Before the first bite, I’m a man. I can eat lightning and crap thunder or whatever. I used to eat mom’s tamales con chile with reckless abandon. Wait that was a long time ago when I was young and fearless and my stomach could well, stomach anything. Now, I need Pepto and a nap just from kissing my girlfriend after she’s had an enchilada. This is what happens after I bite into something I know I shouldn’t have…
Stage 1: One bite and beads of sweat start oozing through your pores.
Glands that you forgot you even have start sweating as they try to squeeze the coward out of you. Your upper lip and back are suddenly drenched. You don’t even sweat this much when you go to the gym.
Stage 2: Try to play it off.
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You never wanna look weak, but you feel like you’re rotting from the inside out. And let’s be real, you’re not fooling anyone. They can all hear your guts rioting like the Attica Prison Uprising.
Stage 3: Look out! Fire down below.
You’re losing your mind trying to have a conversation between each fiery breath. It feels like your lungs are filled with the unholy butt-wind of the damn Devil himself. You try to focus on what your friends are saying, but you feel like you’re about to give birth to your own bodyweight in fuming gas *or* it’s just going to explode out of your chest like an alien monster.
Stage 4: Let’s get ready to…
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Your stomach is shaking like the Jell-o in ‘Jurassic Park.’ It’s like someone set your guts to ‘vibrate.’ Your cheeks are clenched, futilely holding in farts like Hodor trying to keep back the White Walkers in ‘Game Of Thrones.’
Stage 5: You try to put the fire out by hydrating.
You throw back water because it seems to slow down the process of dying. You casually work milk into the conversation and bring up ice cream in ways that are beyond clear that you’re just shoehorning it in.
Stage 6: You try
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All of a sudden you become religious and you pray to God for some relief, even though he has clearly forsaken you. Maybe this is His plan all along.
Stage 7: When that doesn’t work, you turn elsewhere.
God wasn’t home. You move onto trying to cut a deal with the dark lord, prince of darkness, Satan. You’re offering things you don’t have permission to give and just as you’re promising to name all of your children after Donald Trump… You start to regain feeling in your face.
Stage 8: Then you take it all back.
As soon as you feel even a little better, you’re immediately back to believing in science. Thank goodness for milk! I knew if you just threw a little lactose on the old intestine inferno, you could beat back the heat and regain your composure. Spicy food’s got nothing on you. You knew you had this.
Stage 9: Just when you thought it was over, you come face to face with THE NEXT MORNING…
You fall into a ring of fire. Literally, your ass is the on fire. Even the toilet paper is catching flames. You’re back to begging God and since you’re alone, you start crying.
You will definitely never ever eat spicy food again…until you think you’re man enough to try it (again).
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Or so you thought…