An Open Letter to BWW’s Thai Curry Wings
Esteemed Thai Curry Wings,
I’m currently writing you from my lovely porcelain throne, the former crown jewel of my bathroom which is now facing a most terrible onslaught of gastro-intestinal rage. I’ve been camped out here for quite some time — long enough to get comfortable, complete two NYT Crosswords on my phone and set three new high scores in Temple Run. If I had started a game of Civilization the moment I sat down, I would have already started work on the Manhattan Project, for fuck’s sake.
Why, might you ask? Why have I been sitting on this toilet for so long? Well, how about you tell me. Let’s think of this like an interrogation on Law and Order: SVU— I’m bringing you in here to confess, you play dumb for a few minutes, I explain to you the severity of the situation, and finally you break down sobbing and assure me that you meant no harm.
Let’s start with why you’re here. Last night, I went to the local Buffalo Wild Wings with a couple friends to enjoy a shitty beer and some overpriced food. I initially got the flavors that I know, like Honey Barbeque. You know, the flavors that don’t turn my colon into the Challenger. But inevitably, hubris got the best of me. “I’m a goddamn man,” I thought to myself. “And men are brave and adventurous. I’m going to try something new.” 1
What I should have realized is that all brave and adventurous men meet tragic fates. Magellan was killed during his circumnavigation of the world. Columbus got syphilis, then became the namesake of a city in Ohio. But I neglected foresight and ordered the Thai Curry Shitwrangler Wings anyway.
This is the part of interrogation where you swear that you did nothing. Okay, first of all, you are correct that I must personally accept part of the blame. We’ve all made some poor choices along the way, I hope you can understand that. I’m not sure anyone has made choices as poor as my choice of self-inflicted flameshitting, but you get the idea. However, just because I have a share of the responsibility doesn’t mean you aren’t the primary perpetrator of this heinous rectal crime. I’m like a victim who was probably unwise to be walking around a shady part of town late at night, but you’re still the criminal who murdered me (and my poor, unsuspecting digestive system) in cold blood.
You still aren’t going to own up to it, huh? Really? Okay, you clearly lack a fundamental understanding of just how dire this is. You know that feeling of horror you get when you’re walking up the stars in the dark, and you get to the top of the stairs, but you take another step and for one fleeting moment, you feel like you’re falling into an eternal abyss? That feeling of momentary terror has been the last hour for me. Just when I think the storm has passed, a fire rekindles in me, an internal jolt that sends shivers up my crouched spine. Things slow down again, and I think I can see the finish line, and then it happens again, suddenly, like the Millennium Falcon unexpectedly jumping into hyperspace.
It looks like you’re starting to understand, to finally get even a distant notion of my plight. Yes, you should feel remorseful. You aren’t the one has been afflicted by this unthinkable horror. You’re just a flavor of wings — you barely have any feelings. And you know something, Thai Curry Wings? You are fucking pathetic. Scum of the Earth. In fact, I would go so far as to suggest that you are the worst flavor on the whole Buffalo Wild Wings menu. Oh, you take offense to that? Yes, I have had Caribbean Jerk and Parmesan Garlic. And I still think you’re the worst.
You know what? I even think you’re worse than the dry rubs. That’s right, I would prefer a chicken wing with motherfucking Salt and Vinegar seasoning to a wing slathered in your Southeast Asian colon cleanse. That’s how little I respect you, Thai Curry. Not only are you a Tyrant of the Asshole, you don’t even taste good. You’re okay on rice, I guess, but contrary to popular belief, people don’t go to Buffalo Wild Wings to get rice. They go there to get wings, slathered in a sauce that will only be somewhat detrimental to the state of affairs in their sphincter.
I see you sitting at the table, trembling and sobbing. I have no pity for you. You have done physical and emotional damage to me and to many others. You’re a monster, and I can promise you that I will not be letting you anywhere near my person ever again.
Goodbye, you rectum-trashing fiend.
Ill in Illinois