What is it about July 4th that makes me have to take a good crap? Or to quote kingpin? Lots of build up and occasionally a great pay off, not usually monetary in nature because we’re not talking about a sponsor that puts up good prize money or gives a damn but more in experience, emotions, and furthering friendship. This leads me to believe that sometimes it doesn’t really matter what you do to prepare. You can prepare, have a good day and it will pay off. Or prepare, have a bad day, and lastly not prepare at all and have a great day. That good day is fleeting because maybe it wasn’t necessary to reignite your awkward puberty and cool ranch dorito fueled acne break outs. Eating 10lbs+ of hot dogs a few times a week makes me seek acne remedies from that nerdy krusty burger drive through employee. But, if this eating thing doesn’t work out I may find some potential in sponsorship from pro active formula or as a before picture model of hydroxycut.
Last year all my preparation was for none as I built up my body to handle the bulk of 14 lbs of hot dogs. All that effort wasted, but conclusions are promising in that I can seek comfort knowing that some days you won’t win or have your best stuff. You may find that during the encased steak tip off it’s tipped to your opponent, and has left you up **** creek without a paddle. I am pleased to say that I put in my time and effort for this years contest, although training time was far over shadowed by the time spent not wanting to train and with good old fashion procrastination. It seriously sucks as sessions are usually at odd hours of the day and can take up your entire evening. The benefits of training are to win and see improvements. In comparison to actual workouts it actually feels good after you lift with a bunch of oiled and body sprayed up gym monkeys. Not really with them but in observation hoping to recount to your buddies how Chris Angels buddies were in town. As far as eating relates, you see benefits by building strength and stamina. But sub the pleasant burn with utter pain and discomfort, making sure to barter the gym monkeys for the fringe of society fratish, binge on every substance, with a squeeze of self loathing and a garnish of everything competitive eating/ers. There is no reason to train besides pride and an actual belief you will hold that $5 mustard belt over your nitrate numbed top half. Perhaps going in I thought I had a shot.
My training and preparation and late night stretching my stomach with beer and cheese curds really payed off, and I could not have been happier with my performance. 55 hot dogs in 10 minutes is a new level of capacity and performance. Way off Joey’s pace but I am making up ground and someday I will catch him. My only quip was that my jaws were taxed early in the contest. I wish the tv coverage was better to get an idea of our dog splits, times for 20/30/40 hot dogs would have been nice. I know I was on the fastest pace of my life the entire contest, not once thinking of letting loose and showering the crowd with hot dog shrapnel. Not to mention I had my sweet Tony Clifton outfit on and intact, it certainly slowed me down by the restraint and heat, I honestly can’t believe I ate so many that day. This was like my eating bar mitzvah in that I finally ate like a man, with my first qualifier 5 years ago as my briss. I felt like a rabid dog eating 2 at a time shoving whole buns down my throat, I switched back to my animalistic tendencies and savagely devoured that koshered bull meat. I don’t know what the hell I was doing besides that it was working. I was frantically using all my energy and reserves to get to the mustard flag.
Eating in front of 40,000 people far out weights all negative aspects and pressures it creates. Something about all those people chanting my name in unison, calling for my victory over Joey and Koby was a dream come true. I wore ear plugs blaring Dillinger four on level 11 because all on surf and stillwell pleaded for my victory. At least that’s how it happened in my mind. Victory will happen some day, I wish Joey could take a hint already and give up, he’s never going to finish his doctorate in women’s studies if he continues to compeat.
The most enjoyable part of July 4th is the post contest beers at rubys on the boardwalk. I celebrate the grueling training, reflection of the past eating year, and not ******** myself or throwing up on live television. After a short rest up period we reconvened in my room to watch the rebroadcast. I tracked down $125 dollars worth of pizza and it didn’t stand a chance. The beers flowed like wine in aspen and we re-watched the broadcast working out the kinks of my newly purchased breathalyzer. Joey had a court jester that played pomp and circumstance when he entered and tried to get everyone to kiss his studded mustard belt. The rest of the night can be summed up as lots of cheap pink vodka, 3 gb’s of pictures I have no recollection of and a hybrid version of Russian roulette and spin the bottle; simply a game of swapping germs with the last person using the breathalyzer. I lost this game and awoke nursing a soar throat; apparently wiping it with my shirt wasn’t successful. The last stop was McDonalds where an unthinkable 60 dollars of food was put into Joey’s and my feed bag.
The next day marked a trek to New Haven ct. for world famous pizza at Frank Pepe’s and Sally’s apizza. They are famous for a coal burning oven topped with fresh clams, garlic, parmesan, and olive oil. With 2 teams we made quick work of these two landmarks. One got Pepe’s to go and the others waited in line for sally’s. The thought did cross my mind to abandon ship and eat all 3 large Pepe’s pizza by myself, it’s just that good. We reconvened in front of Sallys and sham wowed all the toxins and nitrates from the previous day. Sally’s was saved for the 2 hour trip back. With our hungers curbed and fulfillment in our performances those pizzas shared among dear friends was like a couple of victory cigars. Sally’s and Pepe’s could be the best reason to go to Connecticut.
We wrapped up the night with food and spirits at Joey’s alma mater, hooters. Where we were given permission to steal the Patrick Duffy picture; an early 80’s snapshot of Patrick Duffy at a urinal rocking an oversized cowboy hat and staring down the lens. Ironically enough the night ended at a bar serving free hot dogs and Andrew W.K. as background music. Anytime you can make the trek east and splurge a few weeks pay on food and entertainment jump at the chance. I’ve never spent so much on food in 5 days and it was worth it.
chow
-pddb
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