Shitting Fire: A Post For The Ladies
But, look, I'd be lying if I said they weren't delicious; that the whole exercise of eating brutal wings was horrible and made me wish I were somewhere boring eating bland toast with a spoon. They were still Buffalo Wild Wings, which means they were a minefield of amazing taste sensations amid an array of sports-related programing that makes the Dude part of my brain go "aaaaahhhhhh." I ate every single wing and smiled while I did so, even if my tongue was a little pissed at me and my lips were like, "you motherfucker."
The real problems started after I got home; after I'd had a chance to digest all that cayenne pepper. That's when I started shitting. A lot. And every single visit to the bathroom was like someone had maced my butthole with military-grade pepper spray. So not cool... so painful and sad and now I'm scared to ever poo again because it feels like I'm going through a blasted landscape of open wounds. Seriously, I think I need to check out my "exit door" with a hand mirror because I'm afraid it's nothing but a wad of ground beef that used to be my colon. I mean, I know it's probably not but, Jesus, what if it IS!!! What if the hot sauce has ruined my ass and I have to spend the rest of my life shitting through a tube into a bag labeled "pathetic?"
God, I might just kill myself. Or, whatever, get really drunk and throw my poop at people. That could be fun too. Anyway, so that's my weekend. Painful doo-doos and the crisis of the mind that followed.
In other news, ZFS has been nominated for the Classy Awards and is expected to sweep all categories. My acceptance speech will be delivered from a men's room where a drifter just died. See you on the red carpet!!!