This story is an email I sent my college roommate after a 1998 "incident."

Adam,

On Saturday, September 19, we had a little tailgate party at Stanford. You know the kind of party I'm talking about: a bunch of the usual suspects (Arthur, Big Daddy, Glenn, Boz, Boz II, Squid), a keg, a beer bong, a small BBQ, and no intention to go into the game at all. Shortly after the game ended, our keg went dry. We packed up and convoyed back to San Mateo feeling the effects of seven hours of, well, let's face it, drunken idiocy.

We convened around 8:30 PM in depleted numbers at my apartment and polished off a couple cases of the golden elixir. About this time, as is always the case, we started thinking about getting something to eat. I submitted that driving would probably not be a good idea. The people who weren't already sleeping were basically flopping around my apartment like a bunch of retards. Hell, no one could even focus on the TV, much less drive. Everyone still capable of speech was too drunk to argue with me. So, despite some grumbling, we decided to go to the Prince of Whales.

Understand this: the POW is not a terrible place. I have been there many times in my life for a pint or two. They have a decent selection of beer on draft, and I know I will never run into someone I know there. The place is, however, a dive. When we arrived, we constituted the only people there save the bartender.

Having never eaten the food there before, and realizing that as a restaurant the POW would never be confused with La Cote Basque, I was ready for average bar fare. By the end of the night, the consensus among everyone else was just that: the food was not bad, and the food was not great. It was adequately prepared bar food: fish and chips, burgers, and so on.

When it had come time to order, my companions all chose fairly standard menu items. I, however, opted to be more adventurous. With prodding and a beer-to-blood ratio of one-to-one, I ordered the "World Famous Habenero Burger."

As you know, I put hot sauce on everything. I drink rojo. I put cayenne pepper on my lettuce salad, for Christ's sake. This, I figured, would be no different than any of the fiery meals I am used to. Then I asked the bartender about it. "That thing is evil," he coolly replied. "The owner of this place invented it and he doesn't even eat it." I realized I might be in for a fight. But, undeterred, I began to read with one eye the waiver releasing the POW and anyone associated with it from any liability should the burger end up killing me. (Or something like that.)

I mustered my faculties for the two seconds necessary to pen my John Hancock; and in an instant could hear the grill sizzling. Forgetting the bartender's warning, I began to think, "I love hot food. I have never found anything to be too hot before." Plus, since I had the distinct advantage of being unconscious with alcohol, I was all ready to sleepwalk through the eating and for management to add my name to the Wall Of Flame.

When the food was up, I figured a close inspection was in order. All the talk in the bar (still only me, my friends, and the bartender) had now turned to this fabled burger. Though I presented the facade of closely studying the food in front of me, the lack of lighting and the alcohol-induced fog prevented me from determining anything other than the fact that I was facing a piece of ground charred flesh between a bun.

Onion: check. Pickle: check. Tomato: check, and toss. The only distinguishing thing about this meal was that on top of the burger was an unidentified condiment. I mused about what this sauce could possibly be made of. Perhaps, in light of its texture, "chutney" may be a better description than "sauce." This substance, whatever you want to call it, I determined, must be my opponent. Though not ladled all over my food, my burger did have an ample amount covering it.

A quick sniff and I had confirmation: confirmation that not only was this to be my adversary, but that this was going to be a real battle.

As the rest of our party began to devour their food, I cautiously started in. Hot, yes -- but very flavorful. I actually love the flavor of habeneros. And the first half of this thing was marvelous. Flaming hot, but delicious. I was sweating and drinking more than my share of beer, but it seemed very easy. I stopped eating my burger about halfway through in favor of some of my fries, and to converse briefly with those around me.

And then it hit. It hit me like a fucking brick dropped from a plane. This did not creep up at all. Like a bout with the old intestines after an Oki dog, this grabbed me and started thrashing me around wildly. I began to sweat violently. My nose and eyes began to run -- no, flow. My goddamn ears were running. Every beer on the bar was snatched up and consumed by me in an instant. My tongue was actually cooking. Laughter and jeers from my friends meant nothing. I was dying.

Bread, beer, water, ice, and milk were all consumed in great quantity, and with no effect. I had thought I was hammered when I ordered -- but if I could only have gotten rid of the excruciating pain in my mouth, I would have had a wonderful habenero high to enjoy.

Glenn sarcastically offered that perhaps a dick in my mouth would relieve the pain, but I declined.

As everyone else finished their food, I wallowed in solitary misery. I was ready to crack. I was losing it. But, then, miraculously, the pain actually began to subside. I convinced myself that if I could just hold on a little while longer, I would be out of danger.

And a few minutes later, I patted my forehead with a cool damp napkin, blew my nose, and began to compose myself. To my amazement, almost everyone there was unaware of what I had just gone through. Somehow, despite my perception, I had outwardly fought off the hell inside and comported myself in a downright manly fashion, considering the circumstances. At this point, I figured I had it made. A quick survey of the room boosted my confidence. People were not paying attention to me at all. I had survived. All that was left was a dull, numbing heat in my mouth.

Then it happened. A challenge was issued to me. A challenge of death or dishonor. Squid, one of only two people closely tuned into my situation, made a statement that had but one possible response. Wasting no words, he said, "Sumner, you need to finish that thing to make it onto the Wall Of Flame. And check it out -- there are a lot of chicks' names up there."

The Jalepeno Kid was having his manhood challenged. I was being called out over hot sauce. I couldn't believe it. I had barely survived my first tour of duty, and now I needed to go right back to the front.

Having no choice, in typical manly fashion, I adjusted myself and began to finish my lava sandwich. This time, however, I convinced myself I was ready. Time-consuming details like biting and chewing were forsaken for inhaling. Less time in the mouth, I reasoned, would equal less pain.

My conclusion proved to be based on a false premise, though. If only I had spent more time studying syllogisms in Dr. Morris' logic class.

Round Two was a carbon copy of round one, with a special twist. The first half of this extra-strength Drano in solid form had begun to mix with about twenty-five beers and the only other food in my stomach: a hot dog and some chips from the tailgate (an unhealthy combination, whatever the circumstances). Now I was dealing with both the inferno in my mouth and a mutant form of indigestion. I was really getting beat up.

Once again my pores, my tear ducts, and my nose did their best to open up and flush out the poison. As for my palate -- it, unfortunately, had not callused after the first assault. Instead, it was burned raw. Having already eaten away all but the tender inner layer of skin, the burn was infinitely worse the second time around.

Dazed and unconscious, somehow I finished. Tortured, I sat drinking beer, hoping time would speed along and sweep the pain away with it.

Hours later, after last call, I got up from my stool. Still whacked out from the feast (and maybe the beers, too), I headed into the night. The POW even sent me home with a big, bright orange bumper sticker: "I Survived the Habenero Burger."

As it turns out, they handed me my sticker a little prematurely. I hadn't survived anything yet -- as the next couple of days would prove.

I was as hung-over Sunday as I would be after a Las Vegas bender. The wake-up call came at seven AM. This particular morning, my body -- over which I have had remarkable control through the years -- turned the tables on me. It woke me with a very clear message: "Get your butt to the toilet in ten seconds or shit yourself!" What got me to my porcelain throne was nothing other than pure adrenaline. The human body is remarkable when it senses severe danger.

The movement, though urgent, was far from spectacular. A little loose, perhaps. The accompanying gas, however, was obviously special. Though not ignited, its sheer heat singed the hair right off my ass. Before I could think (or duck, for that matter), the stink slapped me and I began to retch.

Now, I have certainly dropped a few bombs in my day. Hell, I've had people call me "evil" because of my gas. This stench, my friend, defied words. It could have won the war for Saddam Hussein. The smell was death, and it enveloped me for the next ten minutes while I battled with my intestines. I sat gagging while my insides refused to give me a clue whether they were done or not.

When I exited the bathroom, I knew I was in for a long day. I put a twelve pack of toilet paper in the freezer, the feather duster at the bathroom door, and polished off a family-sized bottle of pink bismuth liquid.

Like clockwork, for the next twelve hours I had an important meeting every forty-five minutes. Each session was more urgent, more violent, and more painful than the last. Just the night before I would have sold my soul to the devil to extinguish the fire in my mouth; in retrospect, the oral discomfort associated with eating the habenero burger can only be considered pleasurable when compared with the rectal nightmare that followed.

One round was straight sulfuric acid. One was a blistering liquid thorn-bush. I believe one particularly harsh episode was a fair-sized portion of my small intestine. All, of course, accompanied by the increasingly potent gaseous excretions

I realize I cannot speak for everyone; my ass, however, is exit only. So, burning, throbbing, itching, fucking hanging to the ground, all I could do was dab at it with toilet paper. After my third cold shower, I deemed that tactic ineffective and aborted all further attempts at relief.

I could not sit. I could not stand. I could not lie down -- and this creature was literally tearing the ass out of me. Each time the pain began to subside, I was forced to make another deposit.

Finally I realized what was happening. The old habeniero burger was completely flushing my system. As it worked its way through my digestive tract, it was burning and loosening any and all organic material inside of me, including my organs and bowels. This explained both the incredible amount of fecal matter and the inconceivable smell of death.

By five PM I was used to the drill:

• Step One. The call is made.
• Step Two. Spring to the kitchen and grab a roll of toilet paper from the freezer.
• Step Three. Run to the bathroom while loosing the boxers (which is all one can wear when in such dire straights).
• Step Four. Pray your ass is over the bowl when the floodgates (over which you now have absolutely no control) open.

At six PM, I embarked on the now-predictable routine. But, this time, as I began to excrete, I concluded that whatever my previous experience, something was now seriously wrong. I could sense it in my gut. Somehow I knew there was a severe problem, and instinct told me to investigate.

What I discovered scared me.

After checking the toilet paper in my hand and the contents of the bowl, I realized I was pissing blood out of my ass. I was expelling pure, uncut blood -- the kind they want at the blood bank. I was not shitting. I was bleeding internally.

Fearing what might happen during an emergency room visit, I decided to call my HMOh-no's help line. After a short time on hold, a friendly Kaiser nurse picked up and listened to me recount my story. I explained to her that my ass was raw, my sphincter was swollen, my hemorrhoids were engorged, my asshole was dragging behind me, and that instead of shitting I was discharging nothing but blood.

After a brief silent moment, the help nurse gave me this advice: "Just stop eating hot food."

Her condescending attitude and useless advice made me apoplectic with rage. I would have done anything to ease my pain and suffering. I was almost ready to start felching ice cubes, and the only professional advice I would get was to "stop eating hot food." I threw my phone down and cursed the world.

For the next six days I lived on applesauce and ice cream. I spent the whole week dreaming of the old days when I could complain about the burn of a jalepeno or a serano.

Slowly, though, the blood content of my stools diminished. By the end of the week, I was walking normally again.

Last week I even had a solid, healthy stool.

Today, as I eat a particularly hot Mich for lunch, I feel a strange urge. An unexplainable lure. Maybe I am crazy. But, like LT and Dexter Manly with the glass pipe, I think I can handle it. Something has me believing that next time it will be different. This sweet temptress is my heroin. Maybe when you come up, we'll give it a go at the old Prince of Whales.