Rael's Rants

The rants of Rael - no, not the weird cult prophet you find when you Google the word "Rael," but the one us chileheads know and love. The one into "nekkid twister" and nubile chile maidens, and chiles.

He has been called many things. Among them, Mississippi Redneck Cook, Redneck Sous Chef, Monk of the Transcendental Capsaicinophilic Society(TCS), Order of Immaculate Twister, Keeper of the Faith . . . and a towel. And those are just what he calls himself! Some call him the chile prophet. Some call him the servant of El Grande Habanero. I just call him Rael. He waxes eloquant on all things chile, and occasionally ventures into other topics. He is always entertaining.

Rael gave me permission to post some of his rants here. So, in no particular order, here are some:

A chile haiku:

burnt tongue

not well

bad smell

singed bung

in hell

god please

pity me;

I fell

brain seize

no breath

azmaveth

locked knees

death.

Peace, Hendrix, and Chiles.......

Rael"...no poet here..."64

On Open Fields 2008

Right wing, left wing...macht nichts. But, yeah. No chance we could attend this year though. Busy busy.

As to themes and movies, maybe work in something like...Ironman. Haven't seen it yet, but with that title, you've got a wonderful title track from Black Sabbath and Mr. Ozzy. Nothing like a bonfire in an orchard with heavy metal blaring through the night.

"I....AM.....IRON....BUNG!"

Too heavy?

Hmm.

Maybe....."Horton Hears a Hab". ("Eat Me! Eat MEEEEEEEEEE!")

Too kiddy-like?

Maybe....."Indiana Jim and the Eating of Habs"?

Maybe...I need coffee.

Peace, Hendrix, and Chiles.......

Rael"..evil powder disappears/Demons worry when the chile-wizard is near/He turns joy to tears/Everyone's happy when the chile-wizard walks near.."64

More on Open Fields 2008

Or "The Indiana Jones: Achin' for Pain". Note the pun on 'jones'(damn, I'm proud at so #%#^^& early in the morning!); "The" is very important!

The poster/etc. could include pic of =Mark's "fem-chile" atop a pair of leather boots, whip in hand. Maybe a little Nancy Sinatra (hey, stop yer groanin!) singing "These Boots are Made for Walkin'"? Okay, so you can't put music on a poster. I'm thinking opening credits for the movie...yeah...

Uh, back to bed.

Peace, Hendrix, and Chiles with Whips.......

Rael64

On China

Except for the flight (been there, done that last year; damned long), and assuming it's actually legit, the visit would probably be pretty groovy. Grasshopper in chile sauce; fried scorpion; things from the sea (so said) you wish had stayed in the sea! Well, okay, that was in Beijing. Generally, the food was pretty dee-lish. Chiles just help kill anything that ain't already dead.

Can't go this year, but lemme know next year, and the better half and I will gladly represent you and your products in China next year. I'll even pay for our own rooms if you foot the bill for the round trip tix (for two) ;)

Peace, Hendrix, and Chiles.......

Rael64

On slow list email traffic:

Just slow, I believe. Seeds have sprouted, so everyone is gathered 'round their seedlings, praying to El Grande, and otherwise oblivious to the world.

Or it's that damned Job Thing that gets in the way of life (if not sucks the life right out of you).

Peace, Hendrix, and Chiles.......

Rael64

On faux chipotle

It's a subversion of all that is chipotle. Actually, I think it's more like the big "blackened" fad. Everyone wanted everything blackened - catfish, chicken, beef, pig, dog, pineapple, etc. - except few knew what it really was (and not too damned many knew how to do it, which is what blackening is: a doing, a method, a verb dammit). Ergo, "blackening" seasoning, mix, spice, etc. What the phuck?

So, chipolte, my theory goes, is being subverted similarly. Chipotle seasoning; chipotle spice; smokey chipotle! Uh....right.

Blame it on advertising. Lies and leanings offered with smiles, big tittied wimmen (say it ain't true!), and groovy CGI, all designed to coerce, er, no, INFORM and Educate the consumer as to what he/she should desire, no, want, um...no, NEED because, well, no one wants to not stand out (Be an Individual!) in the crowded world by being, doing, consuming as does everyone else (Be an Individual Just Like THEM!). Hence, in the realm of the culinary, what the public needs is chipotle! (but you're all too damned wimpy to eat it, don't really know what it is anyway, so we'll sell you this sheeeeeeeeet, which costs us, like, a penny, and you'll happily consume your fake chipotle flavored full-o-antibotics-and-hormone chickie, and be happy in your World O' Delusion).

So, chipotle = fake smokey smelling shit with some burnt halo-peno floating about.

Yum.

Actually....I think I went on the "damn those heatless chile folks to hell!" rant a couple (or more) years ago and was chastised for suggesting that Freedom of Invention was somehow not a Right and that the Almighty Market always dictates: good stuff sells; shit does not. Well, I knew then that that was horsekaka, for we all (should) know that Monster Corporations control most of the foodways, and when Food Corp, Inc. says to the grocers "sell this crap and move the real food onto lower shelves, far away, or better yet, give us their shelving space," well the grocers shake from the knees down, bow deeply, kiss a little hiney, and lo, Heatless HaloPeno Salsa with Scrumpdillyitious Hothouse No-Flavor Tomatoes and Onions hits the shelves, dominates the shelves, appears on menus, and YOU WILL PHUCKING LIKE IT (because we've done our best to eradicate real food, or at least blame the Chinese for doing what we've done to food, products, etc. for the last

hundred years).

Maybe it was actually my saying something like 'folks "inventing" heatless chiles should be shot and (most) corporations should be burned to the ground' that got me chastised. I fergit.

Whatever. But I feel better now.

Peace, Hendrix, and Chiles.......

Rael"...Monsanto is the Workplace of Satan..."64

On evil corporations:

Here's a couple of points for general discussion....

At what point does a small manufacturer cross over to > "evil corporate mass marketer type"? I enjoy a certain amount of good

First: realize that I generalize, and greatly so. Many of my "you's" are you in the plural. Second, not all corporations are evil any more than all human beings are evil. Yet, many (too many) are, corporations (unethical, generally) and humans (immoral, generally, or at least wildly selfish). Thirdly, yes, I know. Ethics/morality from Rael. It doesn't get much funnier...

Anyway, a corporation is "evil" when:

1) the company becomes monopolistic;

2) the HQ is set up out of country to avoid paying US taxes;

3) company operations are set up out of country or outsourced to avoid paying US labor;

4) the product (its quality, etc.) is secondary to profit;

5) the public good/welfare is secondary to profit;

6) the product/company causes or contributes to great environmental, social, economic, etc. damage;

Any one of the above, and others I did not consider, contribute to "evil corporations" in my opinion.

I don't necessarily think it is a size issue per se, although some problems seem inherent with huge corporations. Also, corporations enjoy some freedoms, as it were, and protections that individual human beings do not enjoy. This is wrong if not for the simple fact that a corporation can do far more damage to the general public than can an individual, generally. Simply put, if a corporation is guilty of, say, misleading the public and doing some great harm, more often than not, the company endures. Someone(s) is fired, a fine is levied, and that's about it (if lucky). I would prefer that the corporate charter be revoked, the corporation be liquidated, and all wrongs set right.

. . . .

[In response to Jim Campbell's question about wanting to make his chipotle sauce a number one seller - when does he cross the line from 'artisinal maker' to 'mass marketer' and from good to evil?] The quick and easy answer would be: when you, as a corporation (I'll leave the rant on personal wealth for another day...hehe), get too damned greedy, or powerful. (I note that theoretically, power and wealth can be put to good use, which is the common claim of libertarians, etc. I'll believe it when I see it.)

[In response to Campbell's question about dumbing down chile stuff to appeal to the masses, aren't we converting legions of people to the chilehead side]. In a word, no. Well, okay, you can make the claim, but its false. Generally said, the idea of "converting" people to the CH side is, with all due respect, said from the point of view of a businessman, someone not wishing to convert people to the wonderful world of El Grande, but to chile consumption. One does not dumb down, say, religion (not mention a few tenets, for example) in order to gain new converts. Well, okay, many religions do just that. Bad analogy.

If people wish to eat chiles, they should eat chiles. As we all know, far better than most, there are many chiles with many flavors and many heat levels. Some bell peppers have a slight bite to them. I've had pimentos that were just damned (damned) fine chiles with great flavor and a nice little bite. But to adulterate a jalapeno, for example, to make it something less than it is is, in my humble opinion, grotesque and speaks to that uniquely human desire to phuck with nature just to satisfy a whim, an ego, and, generally, make some profit. There is no need for it. Make a jalapeno hot sauce and dilute it; eat banana peppers; eat roasted bell peppers. If chiles are too hot, why the hell is someone interested in eating one to begin with? It's like wanting a brussels sprout that is red (more aesthetically pleasing) and tastes like cherry. Why not just eat a phucking cherry?

Absurdity justified by a desire for profit.

[In response to Campbell's question about sameness, blandness, the government's like for such, and excessive governmental regulation]. Who do you think dictates many of these food regs (and I assume that most of them you are referring to are of the HAACP kind, labeling requirements, and so forth)? Large corporations. Oh, they bitch about them, but generally the acquiesce, particularly if they get to help write the reg. They know good and well what will force out the little company. And for those who weather the storm, their lives have been made hell for so long, that when Big Corporation makes a play for the small and successful company, well, some call it a sell-out, some call it Damned Wise. I call it a conspiracy.

Suffice it to say, when the FDA, USDA, and numerous other government agencies are stocked by company insiders and others with agendas of their own, the regulations, overwatch, etc., are designed to exclude and include. They are not designed with public safety in mind and often give little more than lip service to bona fide science.

As to the political portion of your rant, let me reply this way. I'd be all for Big Business regulating itself. I really would. But, certain things would have to change and be unconditional. For example, as I said above, when a corporation is found in the wrong, e.g. price fixing, not paying taxes, polluting, forcing out small businesses, while circumstances must be considered, of course, generally said, the corporation AS A WHOLE must be held accountable. If tainted meat makes it through the system to the consumer, the consumers who suffer should be fairly compensated, the problem should be discovered, fixed, and the company should be fined, and if similar problems happen again, the company shuts down. If the company pollutes (e.g. a mining company), whatever is required to clean up the area must occur. No selling the business, passing on the problem.

Strict standards; strict enforcement; no quarter to offenders. I even support the liquidation of all assets of management of corporations that do irreparable damages, and I mean bankrupt the people, take their houses, holdings, and let them work for a living. I kid you not.

[On Campbell's comment that the voters are responsible since they put the bureaucrats in office]. I agree. The ancient Chinese always considered the relationship between ruler(s) and the people to be a sort of quid pro quo (maybe not the right term). Generally, the people obeyed the ruler said as long as the ruler was looking out for the public welfare (food, shelter, safety, etc.). If the ruler defaulted, though, the people retained the right to remove the ruler, and by remove, I mean kill. I support that philosophy myself as it tends to put the idea of public service first and foremost where it should be.

Group hug now.... :-)

I've always preferred getting nekkid in a pile, but times do change...

Peace, Hendrix, and Chiles.......

Rael"...Monsanto, btw, is the epitome of the Evil Corporation..."64

On Tobasco and Trademarks:

christ, I must be bored or something. Anyway...

I agree that trademark law is important. Damned tired of all that cheese called "parmesan" that ain't nothing like the Real Thing.

Yet, I think a point being bounced around is that the case the folks down on Avery Island present, that they used the name Tabasco in reference to a hot sauce *first*, is not iron clad. Consequently, while trademark law is important, as important is the truth behind the claim. It is, apparently, debatable as to whether Tabasco brand hot sauce was in fact the first to use the term "tabasco" in the name.

But for me, what's always been bothersome is that the tabasco chile is owner, as it were, of the name "tabasco", in my opinion. To use the name of a chile in one's product which is, essentially, tabasco chiles plus some vinegar and salt (yes, that may be simplified), and then claim that the term "tabasco" is somehow trademarked because someone decided to use it in a name is a subtle bit of trickery (i.e. dishonest and maybe outright theft).

So, again, while trademarks are important, they should protect *specific* names of *specific* products, else any ingredient in any product is up for trademark grabs. (e.g.: 'Water [TM] brand beverage, with lime' as created by the Aztecs)

The idea that tabasco chiles were first used in the preparation of a "hot sauce" (which is a vague term in and of itself) by the McIlhenny's is quite doubtful. That's akin to saying they developed the "tabasco chile hotsauce". You just can't prove it. Steep some tabascos in some vinegar for a day, and you have "hotsauce;" fry some tabascos in some hot oil and you have a "hotsauce". Point being: the only argument behind McIlhenny's trademark is that to date, no one can disprove that Tabasco brand hotsauce was not first on the market (the debate as to that claim notwithstanding). Consequently, using a generic name such as Tabasco should, in my opinion, be the dog that comes back to bite the owners who were too stupid to come up with a more specific name.

But...then you have the case of Coca-Cola, which while of the same name in China/Tibet, the drink is not the same (they use sweetener other than corn syrup, which makes for a FANTASTIC coke). What's up with that? They have confused their own trademark by putting two (at least) variations of the same product under a trademarked name. Even if they get another trademark for the same name for a slightly different product, does that not destroy the argument as to product recognition? Joe public grabs a "coke" and, wow, that's not the coke I know? What's up with that?

But, like, whatever. I need a smoothie made with orange juice and some yogurt with a bit of peach and raspberry. I call it an Orange [tm], Peach [tm], Raspberry [tm] yogurt [tm] smoothie [tm]. You heard it hear first.

Peace [tm], Hendrix, and Chiles.......

Rael"...think I'll make some tabasco [biteme] vinegar...for a salad tomorrow..."64 [tm]

More on Trademarks:

Oops. I fergot this: Many of those name-specific wines, cheese, etc. are given such protective status to ensure not only authenticity but, unlike a trademark, a limitation of production (which, I assume, keeps prices high). Only a certain amount of a specific wine (chianti, for example) is allowed. Extra grapes/juice, etc. must be left to rot, mixed, or whatever, and anything above and beyond the limit cannot be called 'chianti.' Limiting a product to production of a certain grape, chile, etc. grown *only* in a certain region (or country) limits too (parmesan).

That would probably prevent you from dominating the world with your hot sauces (which probably would, in fact, make you an Evil Corporate type; you'd have to go on my 'list').

But as said, I'm all for ensuring that something calling itself a "tabasco hot sauce" is in fact made with tabasco chiles; I just dislike that someone/entity has found a means (the legality is irrelevant) to prevent everyone else from using the chile name "tabasco" in a product made from tabasco chiles.

Peace, Hendrix, and Chiles.......

Rael64

On Monsanto and other evil corporations:

No, Monsanto is more insidious in its Evilness. Monsanto attempts to buy all the land and water so they control it all.

(in all fairness, there are other corporations just as evil as Monsanto; I have a long list.)

But whomever said that the people in the corporations are responsible (or should be responsible) for the actions of the corporation, I heartily agree. Just doesn't seem that's who's held responsible when the sheeet hits the fan. Someone dons the scapegoat coat, gets fired, maybe a year or two incarceration in the Palm Springs Spa and Prison, then hired as a lobbyist for Bush.

I say burn 'em down when they Do Wrong...

'look out the sky turn a hell fire red lord/somebody's business is burnin' down down, down down'...

Peace, Hendrix, and Chiles.......

Rael-o-rama

On truth in labeling:

Not to defend anyone's POV (other than my own, of course), but to suggest that "caffeine is caffeine" or the like is a sort of chemist's fallacy. Following that logic all carbohydrates are carbohydrates, proteins are proteins, and so forth. Simply put, they are not the same, i.e. identical, no more than "sugar is sugar".

How a thing is processed (made, extracted, grown, etc.) makes a big difference. Corn fertilized by human waste is different from corn fertilized in cow manure.

The FDA, actually, is quite fond of saying things like "it looks like sugar, tastes like sugar...must be sugar (and safe)". Hence, the little wiki link that said sugar beets starting this year will be GM sugar beets.

While I don't attribute all the woes of humanity upon diet (generally, we're just stupid, arrogant animals), I do dislike the idea that ingredients are only required to list half-truths, or better said, are not required to tell me if something is GMO, if something, like "modified food starch" has ingredients itself (often it does, such as MSG, which does not have to be listed on a label as 'MSG').

Anyway, honesty. That's all I want. From politicians to food companies, that's all I expect.

Obviously, I don't get much of it.

Peace, Hendrix, and Chiles.......

Rael64

On Rael for president:

Hey, that reminds me...(again, not advocating additives, much less having a lard arse...or middle...whatever...)

While I do not consider myself in any way overweight (140 pounds, 5'6"), and am quite active (run, bike, yoga, weights), I nonetheless have a bit of a 'paunch'. Not huge, but while I haven't had my body fat checked in years, I figure the majority of "extra" is around the middle.

(I was 8-percent in 1998, but that was only 3 years sober, and I had put ON weight; the 'paunch' first developed after 4 months on a 5000kcal diet in my attempts to become a really short power lifter; was up to 175 :)

But the point is: the defining of "extra". I now believe we (male and female) are smart to have a bit of padding around the organs. About a year ago, I was coming in on my bike (bicycle) after a nice 40-ish mile ride, cruising down the street on the campus here, doing about 18-20 mph. A vehicle coming from the other direction stopped to turn left, across my lane (we were on an east/west road; no stop/yield for us; a 'T' intersection). She sat as I approached; I watched, cautiously, and just as I entered the intersection; she turned. I slammed into the passenger side of her vehicle doing 17-18 mpg, taking out her passenger window and ramming my left abdomen/rear back (think kidneys and ribs....yum!) into the door and the passenger side mirror.

Had a helmet on (smart boy!), and actually came through with little injury at all, which is the point: I did have some massive pain and swelling in my left side for more than a few weeks. Did feel like shit. Did not destroy any internal organs much less ribs. My theory is that little bit o' padding around the middle was my saving grace, as it were.

So, like, who knows what's good or bad? I figure it's all relative.

No, it's actually all relative to me. The world, I mean. So, this coming election, vote for Rael.

Shorter work week.

Taxation of the really rich.

Strong home guard.

Assassination *will* be on the table, always.

Truth in labeling.

Free bicycles for all

(which you'll be happy for because I will raise the taxes on gasoline for all non-commercial transport use).

Peace, Hendrix, and Chiles.......

President Rael

On operation of the free chileheads email list:

The last full time cooking gig I had was as a sous chef in a posh country club. We spent some big bucks and put out some wicked good food. Needless to say, we had lots of leftovers: pig, beast, chicken, etc., as well as duck, osso buco (yes), etc. The staff was given a meal daily, free. Naturally, we'd lay this stuff out for them.

Free food. And they bitched. 'Don't like duck.' 'That chicken's got some sort of sauce on it.' 'This beef has pink in it.' 'Why can't we just order off the menu?'

Seems to me this list is free.

But...,well, it's a pet peeve of mine (long story). To expect something, though, is to, in some sense of the word, presume. The presumptions here sound a little like Mike B. is somehow *obligated* to do something other than to let Chileheads continue on as it has for many (many) years. That's a bit...ungrateful. I understand that if the subscribe/unsub ain't working, well, that's a legitimate concern, but to start *demanding* (or *expecting*) ain't the way to express concern.

Of course, I have no answers, but I'd wager Mike B. is out there in the ether and may take care of bidness soon if there's something on his end that's not right.

Which assumes that the problems are not the result of the various spam filters on personal systems, various routers/packers (or whatever the hell they are called), and so forth. I'm frequently blocked using this yahoo address as well as other email addresses. You just try, try again.

And be happy when you get a free lunch.

Peace, Hendrix, and Chiles.......

Monk Rael

And more on operation of the free chileheads email list:

I am more inclined to think that any problems with posting have to do with the poster (postee? whatever). I don't mean to sound unsympathetic, because I am. As =Mark shows, the people unable to post are folks I remember. They are chileheads! Yet, the fact that those folks are subscribed to the list indicates that the problem is not with subscribing/unsubscribing (my doing such with another email address is confirmation enough of that for me). The problem is with posting.

So, why would 'the system' (whatever allows posting) discriminate? I can only assume it's because a post is somehow 'incorrect', which generally means the post is in something other than plain text. Or are folks getting the digest version and trying to post to the digest address? Or maybe folks on the digest *must* post to the digest address?

Maybe those having problems should unsub all addresses receiving email from the CH list, and resub under one. Try to post. If that works, kewl; then resub other addrs. as desired.

And if it doesn't work? Well, beats the shit outta me. But yeah, I'm not sure if 'maintaining the system' includes email troubleshooting. We can argue all day and night if it should or should not, but ultimately, it may be in the hands of El Grande.

Penance! There will be Penance! Nekkid Twister [TM!], floggings, and peach habanero ice cream, by damn!

Peace, Hendrix, and Chiles.......

Rael64

On damn good chiles:

Ah, scotch bonnets...

Wish I could remember the guy's full name (my apologies too if still on the list!), but Bill X was in TN, I think, when I was living in Oxford, MS. He had these MONSTER scotch bonnet plants. Sent me pics of them. I"m talking 6+ foot tall plants. Sent me bags and bags of scotch bonnets. I dehydrated most (after freezing; worked really well as others here have noted). I traveled all over with those chiles. Used it (ground/flaked) in various restaurants I worked in.

I'm sure I told the story here before, but when in Austin, I cooked at one placed (now defunct) called the West Lynn Cafe. Vegetarian faire, but somewhat upscale. I worked the mornings/lunch shift mainly; lots of prep work for the night shift. Anyway, 'round 2 in the afternoon, a server drops in with a ticket. Stir fry dish (we had a couple variations; nothing spectacular, but they were fresh and had quite a variety of veggies). I asked the server, 'how many stars?' We worked with a 1-4 star heat scale. He said 'she told me 4; wanted it real hot.' I said, 'tell her I've got some of my own stash here, some scotch bonnets; if she really means HOT HOT, I'll set her on fire.' He left and came back in, saying something like 'she said you can't make it hot enough.'

Oh, my. Can't make it hot enough?

Christ, my eyes were burning making that stir fry. I probably put in 2 teaspoons of scotch bonnets. Great flavor; monster heat. I plated it and sent it on it's way.

The server popped in later and told me he had brought the woman her second pitcher of water. Said she was sweating so much, it was dripping on the floor. 'But she said it's great, just what she wanted.'

How it should be. Well pleased customer and well please line dog. Twas a good day.

Damn good chiles.

Well, 'nuff email for one day, eh?

Peace, Hendrix, and Chiles.......

Rael64

Prayers inspired by Rael:

El Grande Chapter 25, verse 17.

"The path of the righteous Chilehead is beset on all sides by the inequities of the heatless jalapenos and the tyranny of bell peppers.

Blessed is the salsa who, in the name of El Grande and Red Savina, shepherds the weak through the valley of blandness, for he is truly his pepper's keeper and the finder of lost chileheads.

And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison the capsaicin and destroy my habaneros. And you will know my name is the El Grande when I lay my vengeance upon you."

El Grande is my shepherd, I shall not want, He makes me down to lie. Through chile fields he leadeth me, the silent waters by. With bright knives he releaseth my seeds. He maketh me to hang in ristras in high places. He converteth me to mango salsa. For lo, he hath great power, and great hunger. When cometh the day we moderate ones, through quiet reflection on matters capsaicin, master the art of Jicama/Vidalia. Lo, we shall rise up. And then we'll make the buggers eyes water.

On Eddie and the habanero:

When I was doing a stint at a vegetarian restaurant, there was a dishwasher by the name-o of Eddie. A bright guy who was unfortunately born mute and deaf, and considering this is Mississippi, he was "thrown" into the system and thus cared for by the local/state Retardation Center (which is now goes by some "more politically correct" name), and thus, he's never received the proper education/help he so deserves. Well, the owners of the restaurant gave him a job (he lives in an "outpatient" house or something of the like), sorta took him under their wing (their nice, old hippies), and consequently, Eddie has become something of a fixture in the place. He "converses" with everyone (nope...he's been taught very little sign language) and in my opinion, was the most hardworking, trustworthy, happy and "bestest" employee there along with another guy who was also a dishwasher and was also an outpatient (he was "slow" and had a speech impediment...or said he did...I couldn't tell actually). Digressing...that sorta sez something about "normal" people, doesn't it.

I tell the above so no one thinks we were being cruel in the story I'm about to relate. Eddie was "one of the guys" and new what was what. He just didn't speak like "normal" people and didn't hear much other than certain sounds at certain pitches. Anywho, I walked into work smiling like a big ole dog one day because I had just harvested a good quart baggie o' Habs from my first venture in chile growing. I was also smiling because one of the owners had never eaten a hab and I wasn't sure if anyone else in the place had either.

Was gonna be a Day o' Fun for Rael-o. And it was. I witnessed a waitress turn red and sweat (she was one of those sorority gals....we call 'em "Bow-Heads" because they always wear those cutesy bows in their bleached-blonde hair; quite nice to see her sweat, literally, and basically look like sheeet for the rest of the day) and watched my boss bite off the "tit" and say "oh, that's not hot". Yeah, right.

I nodded and said, "gee, Mr. Manly Man....take a damn bite." And although not much of a bite, bite he did.

Now when I was in good form during my drunk days, I could put 'em away. An aficionado of room temp. beers and tequila I wuz (the town sells beer pretty much everywhere, but unless at/in a bar, its not cold...hence it was a learned trait of mine; again, Mississippi for ya...and the surrounding county is dry; go figure). But I wasn't one to chug my beers really, even when damn thirsty.

And to this day, I don't think I've yet to see a person drink two warm Turbo Dogs (nasty stuff, IMO) like Mr. BossMan did. Reached into the case (he was stocking the cooler) popped the top, drained it, tossed the bottle in the *trash* (they recycle diligently...unless on fire from a Hab, it seems...), and ripped the top from another, and sucked that baby down too...and said... "Yeah...that MF is hot!" And then he opened a cold one and sat down. Bummed a cigarette off me too.

But Eddie? What of the man? Well, Eddie comes by and being the Man Who Sees/Knows All, he spied the happy-shiney habanero sitting in front of my Dos Equis, glowing only like a hab can glow. Now I'm gonna loose a good bit of the "translation" here considering Eddie doesn't really speak although he does sound out a good "sheeeeet" and "f***" (and he knew those when I began working there, so don't blame me...I did try to teach him some "useful" German tho <g>), but nonetheless, Eddie has his specific sounds for specific words/phrases along with his own personal "sign language".

Looking at the hab, Eddie points at it, looks at me and does his "uuhh?" (much of his "speaking" is intonation) and gives me his inquisitive look. I put my beer aside and pointed at the chile, then shook my head and shook my hand, flat, palm down, over the chile. A definitive "no, Eddie, you don't want none of that bad boy". He made his "oh...why the hell not?" sound, did his Spock eyebrow raise, and damned if he didn't put his hand on his hip. Well, Eddie wasn't one to shy away from anything and he hated to feel left out, but I wasn't convinced he really knew what the hab was meaning he had no idea how hot hot could be. He'd seen jalapenos and serranos, cayennes and your other typical "chile" chiles; he may have associated it with a golden pepperocini or something (ha!). So I grabbed a bottle of Tabasco, put a drop in my hand and I licked it. Eddie followed my lead, licked and smiled. I knew he liked hot food (he loved Tuesdays when Kashmira, a really cool Indian lady, came and made a traditional dish from her country...my favorite day as well...and some of her stuff would light ya up) and he used Tabasco regularly, but I looked at Eddie, pointed to the hab again, and then spread my arms out as far as they would go, then pointed to my mouth with my hand and "waved" my hand, illustrating as best I could that the Hab was one hot momma.

Dear ole John, the owner, on his second cold (fourth total) beer, did nothing but sit a seat down from me and nod his head the whole time. Guess that was the best he could do. He still had sweat dripping off his nose and watery eyes.

Anywho...Eddie wouldn't remit. He was gonna eat that El Grande Habanero, by damn. And next thing I knew, he gave me his "pshaw" noise, grabbed the hab, and bit the damn thing in half and began to chew with a smile on his lips.

The smile lasted about 2.7 seconds. Mouth dropped open; eyes opened wide, bulged out somewhat, and I saw the skin on his forehead tighten as his ears raised a good half-inch. And then Eddie gave his "Eddie Wail". Again, I'm not making fun of Eddie nor his being mute/deaf; this is simply how he "speaks"; and I can only give examples of other sounds that may be familar to "show" what his specific sound of the moment sounded like. And the "Eddie Wail" is akin to the sound of a person falling off a mountain minus the "fade-away" effect and sorta like the scream a person would make if the woke up from a nice nap-ola and found themself buried alive. I may be stretching it, but it also sounds somewhat like what I figure the combined scream of a man and woman would be when the Doc tells them that "yes, your wife is pregnant; no, it ain't twins...it's sextuplets."

It scared the bejesus outta me regardless. He screamed like this and waved his arms up and down, swung his head from side to side and ran back towards the kitchen. Running behind him, John (yeah, he actually moved) and I reached the kitchen just in time to see Eddie grab the faucet part of his dish sink, pulled it off (it was broken/stripped out, yes, but if you didn't turn it on full blast, it worked...but I don't think it woulda mattered...Eddie was a stout man), and turned the cold water on full blast and stuck his head -- mouth open, eyes closed -- into the gyser. I swear he drank down a gallon or two of water.

Water dripping from him, every bit of him, Eddie walked over to me, handed me the other half of the habanero, drew an open hand, palm down, across his neck (which meant "no more!", more or less) and then grinned and punched me on the shoulder. Hard. Real hard.

Never have figured out if it was a "you son-of-a-bitch" punch or a "you looked like you were enjoying that too much" punch, but he was grinning at the time, so what the hell. But he gave me the Evil Eye every time I walked into work with more habaneros in my hand. Wouldn't even come near me.

Peace, Hendrix, and Chiles...

Rael64

On using your dildo on chile plants:

Temp title: I'm Picking Up Good Vibrations or Vibrator Hell or Vibrations of Burnin' Love

"Something in, oh, basic black would be nice," I said looking at the humongous breasts of the woman standing behind the counter. She was wearing a belly-button abyss cut, black leather dress. "Or one of those neon colors if you have such."

"Do you need a specific length or size?" she asked, after raising a jet black brow, which brought back an episode of Star Trek where Spock said, "Captain, I advise caution. We know nothing of this system."

I considered a couple of possible answers but decided I should just be up-front with her. No point in toying with the woman, no matter how much I desired to do so, and be on my merry way. Happy hour was coming up on me fast anyway, and I still had to try to get my damn chile plants pollinated.

"Honestly, dear, I need this implement to aid some bright and promising flowers on my chile plants in pollination. I give them each an individual vibration, tickle their hormones, so to speak, and used to use an old electric toothbrush, but can't find the thing and, well, I doubt you're interested in this. Nevertheless, as long as the end is tapered and batteries are included, whatever you recommend will be perfect. I trust your expertise, my dear."

"I see," she said inhaling deeply, illustrating the wonderful ability for leather to stretch and define that which it confines. A wonderful thing, leather. "Then I assume you won't be needing the hands-on instruction and demonstration of the many uses of the tool?"

I was dumbfounded there for a moment. But I managed to ask her if she was serious.

"It's been a rather slow day," she said.

I felt a bead of sweat form on my brow and remembered there were a few blooms on my plants that, well, could probably use another day to stretch and achieve full potential of their bloominess. In addition, as a self-appointed archivist of life's experiences, desiring education and wisdom in that which crossed my path thought simply, screw caution.

"I bow to you, my teacher, instruct me and I shall learn," I said, my gaze dropping as she exited from behind the counter and slowly drifted across the floor of the shop to the door. She locked it tight and the "Closed" sign was turned outward to the public view. She turned to me with a gleam in her eye, a smile on her lips, and I noticed she had a quite large black vibrator in her hand. She held it tightly between her breasts.

"This will be yours," she said, walking towards me, then passing me and disappearing behind a curtain into the back. I followed, wondering what good I had done in the past to deserve such fortune. And then I heard a hum...

"Can't make it in," I said to Butch, the assistant floor manager, over the phone. "Let C. know I'm calling in a favor and I apologize for the short notice, but something has occurred that demands my immediate attention as well as action."

"Yanking weeds in your garden or something?" said Butch. He was an extremist member of ZPR, Zero Population Growth, but in his extremism he had decided that the best way to reduce further populating of the world was avoidance of the sexual act itself. To compound his state of being, he was a man who lived a life of all work and no play since he considered himself bisexual and consequently said that this made the entire world one of temptation. Rather than becoming a hermit, Butch ingested a lot of Valium as well as -- or so he told me for some damn reason -- wore a penile restraint. This made for a strange existence, in my opinion, and to be blunt, I figured one day he was going to loose it and either jump the bones of the person nearest to him or he'd just sit down and drift into a coma. He was a good assistant manager and did his job, but he was one strange boy regardless. He worried me.

"Yeah, something, Butch. Just tell C. He owes me. And tell him I'll be in tomorrow....unless I call you again." And as I hung up the phone, Serena re-entered the room with a small basket of fruit and a grocery sack.

"Ready for the next session of your training, apprentice of mine?" she said setting the bag down on the waveless waterbed I was perched upon. "Ready to expand your mind...and other things?"

Ready? Hell, I was born for such, I thought, and was about to offer a hearty "hell yes, sugar momma", but as I looked in the bag, I found I was capable of only nodding my head like a six-year- old receiving a hot, gooey, chocolate-chip cookie, mouth open wide and probably a bit of spittle in the corners. There was some Redi-Whip [TM], mentholated cough drops, a bag of red string licorice, Mississippi clover honey, guacamole dip, a family pack of razors, some Tecate beer, vitamins, and...jesus, I hadn't seen these in years.

"Pop Rocks [TM]?! Where the hell did you find these? Thought they had gone the way of, oh hell, that gum that squirts in your mouth."

"I have my sources," Serena said. "I find them to be quite invigorating myself. Never did find a use for that gum though," she said. "And trust me, my love puppy, I did try."

I was quickly becoming Rael, Man of the Expanding Body and my mind was racing right along with my physical state. Pop Rocks. Jesus, these things are priceless, I thought, as I had a brief yet vivid flashback of my last encounter with Pop Rocks and a woman named Jimmy Lynn.

She introduced me to "sex without sex", as she called it, and considering I was 14 and had no working knowledge of anything sexual other than that devised with my own mind and hands, I really didn't care what she called oral sex. And honestly, after she pulled the Pop Rocks trick on me, I believe I would have been satisfied to just have sex of that nature for the rest of my life. She was two years older than me though and when she graduated, she vanished. I still wondered what happened to her.

"But I don't understand why you had to have these peppers though," said Serena, slapping my mind back to things at hand. She took a sack from the fruit basket which I saw was full of blood oranges, limes, and strawberries and placed it on the nightstand by the strobe light.

"Chiles, my Mistress in Black, they are chiles. Habaneros, to be specific," I said peeking into the bag to assure myself that the produce guy at the store I sent Serena to hadn't prayed upon her ignorance. He had served her well, I thought, seeing a dozen bright yellow-orange parcels of orgasmic pleasure smiling back at me. I made a mental note to bring him a loaf of my habanero brown bread as I placed the bag back in the basket.

"Let's just say that I am quite certain that after receiving your infinite wisdom of gyratory and oscillatory physics, I will feel compelled to bestow a gift upon you, my little sybarite, the gift of Chilepicurian Delights. Of this, I am master."

I spied her epidermal reaction to my statement as she began to peel her clothes off or maybe it was just the nippy-ness of the air, but irregardless of which, I was unable to restrain my urges anymore, and attacked her feet and ankles, washed them lovingly, albeit impatiently, with my tongue, then nibbled my way up her legs and solidly clamped my teeth into the soft, tasty skin of her knee-pit. Again, I heard a hum....

I awoke sometime in the morning after spending the remainder of the day and most of the night in the capacity of apprentice. Once my head cleared enough whereas I figured out where the hell I was, I realized Serena was on top of me, her knees by my head and her head was lying on my right thigh, and we were both atop her pool table which, at first I found to be an odd addition to her abode considering she said she didn't play pool. But once she showed me how the S-rings of those black, stretchy, rubber cargo restraints hooked into the pockets of the table, I understood her thinking. I was wondering though how in hell she found someone to cover the top in leather. Black, of course.

Laying there, I was unable to go back to sleep, desperately wanted a cigarette, yet didn't want to wake my guru of love, and considering the fact that she had black sheets over the windows and had placed black lights in all the fixtures, I stared at her derriere and all that lay between it and my face because that was all I could see and tried to see what images my mind would conjur up out of the shadows of black and blacker. Simple mind games for a simple mind.

Yet I desperately wanted a cigarette. I had a hazy remembrance of placing a pack next to the fruit basket which we had moved to the pool table, thus closer to the source of consumption and consummation, and somehow managed to free my arm from beneath Serena's left leg without causing her to emit more than a slight moan and a wiggle in which she widened her straddle across my chest. I congratulated myself silently and proceeded to feel my way outward through squeezed, mashed, and gnashed orange rinds hoping I would discover the basket. And the basket I did discover....complete with a small paper bag.

Chiles, I thought, as I looked down my chest at Serena, or what I could see of her, that is. I placed my hand in the bag. Habaneros. Twelve of the Mothers of Pain and El Grande Pleasure. And I did promise her instruction in Chilepicurian Delight, I thought, smiling as I felt a smooth, ripe, taut hab between my fingers. I turned my head as I brought it to my lips, sniffed, muffled a moan, and bit in. I chewed slowly, relishing the flavor that only a habanero has as well as the joy in having the horrid taste in my mouth I awoke with removed. And as I chewed, I began to smile as the pleasure of capsaicin overran my senses, electrified my system, and stirred my body from flaccid embers to blazing flames. My eyes rolled back as the waters of pleasure flowed liberally, mixing with the sweet and sour of oranges and limes on my cheeks as did the sweat that began to exude from my skin. I reached for another, thinking that this was indeed the only way to begin a day....especially a day in which I could pass on my wisdom of Chiles as a Sex Tool. Chilepicurian Delights.....Rael I was, and a guru I be.

Not much later as I held the twelfth habanero to my burning lips, I had a brief thought that I should save the chile for Serena to eat and employ, but a brief thought it was. It is my turn to teach, I thought, chastising myself for being a selfish bastard. She has given me so much over the short while we've been together, I continued in my mind; she took me into her arms and let me suckle at the teat of vibratory knowledge. I pretty much knew all the B&D stuff already.

I took the entire hab into my mouth and crushed it between my molars, chewing slowly so as the flesh and juices would mix and meld with my saliva, grinding the chile to pulp, stirring with my tongue -- long since numb -- swishing between teeth and gum. Once I was certain I had absorbed as much of the capsaicin as possible, I swallowed.

After a moment of meditation and a prayer to the God of Hab that I learned from other members of the Transcendental Capsaicinophilic Society (TCS), I regained control of my senses and brought myself back from my flight through the Chilean Heavens. This was the moment I began to ever-so-slowly nibble and lick the backs and insides of Serena's thighs. Tenderly I did lick with patience and sincere care, for I am a lover of the flesh of woman in general, and knowing that my licks and kisses would leave a glistening path of love napalm, I attended my task well and with glee. I also stroked the outside of her thighs with the tips of my fingers which I had purposely dug into a few of the chiles, coaxing the sacred oils from within. No such thing as too much pleasure, I always said.

I felt Serena stir slightly, heard her inhale a bit more deeply, as I saturated her flesh with my capsaicin elixir and ventured onwards and upwards towards her sex, braving to move my hands over the small of her back and over the tight, smooth flesh of her derriere. Her body was responding slightly with an occasional twitch and her skin began to warm as was my own. I raised my face nearer to her and began deep, slow, breathing, directing the air exhaled over her flesh and into her depths. I stiffened myself as I felt Serena's mouth and tongue on my body and realizing her being conscious, more or less, I rose further, ventured deeper, and grinned as I faced my journeys end, or rather the beginning of Serena's journey into Chilepicurianism. I then moved my hands towards her bountiful breasts and removed the small piece of habanero from between my cheek and gum -- where I had placed it -- with my tongue, mashed the mushy hunk of veggie against the roof of my mouth, and proceeded to transfer it onto my lips and then, on and into Serena's Netherlands.

I'm quite positive it was at this moment that Serena let out a scream which was not unlike that of a person having a hot poker shoved into any one of their orifices. I immediately jerked my head back but found I was locked between her powerful thighs, so I attempted to tilt my face upwards and away from her fleshy parts, but Serena had decided to sit up at the same moment, and thus literally sat on my face. Had I foresight of this happening, a minute sign of her negative response to the secrets of the Chilepicurian Delight, I could have prepared, that is, used meditative breath control and possibly been able to hold my breath until we separated, but I had not and did not, and consequently, opened my mouth to gasp for a breath. Unfortunately, in doing so I literally sucked her in between my lips and into my mouth which was an action that only brought her into a more intimate contact with my capsaicin saturated mouth --which was obviously no longer the idea here -- and with this action I reacted instinctively by pushing that which was forcing its way into my mouth outward with my tongue...as well as the bulk of the pulverized chile.

As fate would have it, my tongue met her nodus erectis and proceeded to say hello and shake hands which caused Serena's thighs to constrict about my head more than they already were. As I felt my eyes begin to bulge profusely, I also felt pain in one of my legs and what I imagined five well-manicured, black fingernails digging into my flesh would feel like became a reality, but honestly, this pain was negligible, merely bothersome actually, compared with what I was experiencing in another part of my body. I was feeling sever, intense, and premeditated, I imagined, pain due to the fact that throughout this entire episode, from the point I made direct contact with her nether region and she exhibited Chilepicurian Rejection, Serena had me by the balls, literally.

What happened next is only a blur, but in essence Serena had me in the Allstate grip and I had obviously instilled burnin' love within her deeply and completely. She wasn't about to let go nor was I going to lie there and suffocate as my genitals were ripped from my body. Fortunately for me, she believed herself to be in control, or was at least in shock, and thus allowed me the opportunity to place one arm around her and push down on the pool table with my other and rotate violently to one side.

Damned if it didn't work, I thought, as Serena moved from above to beside, but I was aware that she still hadn't relinquished her hold on me and gave no indication of doing such. In fact, I saw her head and mouth with teeth gnashing moving in the direction of her vise-grip hand, so I tried to even the odds and grabbed her foot, sucked her big toe into my mouth and bit down hard. She screamed yet again and shuddered slightly -- which I found interesting -- but in doing so relaxed her grip for a split second, and noticing this was a now-or-never moment, I gritted my teeth and ripped myself from her clutches and rolled away from her loving arms.

Jumping up, I let out a primal scream of my own that would have made my ancestors proud and leapt from the pool table towards the nearest door. It was the bathroom, of course, as my luck would have it, but I ripped the toilet seat from its hinges, threw it through the window, followed out after it and started running towards my car, naked, and as I jumped in the front seat I was happy to remember my old man had always told me to keep a spare key taped under the dash.....and that I had followed his advice. Blessed be Chiles, I chanted, wondering why my Pop kept a spare key under his dash.

I made it about five miles when I decided it wasn't to intelligent to be driving naked, especially the way my luck runs. I found a dirty t-shirt in my back seat which at least made me appear clothed to other drivers. I kept my eye out for trucks though as I headed towards the restaurant. There I pulled up to the back door, ran into the kitchen, was relieved to see that Mabel, the prep cook of about 60 years of age wasn't working, and ran back to my locker where I had some spare pants.

I talked with C. briefly and told him I decided I might as well just take a week of vacation considering I had it coming and needed some more time off anyway. Of course he was more interested in what the hell I had been up to and when I wouldn't tell him, he got all managerial on me, claimed his debt was paid since he had to work for me the one day, and that even though I was the head cook I was going on report. But I really didn't care much less wanted to argued with him. I had just spent the last forty-eight hours with a woman who did truly expand my horizons and had given me invaluable knowledge in the Vibratory Arts yet also provided definitive proof that yes, there were people in this world that could not take the last step and rise above their mortality and visit the Land of Ultimate Chileness, and yes, I almost had my ass whipped by a Goddess. I was a bit depressed with this knowledge. Not that my manly ego was shattered or anything -- can't say I've ever had much of an ego -- but jesus, she had such fine breasts.

Needless to say, I was exhausted, somewhat bruised, needed a beer really bad, and was famished, so I left the restaurant and decided to go to the pub rather than home and get a big bowl of gumbo which Frank, the owner, made every Friday. A nice, cool black-and-tan really hit the spot as I waited for Frank to jazz up my gumbo with a couple of serranos that I knew he'd have on-hand since I was the one that gave them to him regularly .

I was well into my pint when Frank brought me my steaming bowl of gumbo. He was quite a cook. True, he was using my recipe for gumbo, but he did make it well. I used to wonder why an Italian-blooded man with a Bronx accent had come to Mississippi and opened an Irish Pub. I was drunk one day and had gathered the courage to ask him such. He replied, in short, with "Who the hell sez I ain't Irish and why the hell do you think it's any of your bizness?"

After that I told myself that he was obviously part of a Witness Protection program...and to mind my own damn business. Yet I still liked him and his cooking. Had Guinness on tap as well..

"Damn, Frank," I said, "that's some good gumbo, especially with those serranos in there. Wanna bite?"

"No I don't want none of your friggin' souped-up gumbo. I got a whole damn pot of gumbo back here that's good like it is."

"Ha, ha....that was pretty good, Frank. Souped-up. Gumbo." I said, feeling my eyes water a bit.

"What?" he said.

"The pun, Frank," I said, still laughing. "You know....souped-up...gumbo. Gumbo is a soup."

Frank walked out of the kitchen and looked at me. I noticed he had a chefs knife in his hand and a zucchini with one end chopped off in the other. After a moment he put the zucchini down, grabbed a bottle of mescal from the liquor display and set it in front of me. He then placed a shot glass beside it, dug in the cooler for a moment, produced a lime, and set it and the knife on the bar as well.

"Drink this," he said and turned back to the kitchen. He picked up the zucchini and as he was about to step back into the kitchen, he turned back around and said, "And shut the hell up. I don't wanna hear you no more. I'm busy, see?"

I knew he was serious. Normally I would have be curious, wondered if he was just having a really bad day, or maybe, well, one just never knew with Frank. One thing I did know though. If he had had tits and black leather on, he and that zucchini woulda looked just like Serena had two days ago. Jesus, I thought.

I poured a shot of mescal, drank it, turned the television on with the remote, and poured another shot. I smiled and dug back into my gumbo.

Man, I've really got to get to my chile plants, I thought, and then realized I never did get that vibrator.

And then I heard a hum...