Happiness Is Just A Flaming Me Away

I meant to get back to the usual format tonight and talk a little about "Weeds" and a little about how pathetic the McCain campaign is, but that was before I had a day for the ages. At different points, I drank alcohol at work at 10AM, almost got hit by a truck, took part in a jalapeno-eating contest that left me dry-heaving, and had a box of beer cans break and litter recyclables all over the sidewalk. But all of that pales in comparison (as a badge of honor) to how I set myself on fire. Literally, there were flames on me.

We had a chili-cooking contest at work -- hence the jalapenos and beer -- and since I am not one to be overly creative with food preparation, I made myself official pot-stirrer/chili-smeller. Wearing the apron we were given, I stirred the concoction, while making sure that people didn't put too much of X or Y in and that sufficient kick was added. I stood there, next to the portable burner, which was right at the level with the bottom of the apron. We pumped the burners up a lot to boil some of the liquid off. I stepped away for a second, looked down, and, lo and behold, there were actual flames coming off of my leg. I pride myself in being completely calm at all times, but I was even a little surprised in retrospect that I didn't panic. I stared for a split second, then used my wooden spoon to beat the flames out. Nothing touched my skin at all, but the clothes were singed enough that they eventually tore all the way through. All in all, pretty lame for being en fuego, but definitely a first in terms of life experiences. In the end, we didn't win the contest (I thought our chili was the best, but by the time the tasting came around, the jalapenos were wreaking havoc with my stomach), but I got a great story out of it. Pictures of the aftermath below.