The Pulse Wave Myotron. Because everybody HATES having their assholes touched.
If you don't know what the Pulse Wave Myotron is, then you've already been raped at least twice. Also, you can fully expect to be assaulted before you even finish this article, because the P.W.M. is the ONLY serious personal weapon against aggressive hillbillies and bikers.
"Such awesome power!" you gasp. I know--Moses said the same thing when he saw it, seconds before he was reduced to a smouldering beard. This fucking thing has been destroying man's world for MILLENNIA, and for good reason: man is an insecure, violent creature and he will punch, tackle and plunder the buttocks of anything not aiming a hand-held tesla coil at his ball-sac.
ENTER THE PULSE WAVE MYO-FUCKING-TRON!!!
What is it? If you answered "a Stun-gun that looks like a cervix," not only are you right--you're DEAD wrong.
The P.W.M. is quick to point out that it's "not a stun gun," or any variant of such meager technology. It claims to be able to disrupt and neutralize brain waves, thus leaving your assailant a twitching heap in the driveway--but who needs to even make such a boast? With several times the voltage of a stun-gun, I don't think your brainwaves need neutralizing in order to keep you passive--they'll be too busy trying to figure out how you managed to bite through your own sinus cavity.
So, how does it work?
First, get raped--or at least ensure that the steam-snorting, beer-fueled, plaid-encased rhino called "man" has made its commited charge to your loins. You can tell he's ready to attack by his excited screeching and exposed, colorful and inflammed anal pads. Do not attempt to joke with him or soothe him with conversation--your lack of knowledge regarding automobile maintenance and your inability to comprehend Fight Club will only anger him further.
Point the business end of Batman's mouse--I mean, the Pulse Wave Myotron directly at his throat, groin or coccyx (preferably all three) and behold:
The P.W.M.'s special power chamber--housing a mixture of annointed herbs, ionized plasma and Steven Seagal droppings--purges its deadly payload through the delicate, almost inviting-looking metal nipples, into your attacker's thug-flesh with slip-moistening efficiency.
He lays helpless in a puddle of his own liquified remains, wishing to god he had watched Blue Collar Comedy Tour for the eighth time, instead of trying to grab your crotch. How effective was the P.W.M.'s onslaught?
Satan was watching it and he got a boner; that's how close he thought he was to collecting a new soul.
Don't believe me? Watch this shit and find out for yourself!
BONUS: Part 3, 18 seconds...fucking incredible.