Well kids, it’s time once again for your ol’ Uncle Jonny to try some weird Sriracha shit and write about it for your amusement. On the docket for today: Sriracha Candy Canes, given to me in my stocking courtesy of my wife, recommended by our friend Penny!


My wife went to meet a new real estate client the other night, so I figured it would be the perfect opportunity to open these bad boys up. I am clearly no professional photo arranger, and the box took a bit of a beating while traveling through the mail system from God knows where, but to answer your questions: 1) Yes, you get approximately 1 billion of these candy canes per box; 2) That is, in fact, a box of wine on the counter because we some classy motherfuckers; 3) Yes, we have slab granite in our kitchen; 4) Our little garlic container is overflowing which makes us RICH; and 5) That metal owl will come to life at night, haunt your dreams and try to eat your face. Sleep tight!

When you first start on your fiery Christmas treat, all you taste is sugar. This isn’t a bad thing necessarily, as many of my favorite things taste like sugar. Y’know, like when I’m eating a big bag of cane sugar and then counting my diabetes like people in the South (probably) do to amuse themselves between renditions of Oh Susanna! (or whatever the fuck) and re-creations of Civil War battles they lost. Long story short, the South seems like a collectively terrible place.

This candy cane is not, however. And despite the totally amateur nature of that lead photo, I honestly wanted this to be sort of compelling visually. And then I up and broke the fucking candy cane straight off and decided that everyone knows I take horrible photos, so terrible shots of my progress all the way it’ll be.


As you continue your journey down the path of the candy cane less traveled, the spiciness emerges gingerly, as if it’s awoken from a long winter’s nap. It’s a creeping heat that you don’t really notice right away.

Then you check the tail end of this thing like you’re lifting up a dog’s tail to check out its butthole (which is something normal people do all the time, right? RIGHT?) and you notice that bright red spec in the end of the cane. Oh shit! That’s the red gold! And it’s right about then you begin to notice your lips starting to tingle and your mouth starting to heat up.


When you combine it with the liquefying sugar viscosity that’s giving your lips that slimy, disgusting, toddler quality to them, the whole endeavor becomes mildly unnerving and sort of gross. You’re eating a candy cane, yes, which in my case, I haven’t done in probably like 5 years, but the sugar is making you sweat. Again, like southern diabetes.

Then you hiccup. God help you when you hiccup!

It’s like rocket fuel right up the esophagus and nothing but instant acid reflux. It’s the feeling of pure hate right in your gullet and you begin not only to question who the sick bastard was who thought up candy canes infused with FUCKING HOT, GARLICKY PEPPER SAUCE for chrissakes, but why you thought it’d be a good idea to put them in your mouth, as well as every decision prior to that which delivered you to the current moment.

And then it’s time to chomp down on the candy cane, and that’s when the real heat starts. All that capsicum melts and releases into your mouth creating an inferno inside your face portal from a delivery device you never saw coming. Candy canes! Who knew?! Sinister. You chew it, and if you’re me, which you most assuredly are not because we would have a dandy little existential crisis if you were, you start sweating underneath your eyes.

These things are no joke, and while the whole ordeal is largely unpleasant, you might as well finish the fucking thing because that’s the best part of the candy cane right there.


You know what I’m talking about. Putting that little “U” in your mouth is ergonomically very satisfying as you get maximum mouth to sugar coverage. It’s the whole reason for a candy cane’s very existence, unless you’re in prison and need a makeshift shiv and there are no pencils, spoons, or stale Triscuit crackers handy to fashion one with.

Of course, the greatest thing about normal candy canes becomes the most totes intense part of the Sriracha candy cane. You’ve now got spice all throughout your mouth, and you’re sweating like you’re on the wrong side of the Nurnberg courtroom. Holy fuck, this is regrettable, you think. But, you’re the Sriracha guy, so power on you must – as the heat is apparently causing you to think in Yoda-style syntax – and that last bite might be the one to send you to Valhalla.

It doesn’t, thankfully, as I’m likely way too big a pussy for Viking afterlife, but it does linger for what feels like the length of an interminable Ridley Scott movie (seriously, his movies are a fucking slog – I don’t wish either of them dead, but we seriously lost the better Scott brother). After that dissipates, prepare yourself for a delightful dose of exquisite heartburn and a salty disposition that’ll make you want to 30’s style box a homeless person for no reason whatsoever outside of the insanely displeasurable lava in your swallowing tract.

From start to finish, this is an intense experience. The heat creeps up on you like it’s trying to snuff out VC, then announces its presence assertively like an English butler who doesn’t take shit from Bob Uecker on an 80s sitcom, and lingers like houseguests you can’t fucking get to leave even though you’ve stopped filling their drinks and have been making yawning noises, like REALLY LOUDLY almost right in their face, and then your cat shows up and sits right where you can’t type anymore because he’s annoyed you’re writing about candy canes instead of rubbing his face, like you should be after you’ve been in Mexico for the last 5 days, you big jerk.


Sriracha candy canes should not be eaten by anyone at any time for any reason unless that reason is you hate yourself or whomever you give them too.

Final rating: Pretty good! I’d eat these again! And have!

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