Today, Gllen decided to make his famous spicy hot wings. When he does this, I usually have to prepare for a lot of open windows and aeration in the apartment. He chops up habeneros and sautes them until the entire house is lethal with pepper gasses.
As he was preparing his sauce, he started to cough and sneeze more than usual. Super spicy habeneros. He was literally doubling over and expactorating on the floor. I yelled at him to cover his mouth.
He worked for four and a half hours grilling up 240 wings. Go big or go home. At some point, I fell asleep on the couch. I woke up to gasps, and grunts. Blearily, I focused my eyes on the living room, my gaze finally resting on a plate on the coffee table, filled with bones of chewed up wings. Gllen was bent over another plate full of spicy wings, hacking his way through each fiery bite.
I have never heard so many guttural noises coming from my boyfriend in one day. He polished off at least two dozen wings. Later, we went to go look at a house, and on our way back, I asked him if he would like a treat. He replied, "I don't think I need anything. My stomach is growling."
Confused, I asked, "Like in a hungry way, or in a diarrhea way?"
He stared straight ahead at the road and stone-faced replied, "Fire-rhea."
