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This Might Be the Shrooms Talking, but I Think the Guy on the Tapatío Bottle Is Trying To Fuck Me

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.