A Delusional Eater X Fires a Shot Across the Bow of Competitive Eating, And Then He Provides You With a Study Guide

I am going to the zoo today because I have business to conduct. I'll be sizing up chimpanzees.

"Sizing them up?" you wonder. "For what?"

Allow me to explain.

A few weeks ago I discussed with a friend whether or not it would possible to beat up a chimpanzee. The rules: no weapons, no pads, no nothing in a fight to the death of one of us. My friend argued that it couldn't be done because a chimpanzee is all muscle--"he's pure energy!" But I countered that it could be done because whereas a chimpanzee would fight only for his survival, I would fight for my survival as well as for the abstract concepts of victory and pride. I have seen episodes of Man vs. Beast and know that animals are often slow to figure out what the heck is going on. They don't understand competition. Thus I reckon that before the chimpanzee had figured anything out, I'd have landed two solid body blows and an uppercut so sweet it would have made my own knuckles bleed.

I know what you're thinking. I know why you're shaking your head and staring at the ground and raising your finger trying to get a word in edgewise. You're thinking about that man in California who was attacked by chimpanzees at a petting zoo back in March. They bit off most of his fingers, poked out one of his eyeballs, and ripped off both of his testicles. Ouch! They nearly killed him, and you're thinking that a similar fate awaits me. Well, stop right there. Hold it one second. I have news for you. That man was attacked by two chimpanzees. They double-teamed him, which isn't fair. My monkey and I will fight inside of a steel cage on a tiny island that disappears with the rising of the tide. There will be four referees in four separate cigar boats, each of whom will make sure that no other monkey interferes with our fight. A helicopter will hover above the top of the cage to ensure that no other helicopters, flown by monkey sympathizers, drop monkeys into the cage to assist my opponent. A sophisticated monkey radar will detect any other monkeys in the area so that a plain-clothes referee can head them off before they cause me any trouble. And the referee will be sly about it so that the monkeys won't realize what's going on.

"Say, you there, monkey friend," the referee will intone with a smile. "Don't I know you? Haven't we met somewhere before?" It will be a lie.

"Who me?" the monkey will think, pointing to his chest and looking around. He won't recognize the referee because they won't actually have met before, but because the referee will seem so sincere, the monkey will wonder if they have. "Oh, gosh! How embarrassing this is. I almost never forget a face," he'll worry. He will stare at the referee awkwardly, wracking his brain, shuffling his feet, pretending that he remembers their first encounter while the referee recounts the time that they supposedly met. The story will go on and on and on, and the monkey will grow impatient and look at his wristwatch repeatedly. But because the monkey will feel profoundly guilty, he'll suffer the story obligingly.

Meanwhile my fight will continue unimpeded.

My opponent, who on this occasion will have chosen to wear a black silk cape to intimidate me, will take hold of my leg with his two goofy hands and two goofy feet. He'll sink his primitive teeth into my thigh, causing me to shriek like Xena the Warrior Princess, but I'll work on his grip with my hands and break several of his knuckles in the process. I'll grab him by his wrists and spin myself around, whipping him into the side of the steel cage with Force-5 speed. Dazed but otherwise serviceable, he'll right himself slowly, stagger, and prepare for another charge. We'll lock arms and grapple again. Billy Packer, on hand to provide play-by-play analysis for CBS, will scream, "What a tough little monkey!" and no one will think him a racist this time.

And then a critical moment will occur in our fight. The monkey will bite off two or three of my fingers, and the road to victory will suddenly fork. I'll have two choices: pick my bloody fingers up off the ground, put them in my pocket, tuck tail and run to the nearest hospital to have them reattached; or paint my bare chest with the blood from them, stare up at the sun and scream, "If he takes all 10 of my fingers, I will beat this monkey yet!" Having steeled myself for this moment, I'll choose the latter.

Again we'll square off, and again the monkey will charge me, but this time I'll be ready for him. With perfect timing that maximizes the clash of our opposing momenta, I will kick him in the mouth and shatter his monkey-jaw. Billy Packer will squirm in his chair and shield his eyes from the horror. The left side of the monkey's face will sag pathetically, and a broken tooth will protrude through his lower lip. Blood will spill onto the canvas from a gash near the monkey's eye, and as the monkey surveys his liquid form, I will move in for the kill. I'll tackle the monkey and flip him onto his stomach. His cape will slip over his head, revealing for the first time a GoldenPalace.com tattoo scrawled across his back. Billy Packer will shout with disapproval, "Why he's nothing but a shill!" and I'll dig my knees into the small space between the monkey's shoulder blades, kiss him on the top of the head, and whisper into his ear, "Good night, beautiful." And then I'll begin punching him in the head.

Four hundred and sixty-two punches later, blood will pour from the monkey's ear.

Thirty-eight punches later, the monkey's chest will heave one last time, and every one of his vital organs will shut down. A bell will ring to the end the fight.

Thirty-six punches later, the bell will sound again as if to say, "Okay, okay, we get it! Now please stop punching that monkey carcass."

Ninety-eight punches later, when my fist finally penetrates the back of the monkey's skull and makes contact with the canvas beneath it---"Oh, that chafes," I'll calmly remark---I will stop punching him in the head.

Billy Packer will storm the ring and stick a microphone under my chin. He'll ask me if I think I could have beaten up the entire Duke basketball team today. I won't know the answer.

Billy," I'll say. "Let's just enjoy this one. Okay?”

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I promise you that I don't harbor any ill will towards any species of monkey. And even though I'm completely fascinated by the idea of fighting a monkey, it's not something that you should worry about; I don't think the opportunity will ever present itself. The monkey I've written about, like many other elements of the story, is merely a symbol.

The fight between me and the monkey represents the upcoming GoldenPalace.com Grilled Cheese Bowl. Although I recently held the world record for eating grilled cheese sandwiches, I will likely enter the finals as a heavy underdog. The media will focus on two eaters in particular: second-ranked Sonya Thomas and third-ranked Joey Chestnut. If Sonya Thomas ever loses a contest, she loses to Joey Chestnut, and if Joey Chestnut ever loses a contest, he loses to Sonya Thomas. Nobody else ever comes close to beating them. A lot of people will write me off before I even arrive at the table. They'll say I can't win, that I cannot beat...

The monkey, who is an amalgam of Sonya Thomas and Joey Chestnut, because they're considered unbeatable, and any eater whose love of the sport of competitive eating is eclipsed by his/her desire for publicity and profit, hence the cry, "Why he's nothing but a shill!" I eat for honor and pride and for love of the game. I am a purist. I resent every Eater of Fortune.

The plain-clothes referee was inspired by George Shea, Chairman of the International Federation of Competitive Eating, because I once witnessed him deftly intercept a guy who'd been following Sonya Thomas around to way too many competitions. George was smooth.

Billy Packer is Billy Packer, the basketball analyst who once drew the public's ire for remarking of Allen Iverson, who's black, "What a tough little monkey!” Billy Packer cares more about Duke Basketball more than he does about objectivity. If Billy Packer had a G-spot, Duke Basketball would know exactly how to find it.

Billy Packer also represents every killjoy fan and reporter who has ever approached me after a contest, asked me how I did, and then asked, "So how many do you think Kobayashi could have eaten?" I always answer that question politely and with a smile, but deep down I hate it. Every once in a while I'd like to enjoy what I've done even if somebody else could have done it better. Fuckers!