Spicy Chicken Wings - toilet humour
I am an avid lover of hot wings. I search them out. I've sampled the product from literally hundreds of restaurants. Tops among all these restaurants is a Denver area catering service/restaurant named Woody's Wings N' Things. The owner and I have a very competitive relationship -- he will call me and tell me he's got a new sauce that will light my socks on fire, and I will show up, eat a basket of latest creations, yawn contemptuously, and head home to my wife and family.
One particular day Woody called me around 3:00 to tell me he had a new sauce -- one that he had been working on for two weeks. He asked if I "dared" try it. I had had a large lunch with some coworkers earlier, where I had feasted on some extremely cheesy burritos and nachos -- please note for later I do have a slight lactose intolerance -- but Woody was very insistent that these were the hottest wings he had ever created. He had even named them --
'THE SCORNED WOMAN'
Now this intrigued me, so I agreed to come by after work and sample his latest creation. I arrived shortly after six o'clock with a coworker and sat down at a table. Woody came up and, with a devilish smile, indicated he'd be back with my "impending destruction" in about twenty minutes. I ordered up a nice large pint of Fat Tire, a local dark amber microbrew, and waited in anticipation.
I was not to be disappointed. Twenty minutes later Woody arrived with a basket of wings smothered in an orangish-yellow sauce, a stack of napkins, and three glasses of water for me. I bit into the first wing and -- OH MY ****ING GOD -- they were blisteringly hot.
I was in painful ecstasy
My forehead was dripping sweat
My eyes were watering
The skin on my face was blotchy and red
My lips twitched uncontrollably in abject pain
THEY WERE GREAT! I ate the whole basket and told Woody that he had finally made a sauce that conquered me. The rest of the night, at home with my wife and kid, I savored the aftertaste of the wings. They were so hot I believe I had blisters and second-degree chemical burns on my tongue.
Fast forward to the next day.
I am regular. Regular like clockwork. Every morning between 9:30 and 9:45, Mother Nature lets me know that it is time to make my morning poo. I have a favorite bathroom at work where the stalls are large, the bowl is just the right height and is comfortable to sit on, and there is a vent above that blows hot or cold air, depending on the temperature outside.
I dropped my slacks and drawers and placed myself upon my throne. It was not long after I did this that I realized something was not normal. I remembered that I had had a lot of cheese the day before; cheese, since I'm slightly lactose intolerant, makes me constipated. But this was no normal constipation. Nay, indeed it was constipation of Herculean proportions. I was dismayed, but resigned myself to settle in for the long haul.
It hit me
I had partaken of the most devilishly hot wings in the history of the universe
Every single agonizing millimeter I pushed out burned with flame so hot that Dante's inferno would have been a ski resort in comparison. Tears flowed down my cheeks as I felt like I was giving birth to a fire-breathing dragon. The warm gentle air blowing from above reflected off the back of the toilet and under the seat and then wafted back up the front to assail my nostrils. By this time I was sobbing and audibly screeching in pain and terror every time I pushed. Several coworkers had come and gone with all due haste during this birthing process.
Finally, after thirty-two minutes of pain and agony beyond description, I felt the final *plop* as the flaming log of death hit the bottom of the bowl. I was thanking God that **** is tapered at the back end so my ******* didn't slam shut. I wiped, stood to pull up my pants, and gazed with horrific fascination back into the bowl. There lay a log as big around as my forearm and just as long, dyed orange from the hot sauce the night before. It looked at me defiantly. I kicked the flush handle of the toilet, but the Flaming Log of Death was not to be so easily defeated. It was so big and sturdy that after the water evacuated from the toilet, it lay across the length of the bowl like a bridge for unsuspecting people to cross from one side of the bowl to the other. It took me seven more flushes before the raging floodwaters brought down the abomination of my bowels. I still had tears in my eyes from the pain and the triumph. I wandered back to my desk and sat down in my chair.
It hurt so bad I shrieked in pain. My officemate looked around with questioning eyes, and I quickly told him I had sat on a tack. I immediately left my office and drove to the local drugstore, where I purchased a tube of soothing Preparation-H and a blowup ass donut on which to sit.
It took me three days to recover -- and for three days, I did not poo. I was too scared.
" Never drive faster, than your guardian angel can fly."