Tuesday, December 28, 2010

Conquered By Hot Sauce

I used to think that I had a very high tolerance for hot sauce. When I was a child growing up, my father often concocted chili that was so hot, it was possible to see through multiple parallel dimensions after consuming it. I think he even snuck hot sauce into my scrambled eggs on more than one occasion just to make sure I could handle it. So, it wasn't without reason that I confidently bragged to a friend who was hosting a Christmas party that I could easily tolerate his home made hot sauce.

I defiantly slathered the hot sauce onto a spoonful of chili. The sauce was flavorful and certainly brought the heat. I thought very little of the lingering effect as I put my coat on and prepared to stroll home. Soon, I felt as if the sauce was melting a hole through my cast iron stomach. It was a mere 20 degrees out yet I was sweating bullets. My legs began to buckle as I trudged through the snow. The only thing keeping me from collapsing into the snow was the distinct fear that I would wake up to the ghost Sir Alec Guinness telling me that I had to go to the Dagobah system.

By the time I pushed through the front door, I was crawling on the floor. I made my way to the bathroom where I ended up flushing the chili, the sauce and a large percentage of my pride down the toilet. Whatever was in that sauce was not meant to be digested by us mere mortals; it could only be consumed by Prometheus himself.

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