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2003-01-13 10:42 p.m.


Yesterday, Boris and Andie and I visited Cluck U. Chicken. Cluck U., short for Cluck University, is another world compared to the places I normally eat at. First of all, it is right next to Santa Clara University and it's main theme is sports. The customer base consists almost exclusively of college students who think sports are cool and come to root for teams of stupid men in uniforms, drink beer, and watch any number of sports on the six all–sports–all–the–time televisions hanging from the ceiling.

The room is decorated with sports banners, team jerseys, and beer advertisements. Not my kind of place.

Beyond that, the food is not my usual healthy fare. They specialize in bar appetizers—burgers, chicken sandwiches, chicken strips, fries, and Buffalo–style hot wings. Hippies will starve here—don't even bother to look for something vegan on the menu, unless you plan to have a cup of ice for dinner.

It sounds pretty lame so far, right? But Cluck U. has one claim to fame that makes it worth visiting time and time again. All of their food is available in seven levels of spiciness depending upon your stupidity and degree of masochism. Levels range from mild to traditional death, thermonuclear, and even global thermonuclear. If you like spicy chicken wings or chicken strips, this is heaven on Earth.

We decided to order 24 hot wings (traditional death), an order of spicy fries (thermonuclear), and jalapeńo poppers.

I couldn't believe that Andie was so foolish as to get the fries with thermonuclear sauce. She was going to be in for a painful surprise. I have eaten at Cluck U. before, and I knew better than to order any portion of my meal in anything hotter than traditional death. Anything hotter becomes so painful that it is difficult to eat—let alone enjoy—the food at all.

Here we see Boris, suffering and hallucinating from the pain of Cluck U.

It turned out that even traditional death was way too hot for us. Boris could only eat four hot wings before he started to feel a little sick from the burning in his mouth. He fanned his punished mouth with his hand, frantically swallowed huge gulps of cold soda, and looked like a deer that had just been startled by a bullet entering its flesh. He could barely speak, but managed to say, This is so hot, dude. I think I'm hallucinating.

I couldn't pay much attention to his pitiful cries, as I was busy eating the hot wings as fast as I could. The key to eating something this spicy is to not stop under any circumstances. As soon as you stop, the fiery pain catches up with you and dominates your tender mouth.

Cluck U. capitalizes on the pain of its customers: No free refills on soft drinks. Sorry, gotta pay $0.50. I went back for two refills, and even that was not enough to calm the three–alarm burning in the fire–filled cave that I used to call my mouth.

Punishing lava eats away the tender skin around my mouth.

I went through handful after handful of napkins, as I made pitiful attempts to wipe the fiery sauce off my face and mop the gushing sweat off my forehead, nose, and eyebrows. Each time I paused to wipe myself off, the pain rushed in to punish my mouth. I violated the main rule of spicy food—don't stop eating—and I felt the wrath! I started to hallucinate from the pain.

"It's like a concentration camp of torture in your mouth."

I spoke with the cashier and asked him if he ever saw any crazy things going on in there, what with the serious levels of spicy food. He admitted to personally watching people scream, freak out, get sick, and even pass out out from the pain. People actually passed out from the spiciest foods here. That totally rules!

I had heard that the spiciest level of hot sauce there is so hot that you can't order it without signing a release form and waiver. The cashier confirmed that this was true and let me take a look at the consent form. The form released Cluck U. from any damages that may occur to you during or after the eating of what they call their 911 Challenge hot wings. The form also included the phrase, "finally, I am an idiot".

I didn't see the 911 Challenge among the other menu items, but the cashier assured me that it was defnitely available and was at least five times hotter than the hottest sauce on the regular menu—global thermonuclear. Five times hotter. I couldn't even imagine what that would be like. He explained that the fact that it wasn't on the menu didn't keep people from ordering it. It has a reputation, and people ask for it by name.

When it was time to leave, I washed my hands and face three times in order to remove any trace elements of the napalm–grade hot sauce. I wouldn't want to make the mistake of rubbing my eyes, picking my nose, or touching my penis with this horrible sauce on my hands! And to think, this wasn't even the hottest sauce they had!

The aftermath.

So, if you like to suffer—whether it be the suffering of hanging out with jocks, their sweater–clad girlfriends, and other screaming and cheering retards who like sports, or if you prefer to lay waste to the soft inner lining of your mouth while molesting the pain centers of your brain—then I highly recommend Cluck U. in Santa Clara, California.