I used to date a hot sauce addict.
He loved the spicy shiz – he and his best buddy. And when we’d go out, they’d request the full on five-pepper scored fiery chimeras. Ya know – the kind you’ve gotta ask the waiter for, whereupon they go to that top shelf all the way in the back closet of the kitchen to get it. Then said server would return with something made with habanero, cayenne, and satan’s foreskin smegma. After that, I would have to sit there and watch these boys watch each other intently (presumably to see which pussy cringed, spat, or reached for water first) as they ate in the silence of a dick measuring contest with a barometer of tongue tolerance. I don’t recall the rules specifically (No water? Whoever throws in the towel first loses?) But I do know that it was meant to be a manly event, no doubt. A hero’s journey. And every time, I’d wonder why I’d been invited along to bear witness to these mortifying bromance moments. In retrospect (since I ended up dating his friend later after he cheated on me #bitchmove #sorrynotsorry), I realize they probably felt like gladiators proving something to an ovary owner in the stands who they didn’t realize was just a smirking anti-cheerleader, reluctant to be present, and lukewarm about the both of them.
’cause even though they thought they looked like this:
They actually looked like this:
More like if Lady and the Tramp just had tantric eye sex the whole time. Till they climax-cried tears of joy.
But were these men children just following following their cro-magnon magma eating blueprints? Mayhaps. Because I didn’t learn until recently that there is indeed a link between high testosterone level and these kinds of proclivities for pyro-dining (arena of wielded Srirachi swords and lo-mein maces optional). My initial thought is to say, “Yeah right. What’ll they try to link up next? Broccoli causes cancer?” But as I quickly reflect on the contents of my own kitchen, I get a mental image: the signature green and red topped hot sauce bottles – lining more of my shelves than there is food to put them on, the death peppers in powdered form, and the overall tear-inducing aroma that pervades my kitchen late at night after I’ve made my bowl of molten soup from scratch. Tangent to that thought is the fact that while I (unfortunately) haven’t grown one of those organs you can stand up and pee with, I admittedly suffer spontaneous violent rages far more often than I actually cry. It ain’t pretty. So, would slicing the spice intake maybe help me stop seeing red, punting coffee mugs, and then crawling into a corner of the ceiling and hissing? Short answer: they dunno. They haven’t proven yet if the genetically testosterized men ‘n women are destined to love the stuff – or if the stuff is what’s roiding them out WWE style. Maybe the chicken on that Sriracha bottle came first. Maybe the egg did. We may never know.
But God must’ve peppered me with just enough dude hormone of my own.
Because outta those two capsaicin-ly competitive boys I briefly dated….
I chose the hot sauce.