I Didn't Barf For a Good Cause

Approximately 1500 calories and about 80 grams of fat, that’s the accumulation of six hot dogs plus buns, with only a pitcher of dipping water for condiment that this afternoon I devoured in seven very long, steamy, noxious, punishing minutes.

I took a bite of a seventh, but its taste was just so putrid. To anyone else it probably would’ve been fine, but to me it was a tepid and rubbery bar of concentrated beef-and-stuff juice.

With meat sweats beading on my brow, and with time left being counted in seconds, I spat that final mouthful of skinless all-beef Boar’s Head Frank into a bucket already filled to the two-inch mark with regurgitated wiener. Frankly, the mixture blended together disgustingly perfect.

Anyway, after 10 days of training (last week I could only finish four in seven) that was all I could do. At the Third Annual Hot Dog Eating Contest at Leo’s Restaurant, a benefit event that raised a still undetermined amount for the Special Olympics, out of six contestants I placed fourth.

It wasn’t good weather for overindulgence. The air was slippery since a storm blew through about an hour before leaving a steam bath in its wake. And the contest went off in haste since another electric storm was audibly closing in.

That didn’t deter Fred Colgan, eating under the name “Sugafree,” who for the first time took the trophy with 10 dogs consumed.

He could barely speak at the end, succinctly describing the feeling as “full, very full.”

The previous champion, John Artes, who last year ate 14 in seven minutes and then to break a tie ate another three in 10, placed second this year with nine.

There was some protest, complaints the franks were a little bigger this time, a point Leo’s owner Bob Moniz conceded. But this wasn’t Coney Island, and nobody came close to world-class competitive eaters Joey Chestnut (official record holder with 68 dogs in 10 minutes) or Takeru Kobayashi (unofficial but actual record holder with 69 dogs in 10 minutes.) It was simply a good way to raise good money for a good thing.

“This is a fast, fun way to raise money for a good cause, and to have a couple of laughs,” said Mr. Moniz. “The winner goes away just as happy as the guy who eats only one.”

Nobody ate only one, though one ate only three. One young man, “Big Red Dog,” put down eight before he turned green, and I don’t mean with envy.

Unfortunately, the rules say “visible sickness” is grounds for disqualification. And his sickness was quite visible, and elicited a uniform roar from the dozens in attendance.

As for the runner up, who also helped organize the benefit, he promises to come back next year for what was once his.

“He doesn’t stand a chance,” said the Meat Train of Sugafree. “I’ll be training all year.”

Of course, so will I.

Man-Dog Bites Hot Dog

Instead of offering 30-second sound bites on the sorrowful unemployment rate, reckless government spending, or the imminent wholesale takeover of our judicial system by Sharia Law, the next Republican Party presidential debate should have the primary candidates in seven minutes eat as many hot dogs as possible.

After all, is there anything more American than frankfurters or overindulgence? Consider Brooklyn’s Coney Island annually hosts the Nathan’s Famous Fourth of July International Hot Dog Eating Contest, the premiere competitive eating extravaganza indelibly linked with Independence Day and freedom.

Though it would be quite beguiling to see how well DOMA proponent and former U.S. Senator Rick Santorum can stomach a whole bunch of wieners, don’t look for the debate format to anytime soon turn into a gorge-fest. Oh well, it would’ve been a ratings bonanza.

Anyway, it’s of note that last Thursday, the same day Texas Gov. Rick Perry announced his intentions for the presidency, I announced my intentions to engage in a hot dog eating competition at Leo’s Restaurant in Southbury.  

Meant to benefit the Special Olympics, it will be three fewer torturous minutes than the one in Brooklyn, which this year had five-time consecutive champ Joey Chestnut pound 62 in 10, (he officially set the record in 2009 with 68 in 10.) There is some controversy here, as simultaneously at a remote location former champ and banned competitor Takeru Kobayashi ate 69 in 10, actually but unofficially elevating the high water point.

This is the third year Leo’s will host the event, the record there is only a few more than a dozen. My goal is six.

I’ve been abiding a strict-ish training regimen since Thursday, consuming fibrous, stomach-stretching foods such as watermelon and cabbage. Fasting is amateur. It only serves to contract the stomach. The pros prepare by packing it in.

My first trial run was last Thursday. I put down three-and-a-half dogs in three minutes, a rate faster than my taste buds could initially process. It caught up to me though, that great revulsion, as powerfully and suddenly as a flashflood of frankfurter-flavored water. What I was doing was wrong and unholy, my body compelled to stop, and though I fought the rising tide in my stomach it took another four minutes to finish another half.

It was a dismal showing, only four in seven minutes. Shame, paranoia, nausea and self-loathing took control. All I could do was remorsefully imagine the raucous crowd, a mound of endless hot dogs in front of me, gluttonous porkers sucking up links like spaghetti, the banners for the Special Olympics staring me in the guilty ketchup-smeared face.

People are sponsoring me and my company is sponsoring me, all on a per-dog basis. And here I’ve bitten off more than the Man-Dog can chew.

I suspect my trouble was that I foolishly ignored the advice of professionals, that night I consumed in the traditional dog-in-bun fashion. So when I entered round two Saturday evening, I employed the space-saving and taste-mitigating “Solomon method,” separating the dogs from the buns, dipping both in water, maybe some ketchup, then eating.

In a much more valiant and confidence-boosting showing I improved markedly from four in seven to five in five.

With a little more confidence last night I tried to better my position. And I did, but marginally. Could I keep up the one-per-minute pace of last weekend, do seven in seven? The reality of it, even with the stomach-stretching regimen, my gastric capacity is fixed.

I stopped at five-point-five, couldn’t make it to a full six knowing one more bite would’ve been disastrous. The rules explicitly disqualify a person for “visible signs of sickness,” which is kind of funny since a person who volunteers for an event this noxious can’t be healthy.

Slightly ashamed, but I’m certain six is still achievable. Maybe the support of the people will guide me, it’s for a good cause, weighting myself with sodium-and-nitrate meat rolls packed into an intestinal casing for the benefit of an athletic competition.

I’m not a big man, only 132 pounds in fact. After this Sunday, at 4 p.m. at Leo’s Restaurant, we’ll see.