It burns. I am referring to the sixteen ounces of hot sauce I just drank straight from the bottle, not the rash on my legs. That’s a horse of a different color; a horse that went rustling through a forest of poison ivy to retrieve a Frisbee. Stupid horse! Stop playing Frisbee and get back to doing normal horse things! You don’t even have opposable thumbs! YOU’RE A HORSE! [shameful silence] I’m…I’m sorry. I really need to stop taking my own expressions literally. Back to hot sauce! Man, I put that stuff on everything, and I mean everything! From counter tops, to cabinet shelving, to dining tables: give me a level surface, and I WILL put a bottle of hot sauce onto it. Don’t believe me? Why, just yesterday, I put a bottle of Colonel Custard’s Cajun Catsup…on top of my bookshelf! [starts laughing] I know! I know! Who puts hot sauce on a bookshelf?! [stops laughing, deadpan] I do. When you love hot sauce as much as berating imaginary, Frisbee-playing horses, you want it to be readily accessible. That’s why I keep a bottle under my pillow, one in the center console of my car, and one on the shampoo rack in my shower (WARNING: do not reach blindly for the hot sauce while covered in suds, as you will wind up with a mouthful of lavender body-wash). Hey, all this talk about hot sauce is making my mouth water! Hand me that bottle, would you? Yes, the one in your pocket. I put it there about forty-five seconds ago.