My latest adventure in devouring the kind of food that requires you to sign a waiver absolving the restaurant of any responsibility for the intestinal chaos that is to follow went down at the Brick Lane Curry House in Manhattan. There you will find a dish called phaal, which they tout as a curry so absurdly hot, the chef has to wear a gas mask while preparing it. You might remember it from an episode of Man v. Food a few years back.

EatMeDaily
Just like mom used to make.

Food so hot that it hurts just to cook it? Why wouldn't I put that in my mouth?

Armed with nothing more than a sweatband (we'll get to that later), a video camera and a diminutive sidekick who goes by the name of Gladstone, I made my way to Brick Lane Curry House in hopes of defeating the terrifying Phaal Challenge. Along the way, I learned some valuable life lessons. For example ...

The answer to that question is simple. At our very core, the one thing human beings seek more than anything else in this world is recognition. It's ingrained into our psyches from our earliest school years, when good behavior in the classroom and the ability to color a picture without looking like you went into an epileptic fit halfway through the task is rewarded with a bullshit little gold star. Being good at something is worthless to us if nobody notices, and nobody noticing us is a fate worse than death. It's the very reason why rich kids who grow up showered with gifts but completely lacking parental guidance and attention often develop into dead-inside drug addicts.

If the world wasn't driven by the need for recognition, rest assured, strip clubs would not even exist. There wouldn't be a sufficient number of hot chicks seeking the attention they never got from their father or husbands seeking the attention they don't get from their wives to keep the business afloat. The need for recognition is just basic human nature.

In my case, finishing the Phaal Challenge means I get a certificate of completion, my picture on a website and a free beer. My picture on a website, you say? Well, it's not like I'll ever have that chance again.

Let's do this!

Prior to heading off to dinner, we gathered at a nearby pub where we exchanged pleasantries that mostly revolved around him explaining that the high-heeled boots he had on were merely a fashion statement and not a tool to mask the fact that's he's approximately the same height as the guy who played Tattoo on Fantasy Island.

DailyMail
Pictured: A dramatic reenactment of Gladstone picking me up for dinner.

After downing enough liquid courage to make eating a bowl of fire seem like a good idea, I tossed Gladstone and his camera equipment into a backpack and off we went. I was ready to subject myself to immense amounts of pain, all for the enjoyment of a miniature sized Cracked columnist and whatever readers have low enough standards of entertainment to keep reading an article even after learning that Marion Gladstone's name is associated with it.

That philosopher was Jay-Z, and he's absolutely correct. There is simply no point in dwelling on bad decisions that you can't take back. I ordered the intestine-destroying curry, and now I must eat it (which I would regret in an entirely different manner a few hours later).

The waiter informed me of the rules, which were pretty basic. I had 30 minutes to finish the entire bowl of curry. Drinking water was acceptable, but I had a feeling that wasn't going to matter too much. Still, I was holding out hope that it would at least have some sort of placebo effect on my soon to be scorched taste buds.

Before digging in, I made a few strategic alterations to my attire. Translation: I put sweatbands on my head and wrists.

During a heat challenge, the resulting streams of sweat and snot that cover your face are an absolute killer. Not only is it insanely uncomfortable to have a marathon's worth of perspiration streaming down your face in public, but it's almost a given that at some point you will make the mistake of wiping your face with the same napkin that you've been using to wipe your mouth. At that point, congratulations, you now have ghost chili extract seeping into your pores. You might as well douse your face in gasoline and set it on fire.

With a sweatband on my head, though, sweat was not going to be a problem. And the wristbands provided a handy means of clearing the mucus from my upper lip. For the record, I kept these items and am willing to sell them, unwashed, to the highest bidder. Just get in touch.

It wasn't just that the curry was unbearably hot; it was also kind of disgusting. Usually, even when adding excessive amounts of heat to a dish, most places will also try to give it some semblance of deliciousness. That wasn't the case here. It was just hot for the sake of being hot. When you add in the fact that I had to deal with the constant threat of one of Gladstone's Teen Wolf-like finger hairs falling into my food the entire time I was eating, this challenge was teetering on the brink of impossibility.

He sometimes wears it in cornrows.

With each bite I was constantly reminded that I really need to come up with better and less painful ways to attract attention. Like maybe running onto the field during a Major League baseball game and getting Tasered by overzealous stadium security. I'm pretty sure that would hurt less than eating this bowl full of lava that's trying to pass itself off as Indian food. I did find myself quietly appreciating the 30-minute time limit, though. Knowing I was on the clock kept at bay the intermittent bouts of crying that threatened to overtake me every time I looked down at my plate and the amount of most likely flammable food I had left to consume.

Pictured: Me, dismayed at the amount of food on my plate and the amount of Gladstone at my table.

But there was something else driving me as well, and that's the fourth life lesson here. I knew that, no matter how torturous this meal was, it was only going to last for a brief amount of time. Did I hurt? Yes, of course I did. But I also broke both of my arms at the same time once. Not only did the pain I was experiencing eating this curry not even sort of compare to that, but I knew it would be far shorter lived than that nightmare scenario.

Really, that's true with almost every other type of pain as well, be it physical or emotional. It might seem never ending when you're in the midst of it, but remember, it will pass. With that wisdom firmly implanted in my head, I powered on. Each bite of this devil curry was begging me to put down the fork and eat a plate of vegetable samosas like a normal person, but giving up would mean the pain had defeated me. And dammit, Corey Hart told me to never surrender way back in the 1980s, and I wasn't going to let him down. Also, if you understand that reference, congrats on being as old and, by extension, abundantly knowledgeable as I am.

Anyway, with just about nine minutes left, I found myself with just one last bite of this poison on my plate. With an equal mixture of dread and excitement rippling through my scorched innards, I lifted that last forkful to my mouth and downed it. And that's when I learned the last and most important lesson of all ...