Sometimes I wonder about my ability to withstand the forces of peer pressure. In the course of my life I’ve done an absurdly large amount of stupid things because I’ve been dared, goaded, and group-influenced into them. Most incidents have to do with food. Let’s take a look at the track record:
-I’ve eaten fifteen or so ice cream sandwiches in a quest to down thirty
-I’ve eaten a stick of butter
-I imbibed jars of pickle juice in multiple occasions
-On a class trip, I ate twelve horse laxatives
-Once I ate a fellow passenger on a doomed plane trip
Ok, so those last two were lies, but you get the idea. I’m pretty stupid when it comes to food. Today at Bandersnatch Pub everyone got the brilliant idea of adding Dave’s Insanity Sauce to the party. This had the effect of turning normally tasty hot wings into small, flaming harbingers of death. Initially, like Greg, I was opposed, but the fervor of the crowd convinced me that the equivalent of eating a radioactive porcupine was a good idea.
Somehow Brad and I ended up with the wings that generally require two hands to eat…not the handy mini-drumsticks. This added a good 10 seconds to the snacking process, which might not sound like a big deal but imagine the next ten seconds of your life squarely in the bowels of hell, surrounded by the screaming of the damned and the smell of your own smoldering flesh. Yeah, it was bad. I teared up faster than a horse enthusiast in a glue factory.
We spent the next several hours (in actuality, like 20 minutes) trying to extinguish the raging inferno and attempting to regain our respective wills to live. I managed to smear sauce all over my face, up to my nose, so while I was frantically putting everything on the table in my mouth (water, ice cubes, crackers, sugar, napkins, etc) I was also trying to carefully remove the excess sauce from around my seared lips without pushing any into my eyes. I secretly hoped some sauce would get in my eye because that would instantly kill me and thus secure my passage into a heaven where a just God would not allow Dave’s Insanity Sauce.
After the worst was over, I made the pilgrimage to the bathroom to expel the gallons of water I took in and also wash my hands of the dastardly marinade (not in that order because no one wants to touch the delicates with hands coated in flaming impotence inducer). As I walked, I felt unusual coolness; I discovered that the sauce had caused me to sweat profusely from the top of my head.
Now the pain has passed, but I can’t help but view the whole event with a sick sense of satisfaction. You see, very few mortals can say they’ve locked lips with the devil himself. Yes, my friends, that is a boast for the truly stupid…