It lived downstairs, in the Men’s room, at the old Brunswick alleys where my league used to bowl. Some boys, my age—twelve or thirteen, probably a little older—lured me down there and instructed me on how to coax it from its slumbers. You had to stand on a particular spot, and jump up a bit to catch hold of this metal bar that was a part of the stalls. Then, dangling for an instant, you reached for the hot-air blower and pushed its On button.
This simultaneous action—of holding to the bar whilst engaging the blower button—resulted, more often than not, in the delivery of an electrical shock. And for an instant you’re made helpless, dangling there like an idiot while the boys gathered ’round you have a fit.
And so, my fellow electricians, I leave you with this thought, but more than a thought, really, a fact. In the words of the great Watschandis, who dig a hole and dance around it with their spears held in front to simulate an erect penis, Not a pit, not a pit, but a cunt!