I had gone to my parents house after a Friday night soiree in a 14 million dollar Malibu estate that certainly deserves it’s own post. It was the kind of place that had a chicken coup, a teepee, about ten bedrooms, a zip line and a remote control that basically made the house do anything you wanted it to. Sorry. I’ll fill you in on that noise later.
After a long winding and foggy drive north on Kanan-Dume in the middle of the night to my parents’ house in the Conejo Valley, my girlfriend and I slept in. After a relaxing day away from the ad and PR worlds, we decided we were going to stay out there.
After working out, I got in the spa and took it real slow for a while. It was probably the first time I’ve felt relaxed in a while. I was extra mellow when I dried off and headed inside to figure out what I was going to barbeque later that evening.
Sitting on the kitchen table was a little red, plastic tube. Kinda looked like a lighter.
Nothing about this screamed “danger” to me. In fact, I thought it might even be a laser pointer. I flicked the black switch. Nothing happened. I started looking at it more closely.
So, after this thing didn’t appear to do anything, I became more cavalier with my fiddling. This was the point where a very tired, very quiet voice of reason said “spitfire” might be ominous, but of course, I continued fiddling. It’s a big red thing, like a big red button. Insatiable need to push it.
Every time you fuck with a cat by dangling a little fake mouse on a string or making it chase the dot from a laser pointer, you feel some semblence of superiority over the animal kingdom. You feel better than it. You think, “I am man. I have conquered the need to blindly do stupid ass shit like this dumbass tabby cat”.
Only you haven’t.
Want some additional proof? Go to Dodger Stadium, blow up a .99 cent beach ball, and whack it way up in the air. Watch the crowd go for the ball like it is filled with naked Playmates. It wouldn’t matter if aliens landed on the pitcher’s mound. “We gotta what that ball!”
We are no better than the beast. We are the beast.
So I keep playing with the contraption until I noticed a tube is shifting into firing position and at the very moment I realize “spitfire” means “it fucking spits fire”, a stream of clear pepper death has blazed across my face.
The first couple seconds are innocuous. What happened? Is it possible? Did I just pepper spray myself? Maybe it was a bum tube. I am probably fine. This stuff is weak sauce. Dude, I can’t wait to blog about how I took some pepper to the face and I was fine…
Then it comes for you like rabid panda bear. It claws at your tear ducts. It feels like the fat kid is bullying you by shoving habanero peppers in your nostrils. My only response was to run outside and dunk my face in the pool, explaining poorly what the hell happened to me.
Then it hits me. My Dad is inside. I start to tell him “Don’t go in the kitchen” but he is a beast animal as well and has to go into a room he is told not to go into.
Twenty minutes later, it is my father and I tearing up, snotting everywhere considering buying stock in the spitfire company as their product definitely works.
It is a unique thing to say, “Hey Dad. Sorry about pepper spraying you.”
To make matters worse, check out their website. Videos showing how it works.