Dave and the Fuck Off hot wings

(Hot Sauce. It's pretty much the best stuff in the world. I love the stuff. There are, in fact, few things on this wonderful planet that I love more than plain jane Louisiana Hot Sauce. Hockey. Steak. The San Jose Sharks. Kittens. Led fuckin' Zeppelin. And probably not much else.

Like all true men, I adore hot sauce. And I put it on everything. There isn't a meal in the world that isn't improved by adding a touch of hot sauce. Or two touches of hot sauce. Or a groin punch of hot sauce.

Eggs? You can always add some hot sauce. Potatoes? Hey, hot sauce is great! Kraft Dinner? Needs the hot sauce, because fake cheese tastes like ass. Nothing in this wonderful world of ours cannot be made better with a touch of liquid heat. If Kittens would let me, I'm sure I'd work hot sauce into some sort of kinky bedroom game.

The older I get, though, the more I need. It used to be, when I was a teenager, that a splash of the stuff was enough. But now - I crave stronger things. I have, in fact, five different types of hot sauce in my fridge, in varying degrees of hotness. Tabasco Sauce. Louisiana Hot Sauce. Mild Green Jalapeno Sauce. Iguana Habanero Hot Sauce (super hot, and super good). And Chipotle Hot Sauce, from Mexico.

It's gotten to the point where I don't even notice things that a lot of people (I call them "wusses") would think are too hot. I've had jalapeno nachoes, and I'm munching away, while friends are chugging milk and crying like the little girls I've long suspected they are.

But this story is about the hot wings that kicked me in the balls. -Dave)

Dave and the "Fuck Off" Hot Wings

So, I'm at my favourite bar, with a few of my friends. The basic plan was to introduce a buddy from work, the infamous King of Swing, to my mainstream gang of friends - Squee, his girlfriend, and the Shlesbian. It's a wednesday- Wings Night at Heckler's. The greatness of wings night is that you can buy a plate of around eight wings for around three bucks - KoS and I had done it a few times already, ordering two drinks and two plates of wings for under twenty bucks.

I love this bar, too. If you were to imagine the set of Cheers, but with more TV screens and fewer ugly fat men, you wouldn't be far off. Plus it has a pinball machine, which equals infinite fun when you're so drunk you can barely stand. And, the coup de gras, the best pub food menu item ever. The Poutine Wrap.

Yes. the poutine wrap. Exactly as it sounds. Imagine poutine (i.e., fries, gravy, and cheese, for that one random non-canadian reader who has stumbled across this blog), with bacon, wrapped in a tortilla shell. I've never ordered it, or even seen it, but sometimes, I dream about it.

But I digress.

So, I'm hanging out at this bar, with Squee, his lady, and the Shlesbian, shooting the shit and waiting for KoS. They're all splitting a pitcher, and I'm working on my second Rye and Ginger while we talk about the draft picks for the NHL, and possible trades and whatnot, while Squee's girlfriend nods off at our table, wishing she'd brought a book.

And then in walks KoS, wearing a Kamikaze bandana. At this instant, I know it's going to be a good night. Behind him is his best friend, a navy bosun with a french name that is decidedly unfrench (and that's a good thing). We'll call him the Faux Frenchman, or FF for short. So, KoS and FF grab a chair, and KoS gets introduced to my friends. And promptly starts hitting on The Shlesbian.

"So. You're a chemist. I bet you wear a very sexy labcoat."

And so on, and so forth. This would culminate in KoS (in his early 20s... at the time, he also had braces, and way too much confidence considering he had to wear the fucking things) drunkenly proclaiming "I think I'm the sexiest man at the table wearing braces tonight" and Squee replying "Nah, I think you're the ugliest man wearing braces at the table tonight."

To which The Shlesbian added "hey, I had braces. When I was sixteen."

This is why I love my friends.

So, while KoS is busy making an ass of himself, and I'm working on Rye and Ginger number three, the waittress comes and starts taking our orders. I decide that regular hot wings are not going to do the trick tonight, because, well, I can barely taste hot sauce these days. I think I've killed most of my taste buds.

"What are your hottest wings?"

She pauses. She doesn't seem like the brightest tool in the shed. Or the sharpest bulb in the chandelier. Her face scrunches up, before she hesitantly offers "That would be our 'Fuck Off' Wings".

"Fuck Off wings?"

"Yeah," she says, apologetically.

"Are they actually hot, or are they wussy wings that try to act tough?" I grin. I am, after all, the man.

"no... they're pretty hot" I notice now that her breasts are about two sizes too big for her shirt. I know the sick little games that waittresses play. KoS has a good rule - never try to bag a waittress. It's a waste of time, and not worth it in the end.

"Bah. I can take it. I'll have a plate of those, and a plate of your so-called 'hot' wings."

Yeah. I feel like the fucking man at this moment. King shit, and all that jazz. This is good, because in about ten minutes, I will look like a total ass and a huge pantywaist.

When the wings arrive (super late, I think because our waittress had been busy in the back, taping her boobs together for perfect cleavage or something, so she could get an extra fifty cents added to her tip), I knew things might get bad. I could smell the spice coming off them.

And it was making my eyes water.

KoS had to shift away. "Dave. Those even smell hot, man."

"Fucking amateurs," I say, waving my hand nonchalantly at them. "Watch a pro, kids."

The first bite was not too bad. It was a little hot, but not as bad as I thought. But then it got hotter. and hotter. And then, just to be different, it got even hotter.

"Dave. You're looking a little red there." Squee said, digging into his wings. They were Honey Bourbon wings. Because apparently, Squee has a vagina.

"Fuck," is about all I can say. I take a drink of rye. It's empty. I order one more.

Wing #2 is even worse, and my skin is now flushed. But I don't want to say anything. So, I give one to KoS, thinking that a) it will reduce the number of wings I have to eat, and b) will totally kill him, making me look better by comparison.

KoS is unable to finish the wing. "Fuck, Dave, that's hot."

Squee has a wing, too. And I think he starts crying before it even gets near his mouth. There are now only about six wings left on my plate. I know I can do this. But, I stall, waiting for my drink to come. My body is now super flushed, and I'm sweating.

After two wings.

I start eating the other wings, the so-called "hot" wings. Now, these are my wings of choice. They are normal wings, drenched in louisiana hot sauce. I think they'd be hot for the average person, and normally when I have them, they are definitely pretty spicy. But this time, when I take a bite, I taste no spice. It is like I am eating bread, because by comparison to the Fuck Off wings, the hot wings are nothing.

It'd be like putting Barbara Bush in the same room as Charles Manson, and asking which one is the bigger monster. Because, while they've bothed killed people, at least Manson isn't letting Dubya come into his, er, "oval office".

There are six wings left. I have to finish them. I know this. But I can't keep picking at them - I'm sweating too heavily. And I've already emptied my rye and ginger, and ordered another. If I take my time eating them at this rate, I'll go through an entire bottle of rye. Not a good plan on a wednesday night. Already, FF is encouraging me to stop.

"They're too hot, dude. There's no shame in quitting."

But what the fuck does he know? He's french. Quitting is in his blood.

So, I decide to power through them. My plan? Eat the wings as fast as I can. Just burn through them, and suffer the consequences. Because the way I figure it, it will be the same amount of spiciness, in a shorter time frame.

Yeah. This would be a big mistake.

I start chewing on these wings, and by wing number one, I'm already sweating. By wing #2, I can actually feel my arms beginning to sweat. Shlesbian told me later that she could actually see the sweat pouring out of my skin.

My mouth is on fire. But I keep going, and start on wing #3. I'm having trouble breathing, and black dots are swimming at the edge of my vision. These "Fuck Off" hot wings are definitely pretty fucking hot. I'm contemplating running into the kitchen and performing some sort of murder-suicide deal.

At this point, my drink is empty again. Within about three seconds of it being placed on the table. I start chewing on the ice cubes, hoping to numb my tongue.

Halfway through #3, with wing residue still on my fingers, I remove my hat. This is when I discover that my hair is soaked, as if I've just had a shower. Except, my hair had been dry a half hour earlier. Even my goddamned hair is sweating.

FF is staring, wide-eyed. "Dude. Stop eating them. You're gonna kill yourself".

Squee and KoS, bastards that they are, instead pressure me. "Come on, Dave. Be a man! Keep going!"

Motherfuckers. I hope they both get polio. Or some sort of penis disease.

Wing #4. Let's go.

I start eating, and my mouth now hurts so much, that it actually feels like it's bleeding. I have to use one arm to keep my head propped up. I'm not hearing noises anymore, and my vision has blurred. I'm beginning to seriously think I'll black out. I can barely breathe, and it feels like someone has filled my mouth with shards of glass or something.

After wing #4, I look down at my plate. I see two wings that blur into four wings. And they are laughing at me.

"Damn wings.... fuck off" I curse.

At least, that's what I thought I said. I think everyone else heard "dmmnwngs... fffoff."

Two wings to go. And there's FF. "Come on Dave. Just quit. Come on."

So, do I keep going, or do I heed the advice of the frenchman, and let the germans walk all over me?

Sadly, I let the germans walk all over me.

I pushed the plate away, sadly, and hung my head in shame. KoS and Squee squealed in victory while I weeped. And then, to top it all off, I rubbed my eyes to get rid of the tears.

With the wing sauce on my fingers.

Fuck Off, wings.