Spicy Tales: A Fiery Culinary Journey through Hot Sauces and Heat Tolerance

What’s up, man?
You looking to eat some high quality food?
Only catches. I’m gonna pour some of this red liquid
that might raise your body temperature to dangerous levels
all over it. Name’s reaper.
Have a seat. I used to have a pretty low tolerance,
but my sizzling life
Sriracha told me to put it on my toothbrush for a couple weeks.
Not only did I have clean teeth,
but by day seven, I could stick my tongue into a pot of boiling water
pain free. I took my Irish Wolfhound,
ghost pepper, out on a walk the other day.
Street vendor tried to sell me some spicy jerk chicken.
I turned it down
due to the fact that I gave up baby food at the age of 9 months.
Matter of fact, every Christmas,
my uncle ulcer gifted me and my siblings a hot sauce variety pack.
When I showed up to school with a bottle of it in kindergarten,
my buddy chorizo kept calling me a fire breathing dragon.
That’s when things really started to heat up.
My parents began sending me in with a fluffer Nutter
and a side of Flaming Hot Cheetos.
Now I only buy bottles that have images of pain and suffering on them.
For example, this one’s called Devil’s Testosterone.
It’s got an image of a demon snorting a line of radioactive powder.
It’s actually got a warning on the back that says,
tell your friends and family you love them.
I Actually went to a Michelin star restaurant not too long ago.
When the waiter was bringing out the dishes,
I said, look,
tell the chef compliments,
but please, next time
I want my food to set off the fire alarm
before you even put it on the stove top.