Shitting Fire: A Post For The Ladies

I went with a friend of mine to Buffalo Wild Wings yesterday and, since then, I've been shitting fire like I swallowed a blowtorch from Satan's chop shop deep in the bowels of Hell (pun totally intended). Like, I don't want to get too graphic or anything, because I'd feel bad if the entire internet started puking because of me, but damn, kids... fucking DAMN. It's partially my fault because I'm one of those deeply insecure dudes... probably due to the number of Original Cast Recordings that I own... who feels they have to do all their overcompensating for their girly shortcomings in the area of spicy foods. So, while I would have enjoyed a sensible medium-spicy wing sauce or even a mellow, flavorful Parmesan-Garlic, I ended up going for the "Hot" variety, which is pretty close to the "Blazin' Nuclear Deathballs" flavor, but not quite (I'm not a sadist, after all). Basically my goal was to get a flavor hotter than what my boy got, just so I could feel like a big, big man. My one-upmanship OF COURSE went completely unnoticed and so I ended up with a plate of chicken wings that were deeply, deeply spicy and hurtful and said mean things about my mother and laughed off the liberal dunkings in bleu cheese like the monster in Cloverfield shrugging off missile attacks from a tank, all for naught.

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!!!