tasers and why I peed on an electrified fence

The Taser factor and investigative journalism
And my early meanders with accidental shock therapy
By Terrance Harry Joseph Gavan
The RCMP is taking a pummeling at the ongoing inquiry into the death of Polish traveler Robert Dziekanski.
Remember poor Mr. Dziekanski? He was issued quick judgment and a summary conviction for the egregious crime of being lost, confused, and unilingually Polish in Vancouver airport.
Four RCMP officers, responding to reports of imminent mayhem, Tasered poor Robert five times in about a minute. They say they had no choice. He came at them with a Bosco stapler, armed, dangerous and allegedly ready to inflict office product mayhem.
He went down with the first pzzzzzzzt. The officer wielding the Taser said he had to hit him a few more times. He said he wasn’t sure the damn thing was working properly.
Wow. I saw the tape. Mr. Dziekanski went down on the first muzzled crack like a pole-axed steer. What was this RCMP Constable expecting? The flash, flare and flickering crescendo of a blazing laser light finale from an Ozzie Osbourne concert?
Do you think this incident might impact negatively on future immigration?
“Well, hello! And greetings from Canada Robert. We’re from Welcome Wagon. Please note that non-English speaking immigrants wielding plastic workstation accoutrements are viewed with suspicion. Now put the stapler down and back away from that pencil sharpener. Do you understand me?”
An important question that; considering that he didn’t. Understand them, that is.
And surely the Mounties just did what we all do in Canada when faced with an insurmountable language barricade. THEY TALKED LOUDER! Ever been to a foreign country Constable Ludicrous? And how did that talk louder in English thing work out for you?
Taser International takes umbrage whenever their product comes under judicial scrutiny.
Mr. Robert Oppenheimer, spokesman for Taser International recently said that no deaths had ever been attributed to a Taser attack.
“Read my lips. No Taser deaths! Sure, people die of heart attacks or massive strokes. Happens all the time,” said Oppenheimer. “The North American diet has gone to hell. Diabetes, obesity, alcoholism, and substance abuse are rampant. Tasers don’t kill people … sudden onset atrial fibrulations kill people. If any of you whiny pundits have any doubts, see me after the press conference in the lobby. I’m packin’ 85,123 volts of mean heat baby!”
I should just take Mr. Oppenheimer at his word. He’s armed with the facts – and that Taser.
But as an investigative journalist, well, I feel compelled to dig a little deeper, what with mounting toll of coincident coronary fatalities surrounding the 321 or so Taser-related deaths in Canada and the US over the past few years.
So I called our local OPP media guru Sgt Clark McBlaster to ask if I could set up a Taser demo, y’know, just to set my mind at ease.
McBlaster, a terse, succinct, and competent officer reached out politely from the phone.
“Are you out of your cotton pickin’ mind?” asked Sgt McBlaster. “Haven’t you been watching the news?”
“C’mon Clarky,” I laughed, “Oppenheimer says it’s perfectly safe.”
“You’re an idiot,” said McBlaster. “If you’re that curious, go stick your finger in a light socket.”
Hah. I received my investigative training from a very wise old editor, Lorne Bjornson, who once told me: “Go to the mattresses.” Something to do with Brando and the Godfather, I think.
So last Saturday, I donned a pink tutu, hopped on a skateboard and rolled the length of Highland Street in Haliburton swinging a desk-size paper shredder over my head. I glared at the tourists, and stuck my tongue out at well-meaning passers-by. And I shouted in my best faux Euro accent: “Nyet, Nyet, damn Canooskies! I no spikka’ English.” I’ve done the research. I know what it takes to generate a little Taser action in Canada.
Right on time, about two minutes into my ride, the OPP cruiser loomed into view. In the driver’s seat the aforementioned Clarky McBlaster. He glared at my pink tutu, grabbed my shredder, and pulled the cord out of my hand. He then took out his baton and proceeded to beat my beautiful stainless steel paper mangler to a pulp. “Now go home, take a shower, bring the shredder, and plug it in,” said McBlaster, tucking that nightstick back in the cruiser.
And just when I thought I was out of ideas, a sudden eureka moment. I don’t need a Taser. I have my own high voltage, low amp teenage memory to draw from.
From grade five to the end of high school, I traveled every summer from my Ottawa home to work on my uncle’s ranch in Manitoba’s Interlake. In the summer of 1970, my friend Arnthor Jonasson replaced the enclosure on his home pasture with single strand electric fence. I knew nothing about this new technology. I had just arrived in early June for the summer haying season.
Arnthor grabbed a few of his mom’s butter tarts, put them in a knapsack and suggested we take a walk to check out his new Simmental bull. As we passed the single strand barbed wire fence he stopped suddenly.
“First one to piss on the barbed wire fence gets the last butter tart,” said Arnthor. Too good to pass up.
I watched Art’s vain attempts to hit the wire – he was missing by a laughably wide margin. I prepared, took a deep breath, accounted for the 20 mph crosswind, and directed a laser stream right onto the wire.
“Yowwwwwwww! Jeeeeeppppeeers! And I fell to the ground like the aforementioned pole-axed steer.
Art joined me, but for another reason. He had tears in his eyes. He was holding his heaving sides, and he was gasping for air.
“Dammit Jonasson. That’s not funny,” I screamed.
“Wanna bet?” sputtered Art, rolling round and round in the alfalfa.
The pain was so significant and mind-numbing that to this day I can’t relieve myself within 100 yards of a barbed wire fence.
And, considering that the standard issue Taser delivers about 20,000 more volts than your average electric fence I’m beginning to have some lingering doubts about the efficacy of Mr. Oppenheimer’s and Taser International’s bold claims that this is still the most viable alternative to deadly force and the semi-automatic, nine-millimeter Glock.
My mind suddenly rebounds to that illuminating confrontation with Sgt Clark McBlaster.
An authoritarian stare, succinct communication, and the proficient use of a common nightstick.
Old fashioned? Surely.
Effective? You bet.