Laura really wanted some chili Sunday night. When we got home from the store, I promised to be her “chopping buddy” and assist in the creation of dinner by doing the most important part – chopping all the bits into nice chili-friendly pieces. We each cracked open a beer and got to work, her browning the beef and simmering the tomatoes while I started on the onions and peppers.
Someone that works with Laura had sent her home one day with a sack of all types of garden-fresh peppers. Bell, poblano, banana, cubanelle, it was a beautiful bag of peppers ranging from the super mild to super hot. She has a problem handling the real hot peppers, so it’s a good thing I was there to be her chopping buddy. We like our food spicy. Super spicy. Like, spicy enough that we consider Tums our favorite candy. Sweaty back spicy. Colon blast spicy. That’s enough.
I chopped a few bell peppers we had remaining from our own garden and tossed them in the pot before moving on to the bag of spicy critters from her work friend. A few banana peppers went in first, sans seeds, since the pepper itself is more sweet than hot. Then a habanero was chopped. And another. And another. And another.
“That’s enough or we’ll crap the bed,” nobody said, but I wish someone did.
“I think four is good, you nut” Laura actually said, so I stopped.
I chopped up the rest of the goodies nice and fine, put away the Rachael Ray Furi santoku, thoroughly washed my hands twice and decided I’d run the dogs outside to do their bladder expulsions while Laura kept cooking. It was a beautiful night, just past dusk, too hot for October, with a relaxing warm breeze and a clear sky. As I stood there waiting for the dogs to do their business, I gently tucked my hand down my pants, as men do, and stood patiently like a champion middle class male in rural America. When the girls finished doing what they were out there to do, we all ran back inside, and I proceeded to see how I could continue helping Laura with dinner.
She handed me the can opener and the cans of beans. I started to work on them… when my balls caught fire.
Like really. My Johnson felt like a freshly-lit molotov cocktail ready to be chucked through the window of a deadbeat coke dealer.
Despite two sessions of vigorous scrubbing with Dawn’s finest yellow antibacterial kitchen soap, it seems throwing my hands down my pants after chopping up some fresh habanero peppers wasn’t a demonstration of keen decision making. I wasn’t feeling a burn on my fingers, but you know… finger skin is a lot thicker. And stuff.
I started squirming as I opened the cans, the way a five year-old girl does the potty dance at Target when she’s as far as possible from a bathroom. I told Laura I had accidentally set my balls on fire while the dogs went pee, and she exhibited a massively conflicted expression of terror and pure hilarity. It was after about two more minutes of me opening cans and trying to pretend like it didn’t feel like Alduin was blowing fire on my nethers that the humor turned to concern. Since neither of us had prior life experience with blazing testes, we did the only logical thing 21st century humans would do to find a solution: Google.
I received a ton of great, well thought-out ideas on what to do. Literally everyone and their mother had a home remedy for what would cure burning junk due to pepper oil exposure, which is a bit frightening and makes me wonder what a lot of people do in their private time.
- “I hear if you use vegetable oil it will replace the capsacin on your skin.”
- “Supposedly if you beat an egg and add some parsley to it and then scrub your area with it, that should help.”
- “When no one’s watching, try applying a little Maalox to your nether regions.”
- “WD40 should do the trick.”
- “Here’s an old folk remedy that may help.
12 oz. red cider vinegar
8 tbsp. baking soda
1 tsp. dried yeast
1 carrot, grated
1 aspirin, crushed
1 ounce of cake and pastry flour
Apply quickly by splooshing the entire bowlful on your member.”
WHY WOULD SOMEONE HAVE AN ENTIRE RECIPE FOR THIS?
Finally I stumbled upon a discussion of this topic on one of the most reliable sites on the internet. Metafilter. Here’s the thread.
Concise, well-put suggestions like “run outside and wave your penis in the air, or dip it in yogurt” were offered, as well as “stick your wick in a glass of moo juice for a while, then wash up.”
Well, that all sounded pretty hard to argue, and I had an extra cup of plain Fage in the fridge. I think you know where this went.
“Are you ok to finish dinner? I’m going to rub this yogurt on my testicles,” I said to Laura, disappearing to the bathroom without really waiting for an answer.
I do eat Greek yogurt, but I hate the smell of the stuff when it’s plain. I can only do the type with the raspberry goo. The smell gave me a temporary distraction from the burning, and from the lunacy of my current situation. As my fingers punctured the smooth and creamy top of the yogurt, I thought this just might work. They say milk is the best thing to drink when eating spice because it coats your tongue and kills the expansion of the hotness. Isn’t this basically the same thing?
“Yes, this is exactly the same thing,” I told myself, and started to paint.
Suddenly (and in all honesty) that classic jam from the 1990s, “One of Us” entered my head and I started singing loudly as I rubbed my phallic center with coat after coat of cool, habanero-neutralizing Greek yogurt.
“How’s it going back there?” Laura shouted.
“Oh you know, just staring at myself in the bathroom mirror, rubbing yogurt on my sack while singing Joan Osborne. Pretty standard Sunday night. How’s the chili?”
She walked back to see what I was doing and laughed hysterically. This was a reasonable reaction.
“Hey, it’s working,” I said with confidence.
And it was, too. Almost immediately after applying the first coat, I felt a sense of coolness. By the time a quarter of the container had been scooped out and lathered, the burn had almost completely dissipated. I stood there for maybe 5-10 minutes staring at myself, finally getting used to the terrible sour scent of the yogurt, wondering how long I should leave my balls to look like they were a contestant on Double Dare before I could wash them without the burn returning. I could tell the chili was nearing completion, so I hopped in the shower and decided that they’d been coated long enough.
The shower was awful.
It was like water hitting razor burn, x50.
For some reason, Google Image Search gave me a picture of Lisa Renna, Donald Trump and Gary Busey when I searched “razor burn crotch.” Let’s go with it.
I got out of the shower, toweled off, and am happy to say the rest of the evening was burn-free. If I could give a digital high-five to “Dreama” of the 2008 Metafilter thread “it burns, it burns!” for their champion tip, I would. Thank you, Dreama. Thank you and whatever terrible situation gave you this knowledge to pass on to others.
And to the guy who has a full pepper-penis-burning-cure recipe… maybe, you know, stop. Doing that. I’d say that’s best.