I have a confession to make. It’s not an easy one and I’ve wrestled with it for the entirety of this website’s existence, but I feel like if I’m ever going to be able to move on with my life I just have to face it head-on. Here goes:
I can only eat the super-hot wings if I douse them in enough ranch to fill up a kiddie-sized (or Danny DeVito-sized) swimming pool.
It’s an earth-shattering revelation for someone as revered in the hot wing community as myself [Editor's Note: There isn't a hot wing community. He's a dick.]. Reviewing hot wings means you have to be able to handle something beyond mild, and that’s not a problem for me. I know a lot of people out there give us crap for always wanting to push the heat limit because they don’t quite have the same tolerance we do, and I totally get it; not everyone is a heat-freak. It’s fine and I’ve said so before, but now that you know I can only ever reach the upper-echelon heat with assistance from Mister Buttermilk and the Dairy-Doos (it’s a real band, look them up) [Editor's Note: It's not a real band, don't waste your time. He's a dick.] how can you ever take me seriously?
Tyler can handle heat. I’m actually 100% certain that Tyler was born without the part of your tongue that recognizes spiciness, and he’s probably doing damage to the linings of both his esophagus and intestine. Isn’t that a real disease, by the way? Where someone is born unable to feel pain, and you think, “Oh man, that would be awesome to not feel pain, like a superhero or how Kristen Stewart probably feels after one of her heroin benders!” but you don’t realize that it makes their life a living hell because they never know if they accidentally bit their tongue off or got stabbed in the back with a rusty stop sign? I swear that’s a real thing.
At any rate, the point is that Tyler can handle everything humanly possible. Do you remember that episode of The Simpsons where Homer eats the Merciless Peppers of Quetzlzacatenango and goes temporarily insane? Tyler probably would have just farted and moved on. And that’s truly awesome for him and anyone who can eat the actual surface of the sun, but I’ve had to admit to myself that I just am not in the same league with him on that.
It makes me feel better that I’m actually a lot more like most of you reading this, because it seems like everywhere we go the cooks and servers call us nuts for ordering their hottest wings. They tell us “Oh, I won’t even touch the HOT, much less the Super/Nuclear/Insane/Megafire/Three Thousand Alarm/Atomic/Subterranean/Suicidal/Homicidal/Patricidal/Matricidal/Pesticidal wings!” And when they do, I’m left wondering…if you’re not even ordering the hot, what are you ordering?
I hope it’s not the mild. Just for the sake of you eating wings and having a penis, I pray it’s not mild. Not even for the fact that mild has no heat, like, I’m not trying to puss you out and get your puss-puss all puss-ed out for everyone. Not calling you a pussy if you eat mild. Just saying…that’s basically butter with red food coloring. Mild is what you spread on your toast, essentially. Step up to the medium, please, your tastebuds will thank me later. Most mediums have the spice of Taco Bell’s mild sauce (so, basically, ketchup) anyway.
That tangent out of the way, what I realized is that we’d order the hottest they have, and Tyler would gleefully chomp his half down no problems. I’d do it too, and we’d compare the heat and whatnot but whereas he’s sitting there with only some wing sauce on his fingers, I’m basically globbed in white stuff on my hands and mouth, it looks like I gave a kangaroo a handjob or something. I’ve tried to cut back, tried using less and less, but I love the creaminess of ranch on my wings. The flavor of ranch and hot sauce works better than any combination I can think of. Still…it is a crutch for calming the heat. Why now? Why the revelation of my lack of heat-handling now? Because we are on the precipice of a new chapter in hot wing mastery.
Yes, we are finally going to do a hot wing challenge.
Very soon we will be revealing the (rather unexpected) location for this challenge on our Twitter and Facebook pages and you’re welcome to join us, cheer us on, help us not look so bad by doing even worse than us, or just buying us beer after beer for being so awesome at writing about hot wings [Editor's Note: You don't have to buy him beer. He's a dick.]
This challenge does not allow ranch. It does not allow drinks of any kind. It allows your fingers, a dozen wings, and a 15 minute wait time before we can run off crying like little girls. And if we win? Well, if we win, we become the first to ever beat this challenge, because so far all other comers have failed miserably. Am I scared? Nah. I don’t get scared. I get fidgety in the bowels because I’m afraid I’ll shit myself or puke everywhere or have uncontrollable hiccups that can’t be cured and I’ll end up in a hospital, but I don’t get scared! Haha…ha………. ha. Oh god.
Time to start training, and there’s only one training montage manly enough to handle this challenge. We hope to see you there.