memoir Monday: RAWRRR! Mighty Pipe Power!

Kate's Memoir Monday: The Time I Left My Bra In A Bar.

Barb's Memoir Monday: Meeting More Bloggers!