This cold snap inspired me to make another delicious batch of my secret recipe, Uncle Coen’s fire-ass chili. The only one who knows the recipe is me, and my Golden Retriever, Stringbean, and he’s not talking. Mostly because he’s a dog, and if he tells you the secret, you have schizophrenia and need serious help. Take your pills, nutty.
I can’t cook. I have been known to just cook some ground beef and dump cheese and condiments on it and eat until I feel ill. However, this chili should put me on the Food Network. If only I had a catch phrase and was charasmatic. My buddy Camp ate it once then told me a week later it was delicious, but he couldn’t get out of the bathroom for four days. Perfect! My nose is running right now from sampling my masterpiece right now, actually.
My only regret was I started making it last night and after handling jalapenos, chili spices and hot sauce, I thought it was a good idea to take out my contacts since my eyes were watering. As soon as I touched my right eye, the burning hot fire overcame my senses and I realized I forgot to wash my hands. After five minutes doubled over, I realized I should call it Uncle Coen’s dumb ass chili (because I am stupid). Back to store-brand mini ravoli and meat casseroles for me.