Ed O. vs. The Can of Chili: Part II (You Have GOT To Be Fucking Kidding Me!)

Previously on Ed O.'s Blog:

Me: I'd like a Chilito, please.

Taco Bell Crone: You'll never get a Chilito! Never! *cackle*

...

Me: Don't worry, Billy. You'll get your Chilito... and your new kidney!

Billy's Iron Lung Monitoring Device: Beep. Beep. Beeeeep.

...

Me: Hello? What's this? Nalley brand chili in a large can? If only... but no... it would never work...

Randy "Macho Man" Savage: But what, Ed O.?
Me: If only there were some way to open this container, I might... to the lab, Macho Man!

RMMS: Oooh, yeah!

And now, the thrilling conclusion to Ed O. vs. The Can of Chili

I once had a random accident with a Pepsi bottle and a spoon. See, I was at a friend's house (the friend is on MySpace, the house has been torn down... interesting the parallel between the physical and psychological destruction of the two entities) and I was thirsty. We had bottles of Pepsi (the long necked suckers, not the mambsy-pambsy twist offs that are about a million times better), but we didn't have a bottle opener. Actually, to be fair and more precise, I didn't have a bottle opener... I think others managed to open their Pepsi-colas just fine, but I was impatient or blind or perhaps contemplating how crappy my life would be some 16 years later (and needing a Pepsi to drown my sorrys and assuage the ambiguities that I immediately recognized in my precognitive state). In any case, I looked around for a substitute to a bottle opener, and a spoon, for some reason, seemed to be a good idea. I used said spoon to try to open the bottle, and the bottle cap didn't like it much. The end of the spoon slipped from the cap (shockingly, as clearly a spoon is built to pop open bottles) and the cap bit into my right index finger, causing a severe gash. And although the scar has diminished over time--shrinking incrementally and fading from near-constant exposure to computer monitor radiation--I carry it with me as a lesson: respect the container-opener relationship, or else you will get cut open and ruin a friend's mom's towel set because you'll bleed so profusely. Pretty standard stuff, I think.

As universal as that lesson is, I surprisingly haven't had it apply in very many cases in my life since the Pepsi bottle so ruthlessly attacked me.

But as I looked around my kitchen for a can opener last week, I could hear the Nalley's chili can mocking me. (Interestingly, the La Victoria hot sauce on the other counter was giving me words of encouragement, but I feared falling victim to her wiles once more, so I feigned indifference.)

That's right. No can opener. I've got 35 spatulas and something that appears to be a potato skinning instrument (I call it: "skinotron" because it sounds naughty) and a lot of other things that I don't see myself using any time soon. But no can opener.

I felt a little like that one guy in Twilight Zone where he thinks he knows what's going on, but the world around him is actually a much darker and twisted place. You know that one? Yeah. That was me. Totally.

I have a SINGLE knife in the kitchen (I have a collection that I keep in a goatskin-bound chest under my bed, but I save those for special visitors) and I contemplated stabbing the chili can, both to quiet its mocking cries and to possibly silence the many demons that have haunted me since Arrested Development was canceled. But I looked at my ravaged right index finger and thought better of it (I actually, in addition, didn't want to have to buy a new knife since I only have one that doesn't have ceremonial residue on it). I knew there was a market on my block, so I resolved myself to making a sojourn to the store to buy myself a can opener.

By this point, I really wanted a Chilito. You can get the details on my history with the delectable treat in my previous blog entry, but here's a recap: when I first came to America from the homeland, I couldn't speak a WORD of English and I had to steal to support both myself and my pet chimpanzee. I'd constantly hum the theme of "Greatest American Hero"--but only when I had my sunglasses on... hell, I was just a kid with too much time and not enough good sense. I didn't know any better. I also liked Chilitos.

So now that we've established the dreary and (rather obvious) connection I have to Chilitos, we'll return to the primary thrust of this piece. I bought a can opener at the store (for $2.99... yeah, $2.99... I thought "what a great deal!" rather than "if $2.99 can openers actually worked, why would people buy anything else?") and returned home, eager to consume some tasty chili cheese burritos. I affixed the can opener to the can, squeezed and twisted, and... nothing. The can moved, but the lid had been entirely unaffected by my efforts. It totally reminded me of when I try to talk to women in a bar. *rim shot*

While I usually take anything short of spectacular success with a first minimal effort as an opportunity to give up and go take a nap, the Great Spirit of the Chilito (which I think was originally a deity worshipped by the Plains Indians, but I'd have to look that up) had taken hold in me, and I decided to get that can open if it was the last thing I did. Or until I got bored. Or whatever.

I squeezed harder. I twisted more skillfully. I cursed the Nalley brand for making such an impervious chili delivery mechanism. And after about 5 minutes, I had punctured the can, but little else. That had the added benefit of spoiling the can. It was do or die. The ships had been burned, and I was taking the city or dying before its walls. Or I'd get bored... whatever.

30 minutes later (OK... 4 minutes later... 30 minutes sounded better) I was still unable to actually procure any chili, but I HAD fucked up the can a little bit. Check it out:

After I started to actually SEE the meaty brown nectar, I must confess that my blood got up. I flew into some sort of simmered southwestern fare frenzy, the likes of which few outside the inner circle of the Church of Scientology (you know: Tom Cruise, John Travolta, John McCain) actually achieve. I decided to use the sharp edge of the can opener (I call it the "Hi-C" opener... I'm pretty sure that's the technical term) to expand the existing gaps and pry open enough space to allow meat, beans and tips of fingers (or cow tails; whatever Nalley uses to make it taste good) could be scraped out. To wit:

With the help of an advanced tool called a "butter knife" I was able to extract the chili, and with the help of other techniques (too confusing for this space, which is really saying something) I was able to cook the chili. Make my Chilitos. Fool myself into thinking that I was a man for 45 minutes more.