Stab At Humor
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© 2001 Mike McCuen
Keep in mind that this is a true story. The names
have been changed to protect the stupid.
We've all
seen the sort of guy who
loves spicy food. Not the
normal "gimme it native Thai" kinda guy, but the kind that absolutely HAS
to have his food ten times hotter than yours. If a habanero makes your
eyes water, he'll scoff and then pop twenty of them in his mouth like M&M's.
Juan was that sort of guy. It had to burn a hole through concrete
before it was food to him. His nacho recipe is banned in twelve
countries, the EPA stopped his cajun shrimp, and the community got a
restraining order to keep his "Hiroshima" chili out of the local cookout.
When asked how anyone could justify such unnatural use of
capsicins, Juan would sneer and say "Hey, I can't help it if 'dis is too
MANLY for you. Maybe I got some oatmeal around for you to eat."
If your nose ran even a little- if your eyes teared up just one
drop more than normal- if you even thought about grabbing a glass of
water, you were branded a sissy. One night we all decided to tough it out
and out-manly Juan. I know, it all boils down to a cock-waving contest
but sometimes that's what being a man is all about (since the only cocks
women can wave are artificial ones, they don't count. Lorena Bobbitt
is excluded on the grounds that the one she may be waving isn't hers).
The waving cocks in this particular story were me, Burt, and
Bubba (aka Barry the Dope). Burt was a sardonic, mean-spirited little
snipe, with a nasty habit of telling the truth all the time. Sometimes
the truth is damned insulting, and he doled out more truth to Bubba than
anyone else. Bubba was a pile of human refuse, vaguely man-shaped,
vaguely intelligent. We brought him along mainly as a ringer- we figured
there'd be nothing on this mudball called Earth that he couldn't swallow.
Then there's me. You don't need to know about me.
One night we all piled in over at Juan's. We had steeled
ourselves for a spice overload. We had spent days sanding our tongues and
gargling with Everclear. Nothing he could possibly serve would burn the
mass of dead tissue we had turned our tongues into. Our throats were
hardier and tougher than Linda Lovelace's. This night WE would triumph.
As soon as I walked in the door I asked, "Hey Juan, got any
nachos?"
Juan looked shocked. "Yeah, I was just gonna make some."
"Well- Make'em hot, pal." The challenge was issued.
After half an hour, the Nagasaki aftermath lay in front of us.
The nachos LOOKED dangerous. I swear I heard them chuckling. "No
mattter" I thought. "We're here to kick ass. No stinkin' nachos gonna
make a sissy outta me!"
"No way you all can eat this." Juan chirped, shaking his head at
us.
"Yeah, yeah. Wanna bet?" I said, smiling back at him.
"Ok. Ten bucks says you weenies can't match me."
"Done."
One nacho was all it took for Bubba to run, screaming to the 7-11
looking for buttermilk.
Juan chomped down a handful, smiling in between swallows. Easy
money he thought.
Burt caved in next. Six nachos and he was crying like a slapped
baby. He would have ran to the 7-11 after Bubba, but feared being seen
with him (which is understandable) and instead tore the door off of the
fridge and dug into the beer like Dracula at a blood bank. By the time
the fire was out, he was asleep in a mountain of empty cans.
"Man, you guys are pussies. A coupla wimpy little nachos and you
go all candy-assed." Juan taunted the fallen Burt, then levelled his eyes
at me.
"Oh well, more for us.... unless you think they're too hot. I
have some Cream of Wheat in the cabinet...."
I shoved about ten of the little yellow fuckers down. Juan
followed suit. We were both going through handfuls like wood chippers. He
had used habaneros and jalapenos, maybe something else too. Damn they
were hot. I fought back the runny nose and the watering eyes for as long
as I could. We were down to three nachos when I finally broke. My nose
went off like a busted fire hydrant at the end of a cheesy "Starsky and
Hutch" car chase. My eyes didn't water- they liquified. Fuck it. I tried.
There was a knock at the door. Juan popped two of the three
remaining nachos down and got up to answer it. Bubba had returned. He had
a three quarters empty gallon jug of buttermilk in his hand, and a
contented look in his eyes. From the kitchen we heard Burt's beer-can
mattress shuffle, and then he staggered out into the dining room. He was
a little bleary eyed, but alive.
Juan looked us over and smirked. He swaggered over to the table
and picked up the last nacho. It was loaded with the deadly cheese and
pepper mixture. A perfect ring of jalapeno sat in the exact center. He
held it up and it seem to catch the light like Excalibur. Juan was
enjoying his moment of victory. You could almost see the testosterone
coursing through him.
"Thanks for the money, suckers. It was good try, but leave the
real food to the real men." he said, then flipped the nacho up like a quarter
and tilted his head back to catch it.
Unfortunately the gods of humility must have had all they could
take, because the nacho flew apart in mid-air and the only thing Juan
caught was the jalapeno slice. It landed, perfectly centered, on his
right eyeball.
Immediately his eye went solid red. He dashed into the kitchen,
screaming like a steam whistle. Of course, we all burst out laughing.
In the kitchen he stumbled over the pile of beer cans and fell on
his ass. Bachelor life was against him- the kitchen was a deathtrap. The
sink was full of dishes and evolution, and when he tried to put his head
under the tap he got a faceful of week-old ravioli.
Bubba charged to his rescue and poured the remaining buttermilk
on Juan's head. A flailing arm caught Bubba in the jaw and knocked him
out.
Covered in buttermilk and rotten pasta, the triumphant Juan dashed to the
shower and slammed the door. I slipped the ten bucks under it and Burt
and I headed to Friendly's to put the fire out. Bubba was still in dreamland.
Even in the car we could still hear Juan screaming.
It was one of the few times it felt good to lose.
Copyright © 2001 Mike McCuen All Rights Reserved.
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