It’s fate that as I step out of the gas refill shop, I get the text from my wife:
GIRLS’ NIGHT OUT GET YOUR OWN DINNER. X X X X
I look up from my phone, and across the road is a Mexican take-away place. I dodge traffic and step inside. After checking out the menu, I order a couple of chilli poppers, pulled-pork quesadillas and beef chimichangas.
The menu says Choose your heat: No Chilli / Mild / Medium / Hot / Extra Hot
Am I annoyed with my wife? Is it male, macho bravado? I order Extra Hot. The cute lady behind the counter raises an eyebrow, pulls a face and says, “Are you sure? It’s like really hot. You wanna take medium or just hot?”
This is a warning sign. In evolution, animals that ignore warning signs get removed from the gene pool. Natual selection . . . the stupid ones get culled.
Caveman is walking along a path and sees a bush moving, and he hears growling that sounds like a sabre-toothed tiger. What does he do?
Party Guy staggers out of the pub, and sees that dark alley that’s a short-cut home. But half-way down the alley, in the light of a high street lamp, he sees a bunch of tattooed skin-heads playing with their flick-knives. Does he take the alley?
I stride down that alley and say, “Give me the quesadillas and chimichangas, Extra Hot.”
The lady shrugs and rings it up on the till. It’s one of those open kitchens, really clean and shiny, so I sip on a deliciously strong Mexican coffee while I watch the staff preparing my food. They’re using fresh ingredients, and the smell is divine. I’m suddenly really hungry.
The air is expectantly still and heavy as I carry the warm packet to my car and get in. Even the Gods try to warn me. The sky darkens and there’s a series of bright flashes in the heavens, followed by ominous rumblings.
I get home, turn on the TV, crack open a cold beer, and tuck into the food. It’s awesome, great mouth-feel, and yeah, it’s pretty hot, so I sooth my tongue with more beer.
After the chilli poppers and chimichangas, my tongue is really burning. So I lift open the quesadillas with the plastic knife, and slather on the contents of side bowls. Salsa, guacamole and sour cream. It works like magic, and the quesadillas go down. The cool sauces keep the chillies off my tongue, and seriously enhance the taste. Awesome. I clear away the empty packages and notice that there are five empty beer bottles. Damn, cold beer goes down well with spicy Mexican food.
I take a shower and crawl into bed, my head fuzzy, my stomach full and glowing.
A thundering express train in my guts wakes me up an hour before my alarm clock is supposed to go off. I stagger to the bathroom, drop my pants, and still half-asleep, plonk my butt down on the cool toilet seat.
Holy frigging Mary!!! I’m wide awake now, with a searing pain in my ass. Hot lava is squirting out, and it hurts like hell. Warm flushes run over me, and a trickle of sweat runs down my face. This is not good. . . it feels like I have a fever, and my legs are unsteady. Can it really hurt so bad?
My intestines writhe and coil like angry snakes, and there’s a horrid liquid gurgling sound coming from my stomach. Something bad is going on in there.
I lurch forwards and my muscles spasm, and I’m having contractions, getting ready to spew out another load of this boiling toxic soup. I shudder at the pain that will cause, but I can’t keep it inside either . . .
It comes in great gouts, and then sprays like a fire hose, spluttering and hissing. The scorching pain of my ass-hole is just unbelievable! Horrifyingly, the steaming jet hits the water in the bowl so hard that it splashes up onto my dangling testicles, and I grit my teeth as I wait for a hole to be burned in my ball-bag.
Through a fog of pain, I think: chilli burns the tongue because you have taste buds, but why the hell would evolution have provided the anus with taste buds? And my ass hurts TEN TIMES as much as my mouth did when the quesadillas went in. So I calculate that my ass-hole has ten times as many taste buds as my mouth. Can you explain this, Charles Darwin? Did Caveman stick berries up his ass to test them before eating them?
Sweat is streaming down my face now, I’m shivering, and my breath is short and gasping. I feel another wave of pressure building up, and I just can’t take it anymore. Is it just the blood pounding in my ears, or can I actually hear a sizzling sound coming from down there?
I reach over and yank open the bathroom cupboard and grab hold of the plastic pipe that runs from the sink down to the plumbing. My pain-crazed mind has a plan. I’m going to rip this piece of pipe off, and shove it up my ass, so this bubbling hell’s fluid can pass down the inside of the pipe, and not touch my tortured hole anymore.
My wife sticks her head round the door and says, “Will you shut up! It’s five in the morning and you sound like you’re being murdered in here. Do you want the neighbours to call the police?”
How about a fucking ambulance, I think, as I let go of the pipe. I decide not to ask my beloved to get an ice-pack from the freezer. Her pitiless facial expression also kills my second plan (which was to fill the bath and soak my roasted butt in soothing cold water).
The next high-pressure gushing brings such agony that I am now in a state of panic. How many layers of skin will this chilli-acid concoction burn through, before it starts eating away the muscles of my sphincter? Am I going to need surgery? Will Discovery Health pay for it all? Do they even have a claim code for this kind of injury? What am I going to write in the claim form? Good grief, I don’t want my work colleagues visiting me in hospital.
I’m exhausted, weak and four kilograms lighter by the time that my intestines are empty. I’m shaking as I tenderly wipe this evil juice away from my charred rear end.
Late for work, I tell my colleagues that I pulled a muscle playing tennis. Because I can’t walk normally, and my legs are weak, and they notice.
Fuck you, Darwin. Now that I think of it, there’s a good reason Quesadilla rhymes with Anaconda and Tarantula. And as for Chimichangas, well, you just say it out loud, and let that roll off your tongue.
I give this Mexican take-away FIVE STARS for service, ambience, price and taste. Might I suggest a policy to serve Extra Hot only to customers who can produce ID or passports showing that they are 100 % born and bred Mexican.
Here’s pics of my ass-hole, BEFORE and AFTER.