Penalties Incurred for Inappropriate Use of Hot Sauce

Another tale of Crazy Friend John, when he lost to a bottle of hot sauce.

To be fair, honestly, losing to a bottle of hot sauce could happen to anyone. But when your nickname is, in fact, Crazy Friend, you know there's a story lurking somewhere under a shimmering red oily surface.

CFJ has Adventures. Adventures, in and of themselves, are awesome things to have. He'll drive in a random direction, with the intent of being Over There by a specific day, usually for a funky concert. But he could show up at any point between Here and There, and if you happen to live in that zone, expect an unexpected visitor. He has shown up on our doorstep numerous times. He once showed up at a dorm room at a college in Chicago to deliver a piece of equipment to a guy he'd gone to high school with, without telling him. From Connecticut. He had to cajole the roommate to let him in, and how he managed to convince the poor sap to leave a bulky piece of outdated equipment in the middle of the room, I will never know.

CFJ is like that. You will get sucked into the controlled chaos. The whirlwind that follows will be... interesting. Whether or not it ends in disaster is up to luck, and I think CFJ rolls a pocketful of nat twenties when he does these things.

But every once in a while the Epic Journey takes a left turn at Albuquerque, and though Lady Luck has selected him as a favorite, even she just shakes her head in despair sometimes.

Like the hot sauce.

CFJ has long been tantalized by the fiery liquid. He would get a bottle of the hottest sauce he could find, grab a bag of chips, a gallon or two of milk, snag my not-a-boyfriend-yet-'cause-I-didn't-know-he-existed, find a table, and chomp on squirts of dripping lava till they were both gripping their hair and screaming and chugging milk. Spoiler, they never brought enough milk.

Those amusing (unless you were the toilet bowl that night) shenanigans ended for hubby when I married him and we moved away, but CFJ's quest for the hottest hot sauce lived on.

And then they discovered Scoville Heat Units.

This story happened before the pepper breeding program took off, and hot sauce stores became a thing. Right around the time that the ghost pepper was introduced to the western world. When most people didn't burn their tongues out of their heads for fun, and bees didn't spontaneously combust in midair.

I may be exaggerating a bit for comic effect. I think.

CFJ learned of a store that had obtained a bottle of pure, distilled, capsaicin oil. This being CFJ, of course this thing was to be seen! He grabbed a friend that didn't duck fast enough (none of us ever do, I'm telling you), and off they go to See the Thing.

They get to the shop. They're told that yes, the bottle exists.

You don't get to see the bottle till you sign the waiver. So they sign.

The Bottle is produced. CFJ picks it up, undoes the stopper, they stare at a drop of the magical elixir of bone-melting meltiness.

And CFJ puts the stopper back in, they stare in awesome wonder, and prepare to leave. CFJ drops off his buddy, and leaves for a trip of a few hours' duration.

At this point in the narrative, my hubby asks him, "And you washed you hands really well before getting in the car, riiiiiight?"

"NOW YOU TELL ME?!?!?"

Yeah. CFJ gets on a turnpike, jamming out.

He stops at a rest stop to reverse some liquid intake.

He washes his hands - AFTER eliminating.

He gets in the car, leaves the rest stop.

In case you're wondering, capsaicin oil is a slow burn. We have it on excellent authority that it starts off as a slight itch, gets progressively worse, and ramps up into screaming burning itching AAAAAUUUUUGGGGGGGHHHH MAKE IT STOP PLEASE GOD ANYTHING MAKE IT STAHHHHHHPPP while your foot on the accelerator pedal gets heavier and heavier, like it's being filled with molten lead, praying and hoping and crying that you make it to a washing station before you have to cut anything off that you may want to use at a later date.

How he didn't get stopped for speeding, we have no idea. Maybe a cop caught a glimpse of his face in doppler, and laughed so hard he couldn't bear to pull CFJ over?

But he landed. He teleported out of his pants, and soaped and scrubbed and made sure Certain Bits were not reduced to smoldering embers, as surely his nerve endings told him had already happened.

Then he got back on the road.

Again, hubby helpfully pointed out, "Did you make sure to really scrub your hands thoroughly?"

"WHY ARE YOU TELLING ME THIS NOW?!?!?!? WHERE WAS THIS INFORMATION WHEN I NEEDED IT??!!!??!?!"

CFJ took out his contacts right before driving out of the parking lot.

Slow burn activated in three, two, one.....

AAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

In case you're ever caught in the same situation, make a paste of either corn starch or baking soda, apply to your hands, let it dry, scrub it off. Or use whole milk, yogurt, rubbing alcohol, vodka, or a cooking oil as a scrub to wash it off.

CFJ still has his eyes, but they were bloodshot for a week.

I did ask about the other organ affected by this story, but I didn't get a coherent reply. It's a shame, really, I would have liked to record it for posterity. Or posterior. Or something.

Wash your hands, people. Thoroughly. Your extra bits will thank you.