rSlash - r/TIFU By Eating a 7,000,000 Scoville Wing

Episode Date: September 4, 2025

0:00 Intro 0:06 Hot wing 7:38 Bad joke 12:38 Empty stroller Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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It was free with the Tim's Rewards points. I think I just stole it. I'm a donut stealer. Earn points so fast, it'll seem too good to be true. Plus, join Tim's Rewards today and get enough points for a free donut, drink, or timbits. With 800 points after registration, activation, and first purchase of a dollar or more, see the Tim's out for details at participating in restaurants in Canada for a limited time. Welcome to R slash Today I Fpped Up, where OP eats an 8 million Scoville hot wing.

Today I effed up by ordering a 7 million Scoville chicken wing. I love spicy food. My tolerance doesn't reach any dizzying heights, but I can usually get through very spicy meals relatively comfortably. I'd always wanted to challenge myself to eat a ghost pepper or even a Reaper to see how I'd handle it. There is an incredible independent chicken wing place near me that does. various spice challenges, the hottest of which is called nil by mouth. They don't advertise

the Scovilles on this, but this particular wing requires you to sign a waiver before you attempt it. Few people had completed it without the aid of milk or ice cream. I've been to this restaurant a half dozen times and always said that I would try it someday. How bad could it be? Well, today was that day. My partner, who also has a respectable spice tolerance and I were going to try it together. Make it a fun little content. to see who could last the longest. We eat our main meals, delicious South Carolina barbecue, and Maple Habanero wings with Asian slaw. Awesome. Maple Habanero is on the menu as very hot. We question their heat classifications because they were very easy. We're not convinced

they're not overselling the heat on these death wings. It'll be fine, we deduce. Out comes the nil by mouth along with a set of gloves. The wings are drenched and thick, bright, crimson sauce. It smells like pure spice and nothing else, but oddly appetizing and makes my mouth water. Waivers are signed to say it's my fault if I get ill because I was stupid enough to try this. Still blissfully unaware of how bad this could be until a chef emerges from the kitchen, stands across from our table, crosses his arms, and grins. Our waitress says, Just to say before you try this, if someone's already in the bathroom and you start to feel ill. We keep a bucket just inside the door that says staff only. My partner asks, is it really that bad?

It has been. She laughs. Oh, okay. We donned the gloves. The couples on the tables next to us are watching now. A premonition of, oh God, what have I done? fleets my mind. I start to question if this is a good idea, but the hell wings are looking at me like that green goblin mask. Oh well, yolo! We count down from three and bite. First of all, it tasted disgusting. Like a weird, earthy, bitter taste. The sauce is definitely based on an extract rather than trying to actually be palatable. The red flag was waving, but it was too late. However, the spice doesn't start off too bad. We're just roasting the terrible flavor at this point. Yeah, it's awful, isn't it? laughs the chef. What the hell, bro, you made it. Well, probably, I don't know. We finished the wings. The spice is building now.

All of a sudden, it takes off. My mouth ignites, my lips ignite, my throat ignites. I think someone has literally lit a fire on my tongue. I don't know what to do with myself. I'm gasping for cool air, but every breath makes it worse. My ears start to ring. I'm flapping my hands trying to cool my lips down. It seems like Satan himself has just opened a guided tour of hell and the entrance is my mouth.

My partner starts to choke. He stands up, leans over the table, trying to breathe in between unrelenting hiccups. Meanwhile, I seem to have lost control of my limbs, scrabbling around my bench with my feet, tears streaming down my face. My body seems to have developed pores inside my pores in a feeble attempt to sweat this out. The pain is unlike anything I've ever felt to this point. My mouth is excruciating and my whole body doesn't know how to cope with it. This is certainly unacken response to going into shock, and it's just getting worse. Before we can plea for relief, our Lord and Savior the Chef has already been and brought out ice cream to the table.

It's all in the house, he says. I think that my man felt a tinge of guilt for all the enjoyment he was getting out of this. I got through three mini milks and a chocolate milk before I started to feel relief. I totally forgot my partner was even there. When I look at him, he's as red as the sauce itself. His pupils are so dilated, I can barely see his irises. Usually a man of many words. He looks at me with tormented eyes.

That was no joke, is all he says. I asked the chef how many Scovails that was. Seven million, we're told. Oh my God. I knew that a Reaper was around two million, and I thought the sauce couldn't be much worse than that. What a numpty. Anyway, after 20 minutes or so, we recover, we go home,

and we're all good, right? But then it gets worse, and actually, I'm pretty sure this isn't the end of it. Relying on the sofa watching off the hook, my stomach starts to hurt. I drank some milk. It helps a bit. My partner's all good. I'm sure it'll pass. I lie back down, as it seems to be the most comfortable position right now. Remember when I said that the pain was unlike anything I'd ever felt until this point? Yeah, well, turns out I'd find out far sooner than I ever thought, what a pain worse than that?

felt like. Suddenly, an excruciating, searing pain rips through my stomach. The embers have lit again, but this time someone doused my digestive tract with gasoline for good measure. The Death Wing has been greenlit for a sequel. And this time it's bringing double the budget. I'm writhing in pain. My body feels like it's on fire again. I moved to the bed to lay down. It's no good. No position helps. I move to the bathroom. I lay in the fetal position on the floor inside the shower, wet from the shower earlier, to try to cool down. It doesn't work. I'm screaming internally, hyperventilating, headlight, and wavering. I can see the light of heaven and St. Peter's pearly gates calling my name. I'm actually hoping I do pass out so I don't have to feel this pain

anymore. My partner's freaking out. I can't speak to answer his questions. I'm shaking uncontrollably from the agony than I'm in. The pins and needles in my hands are so bad that I can't even move my fingers. I start throwing up on the floor. I managed to tell my partner to turn the shower on. He does. I continue to throw up. The shower floor now swirling with my vomit, fully clotted, and now freezing cold. My partner wants to call an ambulance, but I know the only way is to ride this out. Thankfully, it seems that vomiting managed to get enough of this demon spawn out of my system. Gradually, I started to recover. I took a full shower, drank a ton of milk and water, ate some bread,

and now I sit here typing this tale of the accursed chicken wing that made this atheist see Jesus. And this may only be the beginning, if you know what I mean. Down in the comments, we have this story from Kern Panic. A friend of mine ordered the wings with an included suicide wing. it was a basket of normal wings and then one wing with intense, ridiculously hot heat. Surprise, she said that it was super hot, but enjoyable. So next time she ordered the full basket of suicide wings. She had similar sensations to you.

Except while driving home, she had to stop in the parklands where she promptly pooped herself under a tree. Today I effed up by telling a joke at the end of a job interview. I wasn't thrilled with my current job and I was looking for opportunities. My mother-in-law had a friend who was a longtime secretary slash office manager for the owner of a small, but very successful commercial copier slash printer company. They had an opening in management that would have been a dream for me at the time. She was able to get me an interview immediately with the owner.

I always hated job interviews. I get more nervous for those than literally anything. Pair that with how much I wanted this gig. I was a mess going in. I show up the day of. I meet the owner and I'm one-on-one with him. him in his office. The guy's in his mid-50s, easy to talk to, a cool dude. The interview is super relaxed. He's laughing, telling examples of things, even lightheartedly cursing a couple of times.

I'm still nervously on edge, but I got more comfortable as it went on. The interview was going great, seemed like I was nailing it. Then toward the end, he says, I ask this of everyone I interview. What's your go-to icebreaker joke? I still distinctly remember my rear end legitimately puckering up. I froze. My mind went blank. I don't really tell jokes. I don't really know any, and I certainly don't have a go-to joke. I actually think that I was about to faint or pass out when I suddenly remember the joke that my wife's friend told us just this past weekend. Now, I'll preface this by saying that my friend's wife, Jackie, is super nice, but very inappropriate, pretty much all the time. Curses constantly, no shame with sex talk or jokes. We were walking into a

small group into an MLB game once, and as she walked past a guy she found attractive, she loudly declared, My God, I would drain his ball sack! That's just one of dozens of one-liners she's dropped. So we saw her at a kid's birthday party, of all places a few days prior, and she greeted us with this calamity of a joke. What's another term for ejaculating in a woman? Loading the dishwasher!

My wife and I just scoffed a bit, shook our heads, said hi, and moved on. On. Back to the interview. You guessed it. Sure enough, in my panic, frozen state, feeling dizzy, and potentially close to feigning, my mind identified that moment and that joke. And it just came out. The mix of my hysteria with the relaxed vibes the owner was giving out apparently gave my brain the idea that telling this joke was the move. I never talk like that, like ever. It must have just been a last grasp of my subconscious to fill his request. He stared at me for a few seconds, had a look like a mix of astonishment and disgust. Finally, he just said, Okay, then, well, thanks for coming in. That's what the dishwasher said. Stood up, shook my hand, and opened the door for me. I walked out, and the door shut right behind me.

I just kept walking, through the rest of the office, and out the front door straight to my car. Got in, immediately pulled out and just got out of there. I stopped at a convenience store a few minutes down the road, parked, and just sat there, incredulous. Not only did I not get the job, which, based on the interview up until that point, I likely had a great chance of getting, but I also had to face my mother-in-law, who obviously was told by her friend what happened. Wasn't exactly my finest moment. Then we have a similar story down on the comments from blunt trauma. I think I got a job because I told a joke. It was a senior tech support position. The first interview was pretty light, with the help desk lead and the

cis admin named Martin. From chatting, Martin and I had a similar background, and we kind of hit it off. The second interview was more technical with the team manager, plus Martin and like four other people. They asked a bunch of technical questions, multiple, how would you troubleshoot this type stuff? Which I answered to their satisfaction, and I seemed to be hitting it off with the whole team. The last question was another, how would you troubleshoot, that had about four different things that could cause it. I answered with a complete deadpan face. I would check this and this and this and also this. And if it was none of those things, I would probably just blame Martin. They were all initially shocked, looked at me, then Martin, then back at me. Did he just say that? And then all

cracked up, and I knew that I had the job. Still friends with Martin 20 years later. And another from Matt Slot. As a freelance videographer, I walked into the office of a brand new client, first time meeting in person. To the receptionist, I said, hi, I'm here to shoot the CEO with a camera. Before the regret even had a chance to set in, I heard the business partner crack up from the office nearby. That was seven years ago. I thought this happened after the whole CEO getting shot in the back thing. That was seven years ago and that business partner is probably sitting on the other side of the wall behind me. I'm very thankful they had a similar taste in bad humor as me. Today I effed up by forgetting my stroller was empty.

Early this morning, I decided to go for a walk with my four-month-old son and my husband's Doberman, since it was nice out and I figured I could pick up an iced coffee without having to pile into the car. It'd be nice. My 10-year-old daughter asks if she can come. I agree, and she hurries to get changed and we're out the door. Baby's strapped into a stroller, still asleep. We talked for about 25 minutes, and I'm just chatting with my 10-year-old about various things, when finally the baby wakes up.

He isn't crying or fussing, just starts kicking a little bit and his eyes are clearly open. My daughter asks if she can hold him for a little while. I tell her, sure, reminding her that if he squirms, she has to put him back. We keep walking for another 10 minutes. We get to the top of a slight incline

and the dog decides to do his business in a patch of grass. And while I'm reaching around, balking at the smell and fumbling to get one of the poop bags out of the holder on the leash, I hear this weird sound and Oh no, the stroller's rolling away. I forgot to lock the wheels. No! My brain is going in 12 different directions.

I'm hauling my fat self down this slight hill, nearly stumbling and eating it on the pavement twice as the dog embarrasses me by only doing a half-trop while I'm sprinting in my mind. There's nobody around, so I can't exactly shout runaway stroller and get help from a stranger. I'm saved by the stroller hitting a point. pull when it gets to the corner at the bottom of the incline, stopping in its tracks. I get to the

stroller, out of breath, red in the face. I've managed to drop my phone halfway down the hill, so now I have to double back and grab it, and still pick up the dog poo. I pull the stroller towards me and turn it around, prepared to reach inside and comfort my baby, and it hits me all at once. The baby isn't in the stroller. I just chased after an empty stroller with full panic of thinking my four-month-old was about to roll into traffic. Suddenly, I was happy there was no one around because at least that means there was no one to record me. My only audience was two people I birthed and something that barks at his own reflection. I turn around and my 10-year-old is laughing at me, walking at a steady pace, still holding the baby. I was going to tell you, but I wanted to see how

long before you remembered, she says. The look on her face reminded me so much of the times my husband would mess with me back when we were in college. How a shenanigans face can be genetic? I have no idea. I sigh. Still huffing and puffing and tell her to put her brother back in the stroller. We double back to get my phone and pick up the poop. We trudge another five minutes to the coffee shop. I get my 30 ounces of iced espresso, caramel syrup, mocha syrup, and milk. My daughter gets her glorified chocolate milk with whipped cream and a cookie, and the dog gets a pup cup. Everyone wins. That was our slash today I effed up, and if you like this content, be sure to follow my podcast because I put out new Reddit podcast episodes every single day.