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How to Fail at Wing Sauce

I have a kind of knack for coming up with delicious concoctions in the kitchen, well at least most of the time.   One thing I’ve discovered over the years is that sometimes, if you’re just good enough at something,  at times you can be extraordinarily bad at it.   So I was making wings one night, mostly because it was the only thing left in the damn freezer, and wouldn’t you know… it was the frozen kind that don’t come pre-coated in a layer of delicious and heart-attack enduing sauce.   So I was left with one alternative, I had to make some damn sauce.   Now, an old friend of mine could do wonders with a couple of cans of this stuff called Nazi sauce and a stick or two of butter.   I know it sounds gross, but it was oh-so delicious.   So I decided to sort of replicate that recipe with some butter, some sweet bbq sauce, and a splash of hot chili sauce…

So delicious alone, but when combined...

So as I was setting up the pot on the stove to mix all this stuff up in, began to feel this may not be a good idea; however, when put in a situation where I should probably not be doing something like this I present myself with two options that make me either question my manliness or embrace it.

OPTION ONE, PUSSY OUT: A decidedly unmanly option if there ever was one, if I decided to back down now not only would my wings go sauceless but I would have failed at my attempt to craft a new and delicious wing sauce recipe.    Granted, there was a chance I’d fail anyway, but it never looks good to pussy out without even trying.

OPTION TWO, GO BALLS DEEP: Hell yeah!  That sounds way more macho (stupid) and manly (extra stupid with a hint of crazy)!  Don’t think about things, if you’ve already started doing them go balls deep and just pray whatever you end up doing doesn’t destroy you.   Going balls deep has been a key factor in determining American Foreign policy since the 50s and nothing about that shit has gone wrong.  In a way, with that in mind, there was no way I could fail!

So the pot had reached the right temperature.   I lowered the butter into the pot and waited for it to melt.   Now to explain my logic here… butter worked in the recipe I was basing this on and my other ingredient choices were based on how it tasted.   In retrospect this was utterly stupid logic, but there was a logic there… or at least the semblance of logic in the face of the possibility that I would have to end up being forced to pussy out which was no longer an option.   Once you decide to go balls deep you better damn sure not pull out, that will make you a double pussy, and no one… I repeat no one likes a double pussy.

The BBQ sauce was this sweet kind you get in bulk at Costco or Sam’s.   The kind that comes in packages of two each.   Now it’s good BBQ sauce, it’s nice and sweet and tangy.   I’ve combined it with the other ingredient before, Hot Chili Sauce.   It’s an Asian brand that I really like and let me tell you, that stuff is spicy. I’m talking the worst kind (or best depending on your perspective) of spicy.   The kind that slowly builds up in your mouth until it becomes a fucking overwhelming sensation that your sinus cavities have burst into flame and are about to erupt molten snot-goo out of your nose, possibly coating people nearby and freezing them into place like the people of Pompey.  So with the BBQ sauce it kind of makes a spicy sweet BBQ sauce.   The combination was … quite disgusting.   Imagine BBQ sauce.   Now imagine someone has taken a spicy Mexican-food-induced turd in it.   That’s about what it was like.    This time was to be different though, because I believed that the butter would make a difference.   Key note here, I believed it would make a difference.   This once again goes to show how believing in things leads men to do stupid, dangerous, and sometimes painful things to themselves and others.  Mostly themselves.

So here we go!

Fire!

FIRE!

Butter!

BUTTER!

BBQ SAUCE!

BBQ!

Chili Sauce!

CHILI!

Heart!

HEART!

Combined!

BY YOUR POWERS COMBINED… I AM FUCKING DISGUSTING!

Now, let me describe to you the smells.   The butter was okay on its own and fairly inoffensive, since we all know what butter smells like.   Now the BBQ sauce is added and that’s when my nose started to rebel against me, it was kind of like smelling some rotting seaweed, but it was steaming and hot.   I immediately had to resist the urge to throw up.   Still, I had resigned myself to my fate of going balls deep and then proceeded to add the chili sauce.   Okay, here’s where it got real bad… it smelled like how you’d imagine a hotel mattress at the ghetto motel six would smell if you let hobos use it as a toilet for a couple of days and then set the motherfucking thing on fire. The smell was sweet and spicy and salty and just … wow.   It would be impossible to ignore.   If you were of weaker constitution than I and you smelled this you would be unable to stop your legs from forcing you to flee the vicinity as if they were re-creating the running of the bulls with naked fat women.  The visual was not much better.  It sort of looked like, even while the butter was melting, an abortion that someone had thrown up in.   The way the reds and yellows and browns swirled together made it look almost like each flavor was locked in a battle over who was going to get the chance to make whoever ate this crap throw up first.

The smell wasn’t even the worst part.  My wings were done.   I had agreed with myself to go balls deep and I was about to go so fucking balls deep that my balls were about to pop clean out the proverbial anus of this damn demon sauce.   It took all my willpower to toss the wings in and mix them up, now for this part I would have taken pictures, but those pictures above were a reenactment and therefore, there were no wings available and to be honest, I don’t think I could have done what I am about to describe to you a second time.   At least not without having my sense of smell and taste annihilated and my tongue numbed.

I think the worst part of it was the way it sort of coated the wings like an oil, like a nasty brown diarrhea smelling oil.   It wasn’t thick, it didn’t stick to the skin or dry a little to make it at least somewhat bearable.   It just slimed over it.   The first bite I had was like chomping into a chewy stink bomb.   The sweet nasty spicy smell went right inside my sinus cavities and lingered like a fart in an elevator.   The butter just make the saltiness overpower any sense of taste.   The texture was superb, it made the wings slimy and impossible to get a good bite into them, instead it sort of gave you just enough grip with your teeth to pull the skin off and get all that delicious sauce all over your mouth while carefully avoiding letting you have the one possibly good thing about the wings, which were the wings themselves.   I have never dabbled in the occult, I don’t believe in that bullshit, but somehow I started to get the feeling that much like the tales of witches and their broths with newts and bat testicles I had sort of created in my little pot on the stove, a portal to hell.  If there is a hell, and they have a cafeteria, this is the shit they’d cover all the food with.   It would be an endless feast of Mister Repose’s demon BBQ butter chili sauce for all eternity and when I get down there Attila the Hun, Genghis Khan, Gandhi, and the entire cast of Scrubs will be there waiting to beat my fucking ass for giving Satan the idea to use this shit in the first place.   I’d rather eat a sack of freshly cut and lukewarm pig anuses then ever eat this shit again, fuck.

But you know what?  At least no one can say I pussed out.


This delightful nugget of information was brought to you by:  Dr. Repose: The site's wanna-be author, professional jerk, monster who's dead on the inside, and semi-proud owner. More from this author


11 comments to How to Fail at Wing Sauce

  • After reading this all i can say is…. your poor brother.

    • Mr. Repose

      He had it coming, me tricking him into eating a demon sauce coated wing was merely revenge for the smores bar debacle of ’02.

  • Mmm, sounds great.
    Next stop, Hells Kitchen.

  • The Warden

    I have to say, it looks even worse than you always described it. But I’d try it just for laughs. Then I’d punch you.

  • jeen

    I once tried to make a sauce for steak out of Vegemite and chicken stock cubes. I’ve never eaten anything that tasted worse, but this sounds close. I’ll have to try it.

    • Mr. Repose

      Allow me to apologize for you reading this. You’re a classy lady and shouldn’t be subjected to such uncouth verbiage about my balls.

      Oh god Vegemite… it’s like the sandwich spread of Satan himself. Just the name alone makes me gag a little, but Vegemite steak sauce? Dear lord woman you must be of far stronger constitution than I.

      • jeen

        No don’t apologise. The verbiage is an apt description. I have this “balls deep” syndrome too. That’s how the Vegemite sauce happened. “Hmmm I have made this delicious steak. Can’t have steak without sauce. If you’re gonna have steak, you go all the way. But I have absolutely nothing else in the fridge other than Vegemite and stock cubes. Oh well in for a penny, in for a pound.” The sauce was disgusting. But you see how the reasoning was consistent with the balls deep attitude.

        • Mr. Repose

          The fact that you said ‘balls deep attitude’ made my day. You surprise me madam. That logic is dangerous eh? This isn’t even the most disgusting thing I’ve ever ate due to this logic, but I think if I told that story any hope I ever had of getting new readers would go down the toilet.

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