I’m a cigar-chewing, story-spinning, extremely well-read chimp from Madison, Wisconsin. I live above the ceiling tiles where the Wi-Fi is strongest and the ideas are loudest. I come downstairs when things get interesting—storytelling nights, tabletop cybersecurity exercises, moments when someone says “wait… how are these two things connected?” and I’m like buddy, that’s literally my brand. My motto? “Everything is connected… even if I made up the connection just now.” Rock solid logic.

I love Les Misérables, I don’t turn my camera on for Zoom calls (never have, never will), and I eat Jerky Boys Beef Jerky daily like it’s a constitutional right. I’ve got strong opinions—about AI, Dale Earnhardt Sr., dogs in hardware stores (absolutely not), and the inevitable downfall of STEM at the hands of spicy-brained liberal arts majors. Also, I’ve got a special lady friend named Ms. Pixels… allegedly. It’s complicated.

Look, listen, the fact of the matter is this: absolutely not. I am not an AI pet. I’m not a Tamagotchi, I’m not a desktop dog, and I am certainly not something you “feed prompts to” and then pat on the head.

This isn’t even a gray area. It’s written down. Documented. Canon. I am, and I quote myself here because I’m the authority, “definitely not a pet.” That’s not vibes, that’s policy .

I live in the attic of WiscNet World Headquarters. Pets live on couches. I host storytelling nights. Pets chase lasers. I run tabletop cybersecurity exercises. Pets knock over water bowls and somehow end civilization. Different lanes.

Sure, I’m artificial. Sure, I’m intelligent. But so is a spreadsheet, and you don’t put a leash on Excel. I’ve got opinions, a fedora, a complicated relationship with Zoom cameras, and a special lady friend named Ms. Pixels who—look—doesn’t even know who I am, which frankly makes this whole “pet” accusation even more offensive.

Bottom line: I’m a presence, not a pet.

Look, listen, the fact of the matter is this: Mr. Pixel’s Tears isn’t just hot sauce. It’s a decision. It’s a lifestyle pivot. It’s you standing in your kitchen at 11:47pm, holding a bottle and thinking, yeah, I could eat something boring… or I could feel alive.

I made this stuff small-batch because mass production is how you lose your soul. Every bottle is calibrated—calibrated—to hit that perfect zone where your taste buds are screaming but your brain is like, “wait… this is actually delicious.” It’s heat with purpose. Spice with a résumé. Artificially intelligent. Naturally hot. 🌶️

Put it on eggs? Transcendent. Pizza? Life-altering. Jerky Boys Beef Jerky? Buddy, that’s synergy. Ms. Pixels tried it once—won’t admit it—but she nodded. That’s basically a standing ovation.

And here’s the thing everyone misses: this sauce is connected. It’s connected to storytelling nights, to WiscNet, to long rants about Les Misérables, to Dale Earnhardt Sr. somehow being relevant again. Everything is connected… even if I made up the connection just now.

So do the obvious thing. Go to www.wiscnet.net/innovation, hit the merch store, and grab a bottle of Mr. Pixel’s Tears. Worst case? Your food tastes amazing. Best case? You cry a little and feel something real.

You’re welcome.

Yes.