by Andrew Morrison | You know when someone says “Ew, dude. This is so fucking gross. You should totally try it,” and against your better judgment, like a complete tool, you do? Such was the case the other day when I arrived to watch a Canuck game at a less-than-a-week-old faux “public house” near Chinatown. In the offing on this occasion were “Red Bull BBQ” flavoured wings, proffered by a great friend of a great friend who I did not want to be impolite to. So I took just one, which was all I needed to remember what instant, full-bodied regret tasted like. Pardon the slight hyperbole, but if you can imagine oral disembowelment while in the act of gnawing, multiply that discomfort by a trillion, crank The Fox 99.3 on high volume, and then rub your eyeballs with a dried urine-encrusted rag. That’s similar to the kind of awfulness that had to be endured. For reasons that would confound all but perhaps the most brilliant of cultural anthropologists, the new joint – called “The Pint” – boasts some 40 flavours of chicken wings. Looking at the menu, it was clear that they’d run out of ideas at 20, and the one I tried was a convincing argument for stopping at 5.
Moral: Some adventures just aren’t worth taking, so should you ever be tempted to eat poultry after it’s been infused with the flavour of an energy drink, try your best to think about something else, like dead pigeons, violent vulcanism, or the origins of chess.