Funniest Blog I’ve read, so I had to copy and post

This is copied verbatim from this site:

I hope there are no copyright infringements, but just HAD to share. This is a review of the (now closed) Prince of Wales Pub located in San Mateo, CA written by Omid T.. They had the world famous Habanero Burger, and if you ate it all, you’d get a bumpersticker to show off for it. Enjoy:

I wish I never signed that release form.

It’s been a while since I’ve been to the PoW, but this story bears telling.  So grab yourself a drink – it’s a long one.

see, a Scottish buddy of mine had a penchant for hot foods. Probably
the only Scotsman in existence who likes super spicy stuff, although I
could be wrong. One of the hottest peppers in the world is called the
Scotch bonnet, after all.  But I digress.

So Scotty tells me and
my crew about the Guinness record holding hottest hamburger in the
world, served up at the PoW. "Ye sign this release form, then ye eat
this ha-ba-nye-rrro berrrrgar, and when ye finish it, they give ye a
sticker. Ye might get yer picture on the wooooll, too!"  Fueled by
testosterone and numerous beers, we couldn’t resist a challenge.

rocked up to the bar and placed our orders, signed our release forms,
and waited for our hell on buns.  Scotty didn’t order one.  "Hey, man,
no habanero burger for you?"  "Once is enough, my man, once is enough."

A pint or two later, our burgers arrived. There’s habanero in
the meat. There’s minced habanero on the bottom of the patty. There’s
minced habanero on top of the patty.  "This can’t be that bad, right?"

rrrrrules!" Scotty said with an evil grin. "Ye kin use whatever
condiments you want, and ye kin drink all the beer ye want, but nothing
else."  Fair enough…

We all lifted our burgers, toasted each
other, and took a bite… "Hey, this isn’t that – MOTHER OF GOD!!!"  If
I were a masochist, I’d have been so turned on. But other than a light
spanking, I’m not. So I was in hell. The exclamations from our table
had the pub regulars in stitches.  "Who the hell eats this!?" one of my
friends wailed through a wall of tears.  "Dude, I can’t feel my tongue
anymore!" another pal exclaimed.  "I can do this, man, I can do this,"
I tried convincing everyone, even though my eyes revealed I was lying
through my capsacin-coated teeth.  The most fun to watch and
commiserate with was James, who went in stoically, and then simply went
silent throughout the experience, wearing only a grimace throughout the
whole ordeal.

We got to the halfway mark and I had the ingenious
idea to ask the bartender for some ranch sauce. I covered my patty in
ranch and continued to eat. There was ranch dripping everywhere – on
the table, on my shirt, on my chin –  and it was still barely cutting
the habanero. If anything, all it did was make me look like a money
shot. A really miserable, pained money shot.  

This made one of
my friends laugh. In fact, he laughed so hard he choked on a little bit
of his burger, lodging a habanero-infused hunk of beef in his windpipe.
 His entire face turned beet red as he was making strange hacking
sounds and ran to the bathroom. Luckily, he coughed out the piece, and
through tears he told us that his inner throat is burning.  "Give me a
cup of that ranch sauce."  Like a trooper, he downed a mouthful of
ranch, washed it down with beer, and continued on with the official
sandwich of the Marquis de Sade.

We eventually finished and put
our macho faces back on… "It wasn’t that bad.  Right, James?"  James
remained silent, but his grimace had turned into a slight smile of

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the worst of it. Hell
awaited all of us for the next two days each time we went to the
bathroom. It was so bad, the only thing we could do to distract
ourselves from the pain was to violate a cardinal rule of guy-dom. We’d
call one another from the throne, hoping to get moral support as we
toiled.  "Dude, it’s so much worse on the way out!"

Since then,
my digestive tract has never been the same. I used to be an aficionado
of all things hot and spicy. Now my stomach reacts violently and my
sphincter recoils in horror if I have anything more than moderately
spicy.  So as I pass by the PoW every day on the train, I look in its
general direction and think, "Screw you, Prince Charles. Or whoever the
hell you’re named after."

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