Pepper Spray Is My Condiment Of Choice
Pepper Spray Is My Condiment Of Choice and always has been.
So here’s a story about how I was a huge idiot. When I was a teenager the local mall had what can only be described as a “Spy Shop.” The place was filled floor to ceiling with various gadgets, grappling hooks, and bullet proof items. All of which I lusted after with all the manic strength that a suburban sixteen year old who had never felt a moment’s danger or been in a real fight could muster.
Visions of my future badassedness swam continually through my hormone addled brain and I was convinced that by owning these items I would immediately enter a world of mystery and danger, and somehow women would find me irresistible. Women would love me, and men would want to be me… despite all the pimples and the rock’n acid washed jeans.
The problem was I had no money. I could not scrape together the funds to attain my goal of becoming James Bond with a license to kill. I did however have enough money to purchase the keyring pepper spray from a very bored looking cashier. It would simply have to do.
I now owned a deadly weapon… Now what. 1980’s Northern Utah was hardly the mean streets of New York at the time. It was not uncommon to leave your door unlocked in these innocent times. How was I going to test this fearsome device I had just purchased? Spraying randomly into the wind seamed like a bad idea, let alone vigilantism. Instead I simply sprayed a great gout of the liquid on the cement outside the local drug store.
Neon orange liquid sprayed out all over the concrete and also onto my hands. Without thinking about it I wiped my eyes with a pepper spray soaked hand. Awesome. I had just indirectly sprayed myself in the eyes with pepper spray.
It hurt…. a lot.