Tuesday, September 19, 2006


Imagine me beginning this post with a deep sigh as I collect my thoughts like a nerd collecting pogs on his birthday. Imagine I'm collecting these thoughts from a brain which has recently been shaken to it's very core and the experience that follows will be even worse than the movie The Core. Now imagine that this could happen to you-- with nothing more than a tablespoon of cinnamon, a ten dollar bill, and a little bit of peer pressure. You can stop imagining-- ALL OF THIS IS REAL!

"I bet you ten bucks you can't swallow an entire tablespoon on cinnamon!" my once-friend-now-arch-enemy said to me last saturday night.

"What nonsense. Of course I can-- I can do anything-- except eat ten saltines in a minute, those bitches is dry," I reply, stepping up to the challenge-- to my destiny.

"Alright, let's do this," My Nemesis says to me and I jump up from the couch and make my way into the kitchen. Little did I know that a group of eager ill-wishers would follow suit. When we get there, we're surrounded by a hoard of prank crazy jackels. I look at the teaspoon, then at the tablespoon. My Nemesis speaks, "I think we might have only ever done this with a teaspoon,"

"Let's go tablespoon," I say, and flash a ten dollar smile to the crowd. The ten dollar bill is placed on the counter, and the bet is on.

Now imagine this scene, not like it's in your mind, but like you mean it, like it happened-- which it did-- on saturday night, this unexpected disaster:

Outside-- it's dark, we're on the porch. The moon blocked by the hordes of onlookers and an ego a mile high. A tablespoon of cinnamon-- not to make the medicine go down, but to shut up this Soon-to-be-Nemesis and to prove that God made man mightier than a dose of the brown dust-- Also it was for ten dollars. A hero's fortune in green crispies. Sunglasses on, cameras blazing, Bonnie and Clyde, Thelma & Louise, The Natural.

Before the moment happens I should tell you where I'm coming from here.

"So what, this is like that saltines challenge?" I ask. "Yeah, like that," I'm told.

"So what, it's gonna make my throat dry, then I'll drink some water?" I ask. "Yeah, like that," I'm told.

My gum of choice in the fifth grade was Cinnaburst and I thought I'd tamed the wild. Well Cinnaburst don't know shit. The whole "burst" family of gum should be kicked off the market. Cinnaburst is for pussies*.

I enjoy both cinnamon toast, cinnamon toast crunch, and cinnamon sticks in my tea if I were ever to drink tea. Cinnamon appears to be a harmless-- nay-- delicious spice. Well cinnamon IS a spice. A spice so frightening that Scary Spice should have been renamed Cinnamon Spice in order to actually show how "scary" she really was. I, for one, would understand the reference. Now here comes the fury.

Last week I asked Crack vs. Heroin. I would rather pick one of those over what follows.

Back to the porch-- the crowd, the money, the hunnies, and that deadly tablespoon of cinnamon delight. Here's what happened:

The crowd cheers, I throw back the spoonful and before it even hits my senses I'm coughing, choking, tearing up, and spitting. By the time the burning sensation in my throat hits, i'm lying on the grass burping, coughing, forcing myself to throw up as much of the burning blockage in my throat, but it won't all come up. It's stuck. BURSTS OF CINNAMON are in my throat, my nose, my nasal passages, burning, shrieking, and infuriating my senses. I am at its mercy. I am on my knees. I must be delivered from this cinnamon induced hell.

The crowd is laughing, thinking this is funny like people think Two and a Half Men is funny, then they are worried (like me when people think Two and a Half Men IS FUNNY), then bored, then inside, as I burp and sputter out as much of the now mudlike atrociousness. My throat is dry and coarse. Pain ripples down my throat as I try to swallow, but the cinnamon doesn't move. It simply laughs. For the next hour and a half, I stand over the sink, gasping, coughing, swearing I'm alright, then coughing up a fruit-by-the-foot length of cinnamon mucus. When I'm not gagging, i'm blowing my nose to relieve the intense pressure and firery pain I'm feeling there, and with each blow comes chunks of black cinnamon snot. My first thought is "I have to snarf some milk," which should tell you where my brain's at, but I don't quite know how and when I check, we're all out of milk. That's the test they should give comedians before awarding them a tv show or SNL spot-- make a dude with cinnamon flowing through his nasal passages, who can't swallow and is praying that he can throw-up more cinnamucus LAUGH. And not just laugh-- LAUGH so hard he sends the milk he is drinking up through his nose. Ready? Go! Ok-- King of Queens. Ready? Go! Ok-- The Daily Show. Ready? Go! Oops-- sorry, Mind of Mencia, time to go home.

It took until the next morning to almost heal up. To stop the dry-pain of my throat, to get all the cinnamon out of my nose. If i'd drank some molasses I could have pissed maple syrup onto some pancakes-- also, I clearly have no idea what goes into maple syrup...or what molasses are...or how piss works...-- I'm thinkin sugar and maple trees for the first part, magic goo for the second and however I want it to, but less and less effectively as time passes for the third.. I'll check the wikipedia later. After my feverish sleep, I woke up feeling about 50% and soon fell asleep for 14 hours through the night into the next day. Cinnaburst gum-- fuck that shit. Cinnamon. That's the crazy fire powder of doom. That's the ego-breaker. That's the harmless kitchen ingredient that can send a Herculian hero to the floor faster than Xhibit to a beat up white girl's jeep. Witz DOES NOT pick this cinnamon imposion. Witz certainly does not.


*Not literally: I am not responsible for any cinnaburst crystals entering the bloodstream through the thin lining of the vaginal tissues, nor any resulting pain, highs, or extreme living which follows.


Thomas J. Brown said...

If we start hearing reports of high school kids overdosing on cinnamon at parties, we'll know who to blame.

Anonymous said...

OMG! So, it took me twice reading this to catch the pussy reference. Bloody fucking brilliant! By the way, when you mention the sunglasses, all I can think is...

"It's a 106 miles to Chicago. We have a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark and we're wearing sunglasses. Hit it!"