First, I'll preface this by saying that I've long held a reputation for excess. In short, too much of anything is hardly enough. This goes primarily for base needs like food, drink, sex, etc., but it IS important to my tale -- this is the story of my comeuppance vis-a-vis spicy foods.

About six years ago, I held a job at a commercial food plant where we made, appropriately enough, salsa -- mild, medium, and HOT. Being a small company, the boss was also a close friend of mine and was quite gregarious in enabling my excesses (e.g. by the end of a 16-hour day we were both quite snookered).

Being so prosperous in a rural Appalachian community does carry its responsibilities to the community, so we organized a Hot Pepper Festival. 'Twas to be a glorious weekend culminating in an open hot pepper eating contest.

We personally prepared the peppers ourselves. The most gorgeous glossy jalapenos were selected and pickled in a salt water/vinegar brine for about three weeks prior to the contest. A few days before the festival we pronounced the pickling process complete, and sampled a few.

There is something indescribable about the heat generated by already-scorching peppers that have been doused in brine; and the vinegar tends to open the pores in the alimentary canal, making one burn from tongue to toe. Well, naturally we were a bit pickled ourselves, so we started a contest right there; and only after about the twelfth one did I realize I hadn't anything to eat since breakfast. Too late now, hehehe. We declared it a draw, headed for the local watering hole to quench the flames, and then retreated to our respective homes for the evening.

Fast forward to the following morning: I awoke feeling fine and headed out for work. Not two blocks away, my water broke. I farted, but that might qualify as the understatement of the decade. I sputtered and choked in the wake of my foul ass while rolling the windows down. At this point I honestly thought I'd shit myself because I was basically a paraplegic from the asshole down -- my nerve endings had surrendered to the onslaught of that blast. Giving it the old stand-on-the-accelerator trick, I managed to make it two more blocks to a service station. I hopped out, grabbed the key-on-a-cinderblock, and began my walk of shame.

I grunted, I cursed all Heaven and Earth, I sweat, I pushed for twenty minutes while what felt like a flaming Louisville Slugger exited my battered orifice. Once I was spent, I *dabbed* my swollen anal canal and stood to survey the beast.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?!?!"

My violator was almost exactly the size of a smallish jalapeno pepper, with the exact shade of green as the fresh fruit. To this day I'm amazed that something so small took so long to birth, let alone was able to burn and batter the ringpiece beyond all recognition.

-- Bluespoo