October 2006 Archives

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?!?

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.