Wednesday night, as I blew my nose for the sixth time, wiped away the tears from my eyes and poured ice cold water on my lips to keep them from burning off, I was forced to ask myself, "hey, is it just me, or did BW-3's Blazin' sauce just get a whole lot hotter?"
Wait, maybe I should start earlier. My name is Adam Graham, and I'm addicted to hot foods. It started a long time ago, during the glorious summertime days of my childhood, when I would make tunafish sandwiches for my brother. But I would end up eating them, as a result of the copious amounts of Tobasco sauce I would pour onto them.
I couldn't help it, I was a fan of Tobasco. And I'll be damned if tuna and Toabasco weren't a match made in heaven (hell?). So if my brother couldn't take the heat, he should've gotten out of the kitchen.
Or at least just gone to the cupboard and fixed something for himself. So although it would leave me alienated from my family, my love affair with Tobasco sauce continued, as I found new and exciting things to lace with it. Pretzels, popcorn, ramen noodles, burgers, fries: nothing at all was safe from the wrath of me and my Tobasco.
One of my finer moments would find me wasted off my ass in a high rise in a high rise Chicago apartment eating a sandwich that consisted solely of bread, saltines and Tobasco sauce.
It escalated to the point where one Christmas, my favorite gift was an enormous 64 ounce bottle of Tobasco sauce, which now rides shotgun with me everywhere I go.
Then along came BW-3, and my affinity for all things Blazin'. Somewhat notorious in my own right for being able to throw down blazin's with the best of them, I would oftentimes catch curious stares from onlookers and roommates, who did not understand how I was able to rock the hell out of those badboys while busting nary a sweat.
A confession: Part of that inaffectedness could be chalked up to my superior acting skills. While never have Blazin's knocked me out, they have been known to catch me off guard from time to time, resulting in the occasional nose bleed or skin rash. But nothing a little time-out couldn't mend.
Until the other night, which was my first trip to BW-3 thus far this semester. It would result in a near-death experience that may put me on the proverbial blazin' sidelines for the remainder of the season.
At approximately 6 p.m. on Wednesday night, I entered BW-3 with my roommate, as I owed him for giving me a ride across town and offered to purchase him some legs for his troubles. Being in a jovial mood, I decided that I would order some legs myself. $.50 leg night is a B-Dubs classic, after all.
So I went ahead and ordered five blazin' legs, and razzed my roommate, as I always do, for ordering milds. We got them to go, and returned back to our humble abode.
As I cracked a Mug and sat down to conquer my blazin's, I noticed that it was not labeled with the industry standard black "blazin" sticker, but rather a new, white label with what looks to be a mock warning of how when consumed wrong, they could cause skin irritation.
I chuckled to myself and began to devour the helpless legs. About two bites in, I began to see things. There were suddenly red devils hopping around my living room, pointing their pitchforks at me and laughing themselves silly. "That's strange," I thought, as I continued to eat away.
Two legs in I was crying. I blew my nose for what was then the second or third time. My mouth was damn near on fire, and I almost threw in the towel and dunked my head in a bucket of ice.
That would have been the smart thing to do, but no one ever accused me of being smart. Pride's a bitch, and with two people watching me, I didn't have the heart to give up. So I soldiered on.
Needless to say, I almost fucking died. By my fourth leg I was chasing bites with ice cubes, and I needed an almost five minute breather before tackling leg number five. I finished those legs, if only to save myself from getting punked by my roommates, but later paid the price.
The next thing I knew, I was laying in the middle of our living room floor, pouring bottled water all on my face and lips. Hours later, my stomach still felt as if the Battle of Los Angeles had taken place inside of it, and I could still taste death in my mouth.
Had I ordered one more leg, I may have had to either been a) hosed down with a fire hose, b) carried out on a stretcher or c) both a and b.
Blazin's I couldn't handle? There's gotta be something fishy going on here. I'm the one who's been known to drink Tobasco sauce on bets, or even just for fun. The one who would read the childhood threats from his mother that if he spoke ill, he'd get Tobasco on his tongue, as incentives. The one who'd bathe in the damn stuff and use Blazin' sauce as shaving cream if it was deemed socially acceptable.
So, like, is it just me, or did BW-3 Blazin' sauce just get a whole lot hotter?