Shock Therapy: Diá de la Madre Edition

In Costa Rica, Día de la Madre is celebrated like a national holiday, parades of flowers and family gatherings everywhere. So this past August 15th, on Mother’s Day, I figured my wife deserved something a little less ordinary. Flowers seemed too predictable, jewellery would have drained my wallet and forced a trip into San José, a city I avoid like the plague because I value my life because of the way Ticos drive, making bumper cars look safe.

Instead, I wandered into this little shop in Alajuela that sells everything from machetes to hammocks and there it was, a purse-sized 100,000-volt Taser. Perfect for self-defence, the box promised short-lived effects, no long-term damage, just enough zap to make a criminal regret his life choices. I thought, now that’s a practical gift. Way more useful than a bouquet wilting in the Costa Rican heat.

Of course, my wife is a retired RCMP officer. She actually knows how to use the thing. Me? I had never been up close and personal with a Taser before. But curiosity gets a man into more trouble than booze ever did.

I slipped in two AAA batteries, pressed the button, and nothing happened. Then I discovered you had to press it against metal. The door frame of the shower was closest, so I gave it a try. Sparks leapt across the door like it was a fireworks show in Puntarenas. Beautiful. Except now there’s a strange scorch mark on the shower that I’ll never be able to explain properly.

Later, sitting in my chair, instructions in hand, I read the fine print:

• One-second burst: shock and disorientation.
• Two-second burst: muscle spasms and loss of control.
• Three-second burst: flop around like a fish out of water.

I thought, come on, this thing runs on AAA batteries, how bad can it be?

So I pressed it against my thigh and gave myself a little one-second taste. Holy Mother of Coffee and Christ on a surfboard! In that instant I felt like a troupe of howler monkeys had stormed the house, tackled me to the floor, and called in reinforcements. Sweat poured down my face, my lips went numb, and I could have sworn my testicles had packed their bags and caught the next bus to La Fortuna.

When I came to, my flip-flop was in the kitchen, my glasses had somehow landed on the fridge, and the chair was lying belly-up like a dead turtle. My muscles twitched as if I’d signed up for an involuntary Zumba class, and I had absolutely no feeling below the waist. For a moment, I wasn’t entirely sure if I had relieved myself or not. My hair gave off the faint smell of burnt wiring.

The dogs, bless them, looked like they had just witnessed the apocalypse. They had scrambled onto the back of the couch, eyes wide, howling in a way that suggested trauma counselling might be required.

As for my wife, after I explained the chaos in the house, she thought it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. She loved the gift, especially since she knows exactly how to use it and now threatens to demonstrate on me whenever I get smart with her.

Lesson learned: being clever is hard, but being stupid hurts a whole lot more.