Pictured: Me, just after leaving Flancer’s.
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?
