A friend of ours is hoping to be admitted into the Police Academy this spring. Last night she was describing some of the evaluations she will have to undergo.
“I’ll have to go through TASER certification,” (Apparently part of this training involves actually being tasered.)
“Will you have to get sprayed in the face with pepper spray too?” I asked, wincing.
“Yeah, but I’ve actually already done that,” she replied.
“Well, one year my mom got me mace for Easter,” she began.
(Cosmic shrieking as the fabric of the Universe is ripped to shreds while trying to process that sentence.)
“She went to the police supply store and got two different sizes to put in my Easter basket.”
“Um…WHAT?!” my husband and I exclaimed when we were once again able to speak.
“Well, she wanted to make sure that I had one that I could carry in my purse, and one that I could wear on my arm when I went running.”
(Oh thank you so much for explaining and clearing that up for us. Because THAT was the part of the story that was tripping us up.)