There is an energy coming from the kitchen counter. I’m not hungry, instead feeling the familiar light giddiness and slow rise of my roommate’s special tea. Standing before me is a giant full red bottle of Tapatío. And there, dead center on the label is their mascot: the Tapatío guy.
Wait a minute. Is this Tapatío guy trying to kill me?
No. There’s a different vibe radiating from his smile. Is he giving me bedroom eyes?
Hold the phone: the mascot on this hot sauce bottle is 100% trying to fuck me.
A voice whispers in my ear, “Es una salsa… muy salsa!” I turn around. No one is there, but the faint whiff of Tapatío lingers in the air. What is this, hot sauce ASMR?
I decide that it’s best to play “hard to get.” I hide under the bed, then behind shower curtains. When the bottle finds me, I tussle my hair and grow distracted by his blue eyes, azure pools I could float into for eternity, or at least the next 8 hours.
I compliment his lush black hair and thick mustache, which seems to be dancing on the ceiling. I confess that I want Tapatío everywhere, all the time: on my pizza, on my breakfast, on my feet, smeared all over, caked into my nostrils. I need Tapatío inside of me. “I never do anything like this,” I say coyly to the Tapatío mascot. “This is so crazy. You bring out my wild side.”
Suddenly the Tapatío Guy stretches from the bottle into a sentient being. Horrifying yet beautiful and transfixing. He morphs into an Old Testament angel, a cluster of flapping wings and blinking eyes, wheels spinning within wheels. I obey my divine hot sauce lord by pouring the red liquid into every orifice of my body. I run outside, naked, covered in the magical sauce. Luckily this is a 32 oz. bottle, so I have enough to share. I pour Tapatío into a nearby USPS mailbox. I wave to my neighbor as I shake Tapatío into his gasoline tank.
After a wild day, I feel the comedown, aided by a microdose to take the edge off. Wait a minute: the woman on the Cholula bottle is staring at me. Is she trying to convince me to elope? Might have to listen to the Sriracha rooster, who is making a convincing argument for arson.