Having extricated myself from the clutches of my sleeping wife (they clutch, always, even in a coma), I snuck downstairs.
Rummaging through the fridge, I came across a jar labeled "dill spears."
"Dill spears!" I thought to myself, as if I could ever think to anyone else.
"What could be better at 2 am than dill spears?"
Ah, but you see, jars lie. I opened this up, and I saw, floating in some kind of liquid, what looked like dark green dog weenies.
"Why," I thought to mysef yet again, since I still hadn't gotten a grasp of the whole idea of thinkinng to oneself,
"would my wife have a jar full of dark green dog weenies?"
Then, because I'm a man, I thought (to myself)
"Maybe I should eat one."
How I got here is complex, and so I won't trouble you with the process unless you really want to hear it. OK; here's what happened.
Wives are in charge of refrigerators, and so anything in there is probably OK. Good enough for me.
Also, the jar said "dill spears." So, who do I trust? I can trust my wife: These things are in the fridge. She put them there.I can trust the jar. It says "dill spears."
So I ate a dark green dog weenie.
If you ever want to blow the back of your head off, marry a Chinese lady who keeps jars of dark green dog weenies in your fridge.
Because that's what happened, and there's still a hole in the ceiling.
See, these weren't "dill spears," in spite of what that lying rat of a label said. And they weren't just dog weenies, which is something that I could have understood, seeing as how she's Chinese and all. No, they weren't any of these normal things. They were HOT PEPPERS. Pickled.
My wife is Chinese, and afraid of cans. So she put them in a jar. Any jar. It could have said "dog food."
But I didn't know that for a moment, so I chomped one down.
What to do in a hot pepper emergency:
Drink a load of milk.
Pray to die or become Chinese (or Mexican; that's good, too).
Now, about boxing. It's really the same thing as eating hot pickled peppers at 2 am, when you have no idea what you're about to do.
You should stay in bed, in the clutches of you wife (or husband, or partner; I just had to pick one).