Buffalo Wings

Buffalo Wings (Photo credit: Mike Saechang)


Me and my girlfriend love this quaint little buffalo wing place near her school. It’s pretty nice and affordable, and the chicken is some of the best I’ve tasted.

Anyway, for the longest time, their menu has piqued my curiosity. Okay, anything with food names written on it makes me curious and horny, but you didn’t need to know that. So my point is that this restaurant serves the most number of buffalo wing variations ever. All my life I thought that there was only one kind of buffalo wings, and that it is heavenly enough already.

Turns out I’ve been living a lie all along. You see, there are four varieties of buffalo wings. And one of them is called “Wild”. Yes, wild. Like your mom last night.

Every time I eat there, this “Wild” buffalo wing teases me like hell. Like some stripper who tells you that she she wants you but no, you’ll never get her, no matter how much you try. Getting it on with a stripper is impossibly hard, unlike with your mom (Yes! You walked right into that!). I stare at it every single time (the menu item, not your mom), but I never get the urge to get it on with the wild buffalo wing. The simple description beneath the name scared me shitless: “It’s hot!”

The other day curiosity got the best of me and I ordered the wild buffalo wing. The girlfriend tried to stop me, calling me stuff like crazy, suicidal, and something to the effect of “you’ll be farting like crazy into your next two lives”. The waiter just stared at me with a look that said “Holy shit, don’t order the freaking wild buffalo wing, you’ll die. Just don’t die before you pay your bill ok?”

As much as I love spicy food that I put chillies into almost everything I eat (labuyo in ube cake: yum), the way people were treating me (like a man who was about to die) was giving the the creeps. So the food was prepared, an ambulance parked outside the restaurant, a lawyer specializing in last wills and testaments was called in, the waiter served it to me while making the sign of the cross, and a rosary and a prayer booklet for last rites was served complimentary with my meal.

Come on, these people are exa-fucking-ggerating! It’s just a fricking chicken, not a fucking murderer.

How bad can it get?


English: A closeup of the fireball and mushroo...


Moral of the story? When people tell you to not buy the stupid chicken, listen. Lest you want to end up with scorched tastebuds and run out of said restaurant screaming like crazy.

Also, I aplologize about that joke I made about your mom. That was a pretty low joke, and I’m sure your mom’s a sweet and caring person and did not deserve it. That whore. (OH SNAP!)

Any food experiences similar to mine? Tell me all about it!


Enter your email below and get the latest posts straight to your inbox!

Hate spam? Me too. Not gonna send you any of those, I promise.