My dear brother C was kind enough to relay a story he knew I would love, for I have a well-known penchant for stories that involve electro-muscular disruption--but I'm getting ahead of myself!
Beer shows, as we have all learned on this very blog, accentuate both the positive and negative in all God's creatures; which side you fall on depends largely on how big a douchebag you are in real life. Some folks aren't douchebags atall--they are the jolly drunks I would let my mother meet; some folks are aleady kind of douchey, and it's these particular individuals that should avoid beer shows if they can--for once they fill themselves to their gills, they become precisely the kind of douchebag that starts 'cruising for a bruising'. And, in some cases, 'cruising for a non-lethal transmission of powerful electrical pulses'--but I'm getting ahead of myself again!
One of our dear good beer folks, who happens to be a girl, could likely--in a police line-up--point out two such douchebags who were paying customers in a recent beer show; and she would likely tell you that they had a lot to say about her appearance, and none of it would appear in a Jane Austin novel. No--she would likely tell you that these guys spoke like Penthouse letters reads--and she wasn't particularly enjoying their descriptive brand of conversation. So my dear brother, another good beer folk, brought them to the attention of festival security, and the Police (who are never far away during beer shows).
To make a long story short, they were escorted out; but not before registering their indignation. When one needed to retrieve his jacket from within the show's gates, the police were momentarily separated, and it's the choices our douchebags made at this vital juncture that would truly elevate them from small d douchebags, to Douchebags.
Douchebag #1 (D1) began making certain inappropriate overtures to the female cop left to babysit him. They were in poor enough taste that D1 was told to keep his opinions and sexual position suggestions to himself, lest he get a snoot full of pepper spray. A small d douchebag would have shut his trap; a Douchebag would have taken that as an invitation.
Gentle readers, you are a clever and gifted lot, and have all likely skipped ahead to what is surely the inevitable RSVP to the perceived "invitation" (for, let's face it, I rarely tell happy bedtime stories on this blog)--but! the story will get much better.
So D1 gets the spray.
D1- (to the lady officer) "I eat that shit for breakfast!"
LO- (removes her night stick, extends it with a flick of her wrist, and issues a blow to the head)
D1- "I love the rough stuff! Do it again!!"
LO- (removes her tazer from it's resting place, makes sure her aim is true, and discharges the non-leathal weapon)
D1- (falls to the ground and promptly pisses his pants)
It was at this moment--as if things could possibly get any better!--that D2 arrives with his jacket to find D1 twitching in a puddle of his own effluence. The spectacle is more poetically described on the website of a manufacturer of tazers as an exhibition of a tool "specifically designed to stop even the most elite, aggressive, focused combatants. Rather than simply interfering with communication between the brain and muscles, the (tazer directly tells) the muscles what to do: contract until the target is in the fetal position on the ground". I think using the words "elite. . . combatant" is a bit of hyperbole, but it does sound exciting.
What D2 found attractive about D1's circumstance is left for the judge to discover in the pending criminal trial; but I doubt D2 enjoyed falling into "the fetal position on the ground" in a puddle of his collected beer samples. What I do know, is that I enjoyed telling you about it.