I enjoy stories that illustrate that you don't have to be a jerk to get ahead in this world. Hot Dog City is an example of a post-modern society that eschews destructive competition in favor of constructive cooperation.
Hot Dog Bank lies in Hot Dog City, east of Hot Dog Square. You know when you’re walking past The Mustard Store and you see a statue of Oscar Mayer on the corner and there’s a fountain to your left? Yeah, yeah. That’s the one. Well, you take a right at the statue, walk five feet, and then Boom! you’re practically there, there at Hot Dog Bank.
Hot Dog Bank is a bank unlike any bank you’ve seen before. It’s not made of marble. It’s not made of brick. It’s barely big enough to walk in.
If you were a jerk, you’d take one look at Hot Dog Bank and say, “Hot Dog Bank is a shitty bank, and Oh, God! it smells like hot dogs.” But you’re not a jerk. I’m vouching for you. So keep an open mind.
Hot Dog Bank is where Hot Dog City stores most of its cache of meat. Inside of a drawer, inside of a box, inside of a handful of sealed plastic sleeves, lie 960 all-beef hot dogs, the entire endowment of the City of Hot Dogs, Hot Dog City’s fashionable nickname recently approved by a consortium of the city’s top brass.
A reasonable person would expect Hot Dog City to guard its hot dogs tenaciously, with a watchful eye and a terrifying arsenal of very loud and very heavy automatic weapons. But no one in Hot Dog City is like that. Here, here in Hot Dog City, one can visit Hot Dog Bank for a tour of Hot Dog Vault 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year. Hot Dog City is an open society. “That’s the Hot Dog Way!” we say.
.
Fort Knox is home to the United States Bullion Depository, the second largest reserve of gold bullion in the country. It houses more than 5,000 tons of gold worth more than $130 billion, which is about enough money to change your life for the better.
But guess what.
You can’t go there and withdraw any of it!
Because the government won’t let you!
And so the money just sits there and rots, which would be a horrible fate for a hot dog if Hot Dog Bank were as stingy. Which it’s not!
At Hot Dog Bank you can always make a withdrawal. One hot dog. Two hot dogs. Three hot dogs. You name it. In fact, you can walk into any one of Hot Dog Bank’s branches today and withdraw as many hot dogs as you please. If they’re your hot dogs, originally deposited by you, you won’t ever have to pay them back. If they’re not your hot dogs, if someone else first deposited them, you probably still won’t have to pay them back. Just be cool and say good things about hot dogs, and it's almost a given that you and the bank can call it even. It’s that easy!
And yet it wasn’t always so.
There was a time when the City of Hot Dogs was struggling, and a run on the bank seemed ready to finish it. Folks preferred to keep their hot dogs close at hand, where they could see them -- in a coffee can, under a mattress, framed maybe. None of it was any good for the hot dogs.
And then one day over hot dogs, two men had a notion. They were two of the biggest holders of hot dogs the city had ever known.
"My hot dogs are no good if I don't use them for something," said the first man. "What if we take our hot dogs and put them in the bank to show folks that we have confidence in the system? I think such a move may be needed right now."
"I can afford to lose my hot dogs," said the other. "I've had none before. I could have none again."
"The future of this city very likely hinges upon what we decide here today," said the first man. "So, we agree? We'll endeavor to save The City of Hot Dogs, this town whose foundation was built upon meat?"
The men shook hands in agreement.
"Confidence is contagious," coaching legend Vince Lombardi is quoted as saying. "And so is lack of confidence." So when the first great load of hot dogs was ready for deposit on a sunny day in June many years ago, it was by no accident they were carried high in the air and through the front door, in great big boxes with great big labels on them, for all to see and draw hope and inspiration from.
It was a stunning act of sacrifice and philanthropy at a time when fear and inertia seemed perfectly reasonable. It was historic and pivotal, and its success proved immediate. Morning papers told the story of the fateful deposit, and those who could read them told those who could not. Word of the news spread quickly through town.
By mid-morning, a small line had formed outside of the bank for deposits, and by mid-afternoon the line had grown and snaked around the corner. A thick smell of hot dogs had even set upon the air as folks around town began to unearth theirs -- dusty, dry, and slightly worse for the wear, they were hot dogs nonetheless. The great fear that sparked the run on the bank had been lifted. The bank's vaults soon swelled. Reserve ratios could finally be met. A city had been saved.
Hot Dog City has always been a town that pulls together, and we're closer now for all that we've been through. You won't find any statues here of the men who saved our city, but their spirit lives in everything we do. To those two men, we say sincerely: This city of ours is itself a memorial to you.
Ed Krachie is no ordinary human being. He is an insightful and articulate author, researcher, and amateur scientist whose essays have been enthusiastically rejected by esteemed publications worldwide. Here, in his latest scientific masterpiece, recently rejected by the International Journal of Game Theory, Ed Krachie further demonstrates his mastery of the obvious. Go get 'em, Ed.
Game Strategy in Two-Person Price Is Right-style Bidding Game
Section 1: Opponent Bids First
Opponent bids $X. You think that's too high. Bid $1.
Opponent bids $X. You think that's too low. Bid $X + 1.
Opponent bids $0. Ask him if he's feeling okay.
Section 2: You Bid First
Listen to the audience.
From: timjanus@yahoo.com
To: sallybutterworthtaylor@hotmail.com
Subject: Valentine's Day
Date: Thu, 14 Feb 2008 16:29:13 +0000
I don't know if you were planning on doing anything special for me for Valentine's Day, but I want you to know that my mom and my dad and my grandma have already asked me to be their Valentine.
And I've accepted.
I'm sorry.
A message from Tim Janus.
I want a kidney. Not for me. Not for dinner. But for my mom because hers are failing.
You can help if you pass this information on to people you know or if you'd consider undergoing laparoscopic surgery* to donate one of your kidneys. First, however, it's important that you understand that Transplant Ethics and Law require that neither I, nor anyone, give you anything in return for your generous intention and the gift of life you are giving when you give your kidney. Your transplant expenses would be covered, but the gift must be freely given.
My mother is a good person, a caring friend to many and a therapist who helps others cope with life’s challenges and make positive changes in their lives. I can't begin to adequately express my admiration and love for her. It exceeds anything of which many of you would think me capable. Now she needs a living kidney, and neither my sister nor I are good matches for her.
To be a donor you need to be a generally healthy adult with Type “O” blood, who has not had any of the following health problems:
Cancer
Diabetes
Elevated blood pressure (although elevated cholesterol may not be a problem)
Serious heart problems, such as previous heart attack or use of stents.
If you're interested in becoming a donor, please contact my mom at lucindakidney@sbcglobal.net and tell her that you’d like more information. If you find that you'd like to continue, she'll have the Transplant Donor Coordinator contact you. The Coordinator will ask you questions about your interest in donating and about your health. All your answers will be held in strict confidence.
The Transplant Coordinator can make an appointment for you to have a free blood test. If you're from outside Connecticut, she'll mail you several vials to be taken to a laboratory near you for use when your blood is drawn. The tests will be paid for by my mom’s insurance, except for the small charge of having a lab technician draw your blood. Instructions will come with the vials.
Because kidney donation requires a careful evaluation and that the donor travels to my mom’s hospital in Connecticut, donor candidates should be living in the United States.
Thank you for your generosity in considering giving this lifesaving gift.
*Laparoscopic surgery has made donating a kidney far easier than it had been in the past. Today a kidney donor can expect a couple of days in the hospital, a couple of very small scars, and couple of weeks at home away from work to fully recover. Most donors are back to their normal routines within 2-3 weeks. The surgery does not impact one's quality of life or life expectancy. Statistically, childbirth is six times as dangerous as laparoscopic kidney surgery.
And please, if anyone would link his or her own website to this story, I'll thank you very much.
"Bwayla is a stupid man and a hopeless player. He has a huge nose and is cross-eyed. Girls hate him. He beat me because my jockstrap was too tight and because when he serves he farts, and that made me lose my concentration, for which I am famous throughout Zambia."
-Lighton Ndefwayl, a Zambian tennis player, responding to a 1992 defeat at the hands of countryman Musumba Bwayla.
Lighton Ndefwayl may once have been a pretty good athlete, but a pretty good sport he was not. That quote? I kinda like it, but only because it's funny. Otherwise I'm not a big fan. I don't think athletes should make excuses when they lose.
I think they should make them beforehand.
If they feel good, say, "I feel bad." And if they bad, say, "Oh, it's the worst!" A good excuse, if laid properly and long before an endeavor begins, is a simple way for one to save face. I believe that much with all of my heart.
And so too does Eater X, although you'd hardly know it by what's been printed lately. By all accounts in all the papers, Eater X is a gracious good sport. Not a single excuse to his credit.
"But it's not like I haven't tried," he said when I saw him in Austin last week. The stress and the worry were evident on his face and in his voice. "I've been trying to plant good excuses. Honest. I'm always trying. You know that."
"So then what's gone wrong?" I asked him.
"No one will ask me 'The Question," he said. His words were pointed. His tone was deadly serious.
'The Question' to which Eater X was referring is a question typically asked by most reporters: How do you think you'll do on Saturday? Whenever possible Eater X embraces the query as an opportunity to explain why he'll fail.
The contest is too short.
The food is too chewy.
It doesn't suit my strengths!
He's got a million of them. He believes them all. And he loves to lay them down.
"I swear to God those things matter," he told me one time long ago.
"I know they do," I told him back.
And it's true. They do. They matter. But people often overlook them. And so Eater X has made it his mission to call attention to them whenever possible.
Before the Pretzel Twister World Pretzel Eating Contest two weeks ago in Miami, Eater X paced backstage nervously. He'd combed through the morning's papers and read every article. Each one had painted him as confident. He worried what people would say when he lost.
"They're gonna think I had a bad day," he said, "when in fact I truly can't win it. This food is too chewy for me. It doesn't conform to the size and shape of my throat. It's gonna be a swallowing contest, not an eating contest!" He was panicking, and soon so was I.
"Can we blame it on Y2K?" I asked.
"I doubt it," he said, "but I'll try."
But fortunately he didn't. As Eater X took the stage that day a few minutes before the contest began, he scanned the crowd and, finding me, winked. "He's got it!" I thought. "An excuse. He's thought of one at last." I hoped he'd found a reporter in time to record his concerns beforehand. I studied his face. He looked comfortable, which convinced me that he had.
As the contest began and the eaters dug in, Eater X took a curious tack: he untied each of his pretzels, wasting precious time. And when the dust had settled and the food had been chewed and all the pretzels counted, Eater X had finished a distant second to the winner, Joey Chestnut. It broke my heart, it turned me red and made me want to break things.
"Eater X," I said shaking my head as I approached him after the contest. "What were you doing up there? You looked awful. Why on earth untie them?"
Eater X smiled and took a bite of a piece of pretzel and spoke through a mouthful of food. "I needed to have an excuse for losing. I gave them one today."
And I looked at him and, getting it then, I finished his crafty thought: "And you didn't do it after the fact! Good job!"
I am so angry. So angry! I AM SO ANGRY!
(mimicking a crowd at a comedy show) HOW ANGRY ARE YOU?
Stop it! I’m not kidding. I am very angry. Very, very, very angry.
Okay. Okay. I’m sorry. Why are you so angry?
Because OJ Rifkin lied to me! He…she...it (?!?) lied!
Wait. OJ Rifkin lied to you? Are you sure?
Yes. I’m sure. I’m very sure. I’m super sure in fact.
(confused) But that doesn’t sound like something OJ Rifkin would do? OJ Rifkin hates lies. He took liars to task in a post a few days ago. He practically called Eater X a liar!
OJ Rifkin doesn’t hate lies. OJ Rifkin can’t hate lies. He's as big a liar as anyone else. He’d have to hate himself to hate lies.
Okay then. I’ve got to ask. Tell me, How exactly did OJ Rifkin lie to you?
Because he goes by the name OJ Rifkin. He's been writing under a pseudonym!
Geez. You’re right. He does. He has. (pause) Do you think he just forgot?
There is a restaurant called The Olive Garden that I love to visit, and not because they treat you like family. Because they don't. They just like to say that they do. My family is European, and I kiss them on the cheeks when I see them, sometimes once, sometimes twice, and sometimes three times. Un, deux, trois. At The Olive Garden I have never once been kissed on the cheek. In fact, they won’t even shake my hand if I give it to them. But that's okay. I don’t go there to make friends.
I love The Olive Garden for its incomparable breadsticks and salad, which my anemic vocabulary can't flatter enough. I am convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that The Olive Garden’s breadsticks and salad have been touched by the hand of God! Twice in my life, in the spirit of honest debate, I asked men of faith how they were certain that God exists, and each of them gave me the same unsatisfying answer. “Because I just know,” they said self-righteously. Ask me on the other hand how I know that God exists, and I’ll give you something a whole lot better. I’ll give you actual proof. “Because I’ve been to The Olive Garden,” I’ll whisper. “And I’ve had their breadsticks.”
I like The Olive Garden’s breadsticks because they glisten with butter and sparkle with salt and because they're perfectly soft on the inside and out, as if my mom had kindly clipped away crusts and given me half-baked centers. I like The Olive Garden’s salad because it's made with iceberg lettuce and because every molecule comes bonded to Italian dressing. I have always favored iceberg lettuce over other greens because iceberg lettuce has no flavor of its own. It tastes only like that which it’s wearing, which is, I think, how a salad green should be. Other greens are bitter and dominate their dressings. I want a green that’s flavorless and efficient, like a plastic straw, which I’d use instead of lettuce if I weren’t embarrassed to drink dressing in public.
The Olive Garden offers a surprisingly broad selection of wines for a restaurant of its standing, but I don’t even read the wine list anymore. I couldn’t care less which wines The Olive Garden sells. I’ll drink red or white, whichever color fills my cup, because I am an opportunistic drinker. I would drink blue wine if that’s what you gave me, and I’d drink it all and then ask for more.
I heard a credible rumor once that nothing is made from scratch at The Olive Garden, that everything comes in a plastic bag for the chef to reheat. “They just boil it and then…Voila!" my friend told me one day. She’s never liked that I love The Olive Garden. She thinks it’s beneath my caste. If I were a candidate for public office, I’m pretty sure she’d do her best to keep me away from The Olive Garden. She’d tell my handlers, “It’s a political liability.”
I had to explain to that friend one time that I don’t care that the entrées come in a bag. “The Olive Garden’s entrées,” I told her, “have always been secondary.” But that was an understatement. In fact, The Olive Garden’s entrées have always been denary. When I am at The Olive Garden, my Hierarchy of Needs reads like this: salad, breadsticks, wine, family, friends, football, salad, breadsticks, wine, and finally my entree. I don’t even know where I’d place fresh air on that list. I’m too worried that it would hasten the oxidation of my blue wine. Sometimes I liken The Olive Garden’s salad to a nightclub. “To enter,” I say, “you’ve got to pay a cover charge.” And then I’ll point to a picture of the shrimp scampi, and say, “It’ll cost $20.95 for us to enter tonight. Plus tax and tip.”
I brought Eater X to The Olive Garden last week to thank him for feeding my beloved goldfish, Whistlepea, while I’d been away on a recent vacation. It was Eater X’s first trip to The Olive Garden and, even though I know he loved it, he called to my attention what I now realize to be The Olive Garden’s only obvious flaw.
“There’s a man in the bathroom handing out mints,” Eater X said nervously upon returning to our table mid-meal. He stood there in front of me, his eyes wide open.
“You mean the bathroom attendant?” I suggested kindly.
Eater X stood still. His expression remained unchanged.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Aw, nothing,” he said. He paused, and as he sat down he continued, “It’s just that I guess I would have preferred that he hand out breadsticks.”
The following are the results of the Krystal Squareoff Qualifier in Jackson, MS, as reported by someone whose speech impediment manifests itself in his keystroke.
Foast Pwace: Cwazy Wegs Conti (38)
Second Pwace: Aw-toh-oh Wios (35)
Thode Pwace: Aywik Da Wed (32)
On-a-wa-boh Menshohn: Justoan Mih, (disquawified because of a wee-voh-soh of foh-chohn)
And da west, in no poh-tic-u-woh ohdoh:
Waywee McNe-oh
Day-moan Serignet (can't pwonounce it)
Ken Fed-oh-weegee
Myko Pahwahmen
Mike Witchohdson
Bwyan Sims
Joseph Zaydehwo
Jawn Wyohns
Antohnee Whitehead
Bih-wa Taywee
Taywee Bwown
Kwis Bawn-hought
Dustohn Shoh-wee
"Da Mississippi Muncho" Mowis Momolstein
Fact is I'll publish anything that Eater X writes. Even it is about Bo Bice again.
Fact: I hate Bo Bice.
Fact: You should hate Bo Bice.
Fact: Bo Bice’s music causes more deaths each year than cancer, car accidents, and AIDS combined.
And now Bo Bice is on the move, invading another arena, and it's not even a civic center. Bo Bice has entered the world of competitive eating, which makes me wish to suffer urges contrary to swallowing.
Why?!?
What did I do?!?
I’ll make it right, God. I swear!
In Texas, in Dallas, in two concentric areas of land that I loathe, Bo Bice made his competitive eating debut last week in the State Fair of Texas’s Corny Dog Eating Contest. I don't know how well he did, and I'm not even gonna try to find out. I think I'd have to watch a video of the contest. I think I'd have to watch Bo throw his hair around haphazardly. (Shaking my head) I don't need the anguish. Enough things keep me up at night already. Those results? They're dead to me.
The IFOCE used to sanction the corny dog eating contest in Texas, but it doesn’t do so anymore. I surmised once that corny dogs are so similar in nature to hot dogs that the IFOCE’s sponsorship made the Nathan’s folks uneasy. I imagined Nathan’s CEO Wayne Norbitz calling IFOCE Chairman George Shea on the telephone.
“Operator!" I imagined Wayne screeching. "Get me George Shea!" I imagined her patching him through immediately.
"George here." I imagined George saying.
And then I imagined Wayne begging George not to sanction the corny dog eating contest anymore. I imagined Wayne saying "please" and "pretty please" a dozen times each. I imagined it made George think of Wayne as a candy ass. "How in the world," I imagined George thinking, "did Wayne ever get ahead in this life?!?" It was a rhetorical question. (George doesn't have time to answer silly questions like that. He hires people to do it for him.)
And then I imagined George stopping to consider Wayne's request. I imagined George imagining traveling to Texas and not liking the thought one bit. I imagined George frowning. And then I imagined his answer. "Aw, Wayne, Geez! If it means that much to you, I won't." I imagined George whining completely insincerely as he said it so that Wayne would think he'd owe George one. It seemed like a very good strategy on George's part.
That’s what I used to think.
Until last week.
But I know better now: George Shea hates Bo Bice too, which is why he won't sanction the corny dog contest.
I have no idea if Bo Bice harbors eating aspirations grander than his brief fling with corny dogs in Texas. I hope to God that he doesn’t. But the thought that he does and might some day show up and eat next to me has turned me into a man I can't recognize anymore.
Bo, I never thought the day would come when I’d beg you: Please don’t quit your day job.
That 53 you saw in Memphis was a foregone conclusion. Rhonda Evans called it, partly because she had the benefit of hindsight to aid her. And The Whaler called it too, but for a totally different reason: I’d seen something here in Cape Ann that led me to believe no other outcome was possible.
“And what did you see?” you wonder.
A scene, my friend. A dialogue. And I’ll put it in play-form for you to read.
Scene: A common bar in Gloucester where numerals of every origin gather. It’s high noon on September 30th, and the Arabic numerals, many of whom are devout Muslims, have yet to arrive because they can’t drink while the sun is up during Ramadan. Most of the bar’s habitués are Roman, and at a table in the corner, three particular numerals gather to discuss the impending weekend’s most important matter: The Krystal Squareoff qualifier in Memphis. The text of their conversation has been translated from its original Italian.
LII: Okay, guys. Time to draw straws. Which of us is it gonna be?
LIV: (rolling his eyes) Oh, God! Again?
LIII: Yeah, why do we have to do this anyway? Eater X already ate Krystals last week.
LIV: He pretty much qualified for the finals!
LII: Guys, we've been over this before. Eater X loves Krystals. He loves 'em even more than that brown-noser Shoudt does. (LII pauses to ponder what he just said.) Okay, maybe not as much as Shoudt does, but whatever. Eater X wants Krystals now. And he MAPQUEST-ed it, and the easiest place for him to get them, the Krystal restaurant nearest to his apartment, is in Memphis.
LIII: (irritated) Fine. Let's get it over with.
(LII removes three straws of varying lengths from his pocket and places them inside of his fist. One by one the straws are drawn and put forth on the bar for comparison.)
LIII: (seeing that he's drawn the shortest straw) Fuck! I wanted to watch football on Sunday.
LIV: (relieved and suddenly completely in favor of the draw) Hey. Fair's fair.
LII: Just go to Memphis. It'll be fine. It's not like you're missing Super Bowl LIII. You know I wouldn't do that to you.
LIII: Where's LX? Why can't he go to Memphis? He didn't go to Atlanta either.
LII: We're saving him for the finals. You know that.
LIII: Okay, fine. I'll go to Memphis, and Eater X will eat his 53. But I better not be going to Chattanooga. I've got a life, you know?
LII: I know. I know. Don't worry. We'll send someone else to the the finals. I promise.