Last Sunday I started delivering pizzas for extra cash. I used to work drive-thru, front register, and delivery drawer at this place during my teenage years, and they were happy to have me back.

During my 1st or 2nd year there, in 1994 or 95, I had a jalapeno eating contest with some of the illegal immigrants who work there. They're all Mexican, so I knew I had quite a challenge before me. There were 5 of us: the italian beef guy, Alejandro, the gyros guy, Jose, the fry guy, Chepe, the grill guy, who's nickname was cayo negro (black rooster in English, he was also a Jose) and myself. I won by eating 37 whole jalalpenos, and after receiving my congratulations I continued to take orders for the dining room. After about a half an hour, I started to hear a percolating and feel a bloating. Those green fuckers sent stabbing pains north and south, and I could no longer stand up straight. I was bent over my register, sweating like an death row inmate with no appeals, and hyperventilating while taking hot dog orders. People felt so bad for me they tipped me. The Mexicans giggled a lot, since they'd known what was coming. I must give them credit, though, as they got me good and drunk later that night while we closed up the restaurant.

That stuff burns far worse on the way out than on the way in, and it comes in little care packages, no big burritos. I had to use the can once every 15 minutes for the next 8 or 9 hours. My ass chapped.

Those were the days.
10:20 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm