The Great Bear Spray Quest of 2026

Lads… America has absolutely tried to end me again.

Yesterday I was minding my own business, running the storage facility like the underpaid gobshite I am, when a customer who left his stepdad’s ashes in a ripped fking grocery bag** like he was storing leftover spuds rang me up screaming down the phone.

Not talking.

Not annoyed. Screaming.   Full banshee. Telling me his father is “on my hands,” threatening me, losing the absolute run of himself — all because he ignored three months of bills, letters, calls, and a legal notice in the paper.

Treats the ashes like rubbish, then suddenly it’s all my fault. I swear to God, I’m one phone call away from becoming a cautionary tale told to children.

So I think: Right. He’s coming tomorrow to pick up the ashes he abandoned like a broken Hoover bag. Better have something on hand in case he arrives swinging like he’s auditioning for WWE.

Off I go to buy bear spray.

Shop #1:   Lad says, “Bear spray will only piss the bear off.” I say, “I need it for a man, not a bear.” He looks at me like I’m Satan’s PA and refuses to sell it.

Shop #2:   Same thing. Apparently I look like someone who would absolutely spray a human. (They’re correct.)

Shop #3:   I walk in and say, “My dad sent me for bear spray.” Sold immediately. No hesitation. No moral panic. Just a man who understands that sometimes life requires chemical encouragement.

So tomorrow, when Captain Screaming‑About‑Ashes arrives to collect the remains he treated like shite, I’ll be ready — armed with bear spray, pure rage, and the dead-eyed stare of a woman who has seen too much.

This is my life. I don’t even f**king blink anymore.

#BearSpray #StorageLife #StoryTime #AshestoAshes #wedgieOnTour