Two men drive their bodies to the brink and beyond -- with chicken wings (Part 1). We went full doowtsaE tnilC by eating the ugly (Part 2), the bad (Part 3) and the good (Part 4), but now we're back to ugly ... because what goes in must come out.
Walking home wasn't locomotion -- it was jumping up and down in an armory after an earthquake. Six sorts of suicide were compressing and reacting in ways banned by the Geneva convention and several laws of physics, doing things to each other the 2 girls 1 cup people would balk at. The Toronto winter was minus twelve with windchill, freezing every inch of skin, and our average temperature was still that of a Saharan disco dancer.
It felt like I was pregnant with the sun's child, the spices compounding with each other and stomach acid, where "stomach acid" was to this cocktail what "an olive" is to the martini. This was going to hurt. Stopping at Wallybob's for a glass of the best milk I've ever had, I went home.
Things got even worse -- the fusion reaction died, then began to compact into a neutron star, an awful black core so dense it twisted and tortured space itself ("space" is here portrayed by "my bowels"). I went to bed like a nuclear safety officer who's just found out Homer Simpson is real, waiting for the pain the next day would bring.
I didn't make it that far.
I was up at 4, 4:30, 5, repeat until several steps after you wish you were dead.
It was at this point the Predator decided to leave Earth.
If I could truly describe the agony I felt*, I'd get an Oprah appearance. Hell, I'd get an Oscar, and a Nobel prize just for surviving. My entire abdomen was a hot air balloon over-inflated by a jammed compressor -- desperately hissing and venting to avoid explosion, but with the constant pressure that something would give soon.
*and claim it was due to drugs/babies/vaccinations/all three
My entire digestive tract was the site of a major nuclear accident -- poisoned and full of hideously burning things that you want to throw away as quickly as possible but just can't; each piece needed desperately hard work and painful effort to move even a bit (and then you wiShakespeare hadn't). It was like sitting on a red-hot rotating sword.
There were actually two lines of agony, as toxin-laden piss backed up toward by bladder. My inflated intestines were actually squeezing my urethra -- I could not pee, and it burned. I'd driven my body to break in ways it hadn't ever anticipated, and it's spent millions of years being tested by every idiot ever born.
I finally forced enough gas to unleash a stream of urine which could have dissolved a tank, and let me say that I'd STILL rather have climbed Mount Doom while piggy-backing a burning leper, before spending the next two hours raising the Toronto sewer systems' average temperature by several degrees.
So what did we learn? We learned that truly hot wings do exist, but they're in the minority. We learned that suicide wings are the revenge of bar fry cooks on the world that put them there. And we learned that governments don't need to spend millions disposing of nuclear waste: drunken men will pay to eat it.
If you enjoyed The Suicide Wings Experiment, be sure to check out The Alcopop Experiment, in which Luke and Professor Wallybob taste-test terrible alcoholic drinks.
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