(Not how you spell spicy but that’s what it says on the prompt)

Today I have decided to pull up a spicy story from the past that I always think of when I see a chilli pepper.  This incident has scarred me for life and burnt a lasting reminder of what a numpty I can be.

Bray For Help

When I try to be cool it never works. Example:  I once had to interview writers for a new magazine. The last interviewee turned up and was all of the following: smart, witty, a great writer, good looking and dreadfully interesting.  He had travelled a long way and had to roam around the city alone until later that evening when his train back south was booked. Being a kindly soul I suggested we go for a late lunch to discuss options further.  I decided to choose a very nice deli where you could eat and drink wine at a swanky bar located in the centre of the venue.  For some reason, I opted for a platter of olives from around the world and a glass of Chablis.  Mistake. Serves me right for trying to show off. 

 I shared my food with ‘He that should be employed’ and during our conversation, he told me to be careful of the red stuffed olive as it was insanely hot.  This rather useful piece of advice slipped my mind and I promptly put the stuffed, raging hot, mouth-blistering little bugger in my mouth.  Within seconds I felt my throat close up and I began to bray like a donkey when I tried to speak. WTF?  How attractive.  I felt the heat from both embarrassment and life-threatening chilli reaction rage from my chest to my face.  The braying ceased and instead, I completely lost my voice. This didn’t help with my pleas for medical attention.  My eyes were streaming, snot was running from my nose and I was verging on self-combustion.  My lunch colleague (along with the rest of the deli) looked at me agog as I choked and leaked all over the bar.

“Oh my God, are you OK? Do you need water?”  he asked.

REALLY?  YOU THINK?

It was then that I realised he wasn’t quite as bright as I first thought.  After several minutes it eased up and though I still couldn’t talk at all, I knew I wasn’t going to die.  However,  the conversation and connection between myself and ‘He who was making a sharp exit’ was lost and we parted ways.

As I walked through the city back to my car I noticed people staring at me.  Maybe it was my edgy, swag attire or my hair looked like I’d just stepped out of a salon.  Yeah, that must be it.  When I reached my vehicle and looked in the rearview mirror I wondered if I’d been possessed. Black streaks of mascara had artfully painted themselves across my snot-dried, ruddy complexion and I looked like something out of a gruesome horror film or a doppelgänger for Gene Simmons.

This, my friends, is what we call “Street Cred Death.”

Inktober 2023