There’s a gym on the way to my new job that has a large sign outside advertising a 1-dollar per day membership fee. I refuse to join any establishment that feels the need to equate my mandatory monetary contributions to how much it would cost to feed an Ethiopian child. I’m all for having healthy, well-fed Ethiopian youngsters, but I barely make enough to feed myself, so I don’t see how my enabling their McDonald’s habits and contributing towards the gluttonous destruction of the rapidly growing Ethiopian obese would help me get into better shape. It’s not like I get extra personal training out of it, not that I’d understand the motivational mouth clicking anyways. I’d just think it was some sort of Morse-code signal for SOS, and I’d probably end up emailing someone in Pearl Harbor to warn them of some nonexistent Japanese invasion. And I’ll tell you one thing, if that ended up causing me to pay more for my sushi, I would be one unhappy camper.
Ok, since we’re on the subject of Japanese disasters… I’m not saying that I was chopping up Habanero peppers and touched my unmentionables causing a horrific burning sensation not felt since the first three minutes of the Hiroshima incident, but I’m also not saying that it didn’t happen. What I am saying, is that if indeed a burning condition needs immediate soothing, nothing works better than a frozen bag of tropical fruit. A little yogurt might be effective as well, but frozen pre-smoothie ingredients might be the best home remedy invented since the first toddler was held upside down to cure his hiccups.
If we’re gonna talk about self-inflicted hot pepper injuries that may or may not have happened to me or anyone else who looks and acts like me, I might or might not mention the Jalapenos on the Dominos pizza made by a rogue Indian pizza-maker which led to me, or someone like me, throwing up and having bits of Jalapeno flavored bile kick back into the general vicinity of the eye socket, causing temporary blindness. I’d apologize for being gross, but I won’t do any such thing since we’re delving into the magical land of make believe.
One thing I surely never did many imaginary years ago was to make Jalapeno poppers, taking a bite out of one fresh out of the oven. The deliciously potent innards couldn’t possibly have been hotter than the 8th level of hell, otherwise the murder juice would have shot out onto my chin like I just squeezed a sea cucumber who just spent the night eating most of his more intelligent friends at a seafood buffet. If this make believe incident did occur, the scalding homemade lava would have left a burn mark that didn’t go away for weeks.
I’ll never admit to any of the previous incidents, and I won’t not admit to them either. Regardless, I’ll definitely be staying away from hot peppers, at least until I attempt to conquer the super hot roast beef challenge that’s been prodding me since I saw it at the deli earlier today during my quest to contribute towards Irish pride by gobbling up the corned beef St. Patty’s day special.