Saturday, June 21, 2014

Death Sauce Sausage-Fest.

Yes, you are reading that correctly: 337,000 Scoville Units. 

History and time divided will only tell; moments of glory escape us mere mortals faster than a drunken sailor humping a wooden mermaid, but all is well when #hardcorbincummybuns is in the house: He who turned a mere 26 years of age this day - I have * 89 illegitimate children older than that - is the 9th or 10th wonder of the world in the eyes of Team 8Lumens; for it is he who is able to skid his janky-ass,  broken-tire-bead-rim 4000 feet down Main St. KCMO at 12:30 a.m. on a Friday night….But his superhuman attributes do not extend to a tolerance of the peppery juices of heat; nor the squeezed and fermented by-products of said extractions. Let the terror begin.

Outside the Belfry KCMO after a rim-grind left his SS with a 2" wobble.

Would have imbibed this baby-cake, but it was only 4.2% abv, ostensibly water in my veins.

Team 8Lumens may be famous the world over at this point, but here in KC we can only seem to muster a threesome for a night of urban destruction, a panoply of saint-killing behaviors, a veritable series of events only best described as Velo-Terrorism. But, with fame comes arrogance and with arrogance comes risk-taking and of course that brings threats of violence and 500 ft. industrial crane climbs that never quite come to fruition. With that said, perilous actions of quite another flavor were taken on with blind/brainless abandon in the form of comestibles at Grinders in the Crossroads: Death Sauce was dared; Death Sauce was downed; and Death Sauce came back up….

If any of yooos out there in the wilds of non-flyover cuntry have never ventured into the downtown KCMO area, you are missing out: world-class beer and restaurants, music and merriment, and of course pizza and wings at the aforementioned Grinders. Now, Death Sauce is just one of their signature pepper- based gravies, all being top-notch of course, and pilgrims travel thousands of kilometers in search of their pizza as well….but back to the Salsa De Muerto: you must sign a waiver to consume the wings doused in the Devil's Spit and are warned repeatedly that even a tip of a toothpick will kill *467 baby seals without a club in sight: It's akin to playing "I know" by Helmet at your born-again Grandmother's funeral, then dancing on the tables in a Jaegermeister Thong at the Baptist Church potluck. All that and more, to tell the truth. Anygay, I started talking excrement early in the night -which is my raison d' etre - and as the remainder of our Motley Stew craved the aliments, the discussion came around to the legend of those who have died trying the Death Sauce and the *-123 who have came out alive. I, myself have long been acclimating to extremely hot salsas and barbecue sauces, so, even though I am not a fan of wings -they are to me little more than poultry pussy with remnants of feathers- I committed to trying a nickel-sized sample on my Big-Ass-Cheese-Tots, because I am a racist towards my 1/8th Irish heritage.

that is less than 2 inches of liquid for reference…

El Blanco ordered an entire pizza for his dark ass, and HardCorbinCummyBuns asked kindly for a veggie sammy and fries and 4 gallons of PBR as is rationed in the trailer parks of Sugar Creek MO.
Then the Scovilles hit the factual fan: I dipped a single tot, covering one end and threw her/him down the hatch like a sorority girl using a straw to get the giz out of a prophylactic. It.Fucking.Burned. Not bad really, not enough to not sop up the rest on three more tots - good flavor overall. My voice dropped a few octaves for about 5 minutes and I sweat enough to fill a pint glass, but in the end I felt quite like a jockey spanking the Medusa with a whip made from the pubes of Godzilla. I had won, Muerto had put away his scythe and life would last at least 10 more minutes. 

too bad the Chasmgasm was there only in spunk...

The simple fact that I had cum out the other side with my bodily functions intact infuriated the surrounding patrons of Grinders, including Handleballs, for he decided to simply lick the millimeter left in my sample lid to prove that the old man could never have graced the Sauce with such fortitude and bravery of the gullet. Major mistake. He immediately began hyperventilating and convulsing, replete with profuse sweat and bulging- red eyes, rocking back and forth in a seance of tongue-speak and Satanic-salacious vernacular. Oh how the mighty fell over the next 10 minutes: he attempted to mute the flames with Urethra Franklin's Bacon/Cheese pizza and glass after glass of agua-fresca; and myriad threats of up-of-the-chuck. The rest of our congregation sharted in our chamois laughing and pointing until he finally turned white and stumbled into the water-closet and purged his innards of the conflagration within. Dear Gaia, it might have been the pinnacle of drunken abandon, more satiating than a greased lap-dance from the skinny Oprah. 

As is with youth, recovery is a fickle mistress, but HardCorbin rebounded with post haste and we continued North to Power and White to ride/jump stairs and eventually to The Flying Saucer for one last brew at Midnight; and of course the Ball of Handle stripping down to his tri-shorts which kept me from getting a date from the sundry effluvium of ladies de la noche -a blessing in disguise as per usual. Next time don't stay at home amongst your vintage rubber phallus collection and *345 ferrets and come out and destroy some pave' with the Team of Eight: regrets will be fleeting. 

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