Last night we saw the Florida Gators beat the Kentucky Wildcats. They didn’t play as well as I would’ve liked, but they did win, bringing their season to 4-0. Good times.
We watched the game with some friends at Buffalo Wild Wings Grill & Grill. That’s how it’s listed in Google.
Since Troy and I have the typical testosterone-driven tendency to try and out-whatever each other, it was no surprise that we simultaneously looked at one another while perusing the menu, and quietly understood that we were going to sample their hottest wings.
I had the hottest wings on the face of the planet. Troy ate them like candy, barely stopping for a swig of beer or the occasional onion ring. He skipped napkins altogether, actually, and deferred until the end of his Blazin’ Wings run to hit the head and warsh his hands.
I, on the other hand, was inches away from needing to have someone call me an ambulance. Usually, spicy foods give you a few moments before “hitting you.” These wings, though, of which we ordered 12, were not so generous. Instantly, upon touching my lips, I realized that I was willfully ingesting poison. Nothing this spicy is actually meant to go into (or come out of) a human body. One friend took one, single bite and immediately flushed, threw down the nibbled wing, yelped and downed his entire beer and half his wife’s icewater. That was it for him.
Since I’m either an idiot or a glutton for punishment, I ploughed through five of these things. My eyes were watering uncontrollably. My skull was sweating. After 5 minutes I felt dizzy, disoriented, and started to have trouble hearing and seeing. For a moment, I hallucinated. These wings are not for the faint hearted. The reason they serve celery and ranch dressing with hot wings became very obvious to me at this point. The sour cream counteracted the battery acid on my tongue nicely, and I once again regained my composure and enjoyed the game.
This morning, I experienced these wings again — in the bathroom. They’re spicy on the way out, but I resisted the urge to shove a stalk of celery covered in ranch dressing up my ass (though the thought did cross my mind as I sat there, holding my head as my eyes watered and my vision blurred).
In related news, Joe Paterno, pushing 80 years old, jogged off the field during Penn State’s unfortunate loss to Ohio State. It was reported in the media that he’s “suffering from the flu,” but we all know what that means… ol’ Joe had the wicked shits. Props to Joe for doing what he had to do, and that was to find a toilet - and fast.
on Sep 24th, 2006 at 9:27 pm
Keep in mind, a game lasts on average 3 hours, and I didn’t see any trays of wings or hooters girls on the sidelines, so he must have consumed them prior to kickoff. So my only assumption then would be that Joe, in his infinite wisdom found only with laps around the sun has figured out the secret to retaining the spicy shits until he can conveniently evacuate. Good job Joe…once again you have proved that age and experience is better than youth and vigor!
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on Sep 25th, 2006 at 12:21 pm
I have a long career with hot wings and that night was just another page in the book. I certainly don’t have a stronger constitution than anyone else, so I attribute it to the very likely case that most of my nerve endings were burned into oblivion long ago or that I’m developing a tolerance for the things I continue to do to my body.
As for the morning after… I had enough gas to move a sailboat. Not stinky, just voluminous. I was worried for a moment there, that my colon might try to escape and seek out cool pools of Pepto or Milk of Magnesia, but as they say, “it all worked out in the end.”
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