If you don't know what the Pulse Wave Myotron is, then you've already been groped at least twice. Also, you can fully expect to be assaulted before you even finish this article, because the Myotron 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 bolted down or aiming a hand-held tesla coil at his ball-sac.
ENTER THE PULSE WAVE MYO-FUCKING-TRON!!!
What IS this thing? If you answered "Batman Cervix," not only are you right—you're DEAD wrong.
The informercial is quick to point out that it's "not a stun gun," or any variant of such mediocre technology. It claims to be able to disrupt and neutralize brain waves, thus rendering your assailant a twitching heap on your 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, start to get raped—or at least ensure that the steam-snorting, beer-fueled, plaid-encased rhino called "man" has made its commited charge towards your loins. You can tell he's ready to attack by his excited screeching and his exposed, colorful and inflamed 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 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 stayed home to watch the 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 claiming a new soul.
Don't believe me?
SPECIAL NOTE: Part 3, From 40 seconds on...fucking incredible.