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.