In case you hadn’t figured it out yet, I’m a professional eating coach. My job is to prepare my students for any kind of food eating activity that they may come across at anytime in their daily lives. This could include meals, snacks, or contests. I’ve turned out a few of the great eaters of our time.
The following is a memo sent to one of my then-prize pupils, who happened to be in the Las Vegas area when he contacted me. He alerted me to a challenge laid before him at the Las Vegas Club in downtown Las Vegas. A 9lb burger consumed in 24 hours is free! And you get a plaque on the wall, showing proof of your great success. A hall of fame of sorts…
For security sake, we’ll refer to him as Ben.
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Okay, so I've worked out your marathon schedule Ben. It's a pretty solid schedule that should keep you full of wonderful cheese burger - but not too full. You'll have some time to gamble, sleep, rest, jog and whatever else it is you'll need to keep the juices flowing.
I've done some research and I've got good sources that tell me beef loses about 25% of it's actual weight when it's cooked. So assuming the 9 lbs is pre-cooked weight, you're looking at roughly 6.75 lbs of deliciousness. Or, in terms you may better understand, 27 quarter pounders. That's a little over 1 an hour. It's a very attainable goal!! Of course, you can't just stay up for 24 hours - you'll need your beauty sleep and sports as well. So, below you'll find your schedule. I'm sorry Coach can't be there, but I'll be rooting for you the whole way!!
Saturday January 14, 2005
11am - 1pm You're eating. A lot. You're going off with a big bang here. You're goal - 10 QPs right off the bat (only 5 per hour!). It'll be like a delicious snack to start your day!
1pm-3pm You're resting - rooting against Michigan as Illinois hits jumpers in their eyes all day! Oh, and don't for get the NFL - oh yeah, it's on then too!
3pm-4pm It's time for your afternoon snack! Grab 5 more QPs and, as my mentor said, "GET 'ER DONE!"
4pm-9pm This is your first big break. You'll be hard pressed to choose between sleep and watching OUR North Dakota State Bison fight it out with the Jackrabbits of South Dakota. Oooh! And Tark's old mates will be tearin' at the towel as the night goes on.
9pm-10pm Dinner is served! You've got a light 3 QPs to eat! This would be a good time, if you felt like "Goin' off," to grab a couple extras if you wanna lighten the load for the later rounds!
10pm-12am Nap time! Well, either that or you can fight your demons at the Pai Gow table. You might get lucky and catch a little Aussie ponies, but don't count on it.
12am-1am Boy, those naps sure to leave a young strapping lad famished! Time for 3 more QPs! Of course if you had gotten neck deep in QPs in an earlier round, you could use this time to extend your next break!
1am-8am This should probably be used for sleep, but since you can’t tame a wild animal, I'll leave you to your JokerPoker machines.
8am-11am Home stretch!! You've got 6 QPs to kill in 3 hours! You'll either be rested and ready for a lovely breakfast, or red eyed and ready for a bed time snack!!
I think the plan I've laid out is one that will lead you to success. I see great things in your immediate future - namely your picture up on the wall in the Vegas Club and 24 hours worth of free eating!!
Good luck son, make me proud!
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Unfortunately, this challenge was not what it seemed. Apparently you had to stay in the restaurant the whole time - 24 hours. Ben, unfortunately, was not able to do without gambling for that amount of time, so he did not attempt the feat. Ponies and Pai Gow called more loudly than pounds of delicious red meat. I was forced to let him go. When the student cannot show discipline he is forced out of my school of eating and sent West, as the saying goes. It’s always sad when that happens. Many o' good eaters have been sent into exile.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
When you're hot...
I have no idea where the hell I got this cowboy hat, but it's been with me the whole trip. The damn thing barely fits, and I have to hold it down as I run. How the hell I ended up at a Craps table is a mystery to me. I still have no idea what to do...he gave me some dice, I kept rolling them, people kept yelling. I never moved my bet.
My initial bet has now grown 20 times its original amount. I've had enough. No one liked that answer. They treated it as an excuse. Instead of people cheering, I got groans. The cashier wasn't far from where I was, until a very large man (more tall than fat...fat doesn't intimidate me) stopped me and said "Out."
So, I do as I am told, but see that there's one last cashier cage before I exit. So, I weave between machines, and cash everything in. Good, I'm in the clear. I don't want to turn around to see if this guy is still behind me. I have no idea how to get back IN here considering I'm actually STAYING here. Whatever, I make it outside. Good lord, it's hot.
OK, this guy is still following me. We're outside. I try to play it calm, but my mind keeps telling me otherwise. Before I adjust my hat, the guy is in front of me again.
"I'm a judge." I had no idea what that had to do with anything, so I asked "In Japan?" This wasn't a good answer. "No, not in fucking Japan, wiseass." I didn't want to seem like I was trying to please him, so I said "How the hell would I know? Don't they have judges in Japan?" By this point, maybe I've confused him. He's looking blank, and not at me.
"I saw you in there. You should know that, for a piece of the action, I gamble with my life." El Alto put his hands on his hips, as if trying to mean business in the old west. "What's it going to take?"
By this point, asking him just what the fuck he meant was NOT going to work. I had to come up with a solution. "Do you like Baked Beans?"
"Whaaa? No, what does that have to--"
"Well...I guess it's off, huh?"
He pleaded. He said he wanted more information. I turned away. Now, it could have been a mistake not to see his reaction. Was he hurt? Had he turned around? Did he reach for brass knuckles - or a gun? Was he coming after me? I didn't know. I just remember counting to 100. And then running. And this god damn hat keeps coming off.
My initial bet has now grown 20 times its original amount. I've had enough. No one liked that answer. They treated it as an excuse. Instead of people cheering, I got groans. The cashier wasn't far from where I was, until a very large man (more tall than fat...fat doesn't intimidate me) stopped me and said "Out."
So, I do as I am told, but see that there's one last cashier cage before I exit. So, I weave between machines, and cash everything in. Good, I'm in the clear. I don't want to turn around to see if this guy is still behind me. I have no idea how to get back IN here considering I'm actually STAYING here. Whatever, I make it outside. Good lord, it's hot.
OK, this guy is still following me. We're outside. I try to play it calm, but my mind keeps telling me otherwise. Before I adjust my hat, the guy is in front of me again.
"I'm a judge." I had no idea what that had to do with anything, so I asked "In Japan?" This wasn't a good answer. "No, not in fucking Japan, wiseass." I didn't want to seem like I was trying to please him, so I said "How the hell would I know? Don't they have judges in Japan?" By this point, maybe I've confused him. He's looking blank, and not at me.
"I saw you in there. You should know that, for a piece of the action, I gamble with my life." El Alto put his hands on his hips, as if trying to mean business in the old west. "What's it going to take?"
By this point, asking him just what the fuck he meant was NOT going to work. I had to come up with a solution. "Do you like Baked Beans?"
"Whaaa? No, what does that have to--"
"Well...I guess it's off, huh?"
He pleaded. He said he wanted more information. I turned away. Now, it could have been a mistake not to see his reaction. Was he hurt? Had he turned around? Did he reach for brass knuckles - or a gun? Was he coming after me? I didn't know. I just remember counting to 100. And then running. And this god damn hat keeps coming off.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Dispatches From Detroit
Editor's Note: Recently, we sent Dee Louis on a fact-finding mission deep into the heart of the U of M campus. While on the trek, strange vibrations halted his journey, and forced him to seek shelter. After months of searching, he ended up at a graduation ceremony being held at the Gerald Ford school of public policy. His manuscript somehow survived...
The ambitious and their goals... they often cloud my head, and make me wish for breath. Those that aim to calculate and deconstruct the issues at hand, those that rise above their fellow man to become the filth at the top, those that run in circles, fly on radars, and coagulate into taskforces, eh. It usually leaves me tender, like the last of full pack of Winstons.
They come from all over, these overachievers. Their lives like arrows, their minds like carving stones. And they learn, they adjust, and they grow. And sure, hell, it's hard to be upset at that sort of thing. There's no roofer's mentality that drives me towards the screaming of obscenites or any southern anti-intellectual pride that scorns universities within me. Hell, christ, we don't have a choice. Either we all start reading books, or we'll be pets to the Chinese in less than a decade. Start with Faulkner, that's what the Owl tells me.
There is something special about these young prodigies, something endearing about their ethic and understanding, but it doesn't last. I still wouldn't share a Leine's with them (Sunset Wheat, now in stores!), and lord knows the success won't rub off. It may, in its best form, fill in a small gap, add another patch to this ever-growing tapestry. In its worst form, I'm left still trying to figure out how Tom Selleck can consistently do it so well, yet I'm just left with a bare upper lip.
But they don't do it for me, and they don't do it for you. They see it bigger, better, more complex. The street level is missing, the global psychology fits their equation. These problems, these shortcomings of societies, their solutions don't lie in telling people like me and the scum I run with how to live our lives. I mean, hell, that's a good start, but it's not fixing any energy crisis. We bet our good money on the Oilers and Yankee overs, not the free trade economy. Jesus, you could call what we do free trade, except some wanker in Peekwuoak, Ontario is raking 10 points no matter if Clemens makes the start or not. So fuck it, I guess.
Lord almighty, look at where I'm going with this. The selfishness reigns supreme, and I can't do a damn thing to stop it. So MY world view is now fucked. I'm seeing everything with my nose in frame, the outlines of my eyesockets forming the border. What happened to the objective? The removal of self from the Greater Pasture? Jesus, it's not gone. Tell me it's not gone.
Possibly, that's why these people are here. They're here to overcome the misgivings and tribulations of a brokedown just-need-12-bucks-to-get-in-the-trunk-of-my-car sensitive castoff like me and everyone else. They aren't troubled with the Human Pain. They use math to explain why we do what we do, and maybe that has validity. I can't see it any other way. They have to be. There has to be some force out there that sees what we all do and appoints a small percentage of us to be able to control it, and fix our errors. If not, we'll just all hang flags and bet longshots. We need help with our society like we need our social security. You can't leave it up to the people... we're not smart enough. These glorious sons of bitches have gone to school for more years than I've had a savings account, and they deserve to manage my future.
So I guess, in the end, it's a Good Thing. They take what they need from the masses - data, mostly - and they spit theories and solutions that leave us scratching our heads and muttering into the darkness in front of television screens. Because we can't fix a goddamned thing without someone up there directing, and if that director lived like we live, then no chance, no way. They'd be doing double time at the Shoe, humping that table hoping to Score Big, and make it out of there with more Money than they came with. Doesn't that about sum up America?
So fight on, soldiers. I couldn't see myself out back with you scheming on a way to take the Polish White Eagle sign off the brick building down the street, but at least you have a GOOD reason for passing on the Grainbelts.
Because my reason is because I'm too fucking broke.
The ambitious and their goals... they often cloud my head, and make me wish for breath. Those that aim to calculate and deconstruct the issues at hand, those that rise above their fellow man to become the filth at the top, those that run in circles, fly on radars, and coagulate into taskforces, eh. It usually leaves me tender, like the last of full pack of Winstons.
They come from all over, these overachievers. Their lives like arrows, their minds like carving stones. And they learn, they adjust, and they grow. And sure, hell, it's hard to be upset at that sort of thing. There's no roofer's mentality that drives me towards the screaming of obscenites or any southern anti-intellectual pride that scorns universities within me. Hell, christ, we don't have a choice. Either we all start reading books, or we'll be pets to the Chinese in less than a decade. Start with Faulkner, that's what the Owl tells me.
There is something special about these young prodigies, something endearing about their ethic and understanding, but it doesn't last. I still wouldn't share a Leine's with them (Sunset Wheat, now in stores!), and lord knows the success won't rub off. It may, in its best form, fill in a small gap, add another patch to this ever-growing tapestry. In its worst form, I'm left still trying to figure out how Tom Selleck can consistently do it so well, yet I'm just left with a bare upper lip.
But they don't do it for me, and they don't do it for you. They see it bigger, better, more complex. The street level is missing, the global psychology fits their equation. These problems, these shortcomings of societies, their solutions don't lie in telling people like me and the scum I run with how to live our lives. I mean, hell, that's a good start, but it's not fixing any energy crisis. We bet our good money on the Oilers and Yankee overs, not the free trade economy. Jesus, you could call what we do free trade, except some wanker in Peekwuoak, Ontario is raking 10 points no matter if Clemens makes the start or not. So fuck it, I guess.
Lord almighty, look at where I'm going with this. The selfishness reigns supreme, and I can't do a damn thing to stop it. So MY world view is now fucked. I'm seeing everything with my nose in frame, the outlines of my eyesockets forming the border. What happened to the objective? The removal of self from the Greater Pasture? Jesus, it's not gone. Tell me it's not gone.
Possibly, that's why these people are here. They're here to overcome the misgivings and tribulations of a brokedown just-need-12-bucks-to-get-in-the-trunk-of-my-car sensitive castoff like me and everyone else. They aren't troubled with the Human Pain. They use math to explain why we do what we do, and maybe that has validity. I can't see it any other way. They have to be. There has to be some force out there that sees what we all do and appoints a small percentage of us to be able to control it, and fix our errors. If not, we'll just all hang flags and bet longshots. We need help with our society like we need our social security. You can't leave it up to the people... we're not smart enough. These glorious sons of bitches have gone to school for more years than I've had a savings account, and they deserve to manage my future.
So I guess, in the end, it's a Good Thing. They take what they need from the masses - data, mostly - and they spit theories and solutions that leave us scratching our heads and muttering into the darkness in front of television screens. Because we can't fix a goddamned thing without someone up there directing, and if that director lived like we live, then no chance, no way. They'd be doing double time at the Shoe, humping that table hoping to Score Big, and make it out of there with more Money than they came with. Doesn't that about sum up America?
So fight on, soldiers. I couldn't see myself out back with you scheming on a way to take the Polish White Eagle sign off the brick building down the street, but at least you have a GOOD reason for passing on the Grainbelts.
Because my reason is because I'm too fucking broke.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
A Strange Night
The scene: It’s a warm, Minnesota, summer night. There’s a storm brewing but it hasn’t begun yet. Of the 10 or so tables on the patio, most are filled with locals sharing stories, food, and laughs with cocktails in hand. In other words, it’s a nearly perfect night.
Then things get weird.
The patio has quieted down a little bit, when the front door of the bar comes banging open. The bouncer has a gentleman that has had a few too many cocktails – so many in fact, that he’s having one hell of a time walking. A cab pulls up. The bouncers drags the drunk towards the cab, nearly losing him as his legs give out. The drunk is dumped into the back of the cab, door closed, this looks like the end of his night. The bouncer talks to the cabbie for a minute, then makes his way back inside. A few minutes later the bouncer is right back outside. He talks with the cabbie some more, opens the back door, and helps the drunk back out of the cab. Good move by the cabbie. The bouncer, not really sure what to do with the guy at this point, grabs a chair and plops the drunk in it.
Now, to give you a better idea of what the scene looks like at this point, it still has yet to start raining, but the skies are becoming more threatening by the minute. The patio itself is covered, but the entrance is not, and this is where our drunk little friend is currently going in and out of consciousness. Then the rain comes.
And it comes hard.
It starts innocently, much like most storms do, but about 10 minutes later it’s a full fledged downpour. It is one of those wonderful Minnesota summer storms that blows in this time of year. The patrons are all under the protection of the roof over the patio, but our drunk little friend is getting soaked. By this point, he’s completely passed out, and has been unresponsive for about 20 minutes. A few of the people at the table are concerned because our little drunk buddy is out getting soaked. The bouncer – or any staff member for that matter – have made no attempt at all the move the gentleman out of the rain, one actually saying “the rain will do him good.” True or not, it’s not a nice thing to do. Detox has apparently been called, but it’s been nearly an hour since they were contacted. I don’t know how it is in other cities, but in Minneapolis, Detox usually has a very quick response time, so it’s strange that they have yet to make an appearance. Finally though, someone shows up.
But it’s not the ambulance.
The rain has slowed slightly – a lull in the storm. Up walks a Minneapolis Police Officer, but something feels different about this guy. He’s carrying a sort of ominous feeling with him as he approaches the entrance, and our little buddy. He speaks with the bouncer for a minute, then turns his attention towards his reason for being there. The officer slaps the drunk across the face once, presumably in an attempt to wake him up. Then he does it again. And again, but this time, he winds up a little more – WHACK! The cops slaps the guy pretty damn hard. At this point, he’s got the attention of almost everyone on the patio.
The guys who had been concerned about the drunk man sitting in the rain, decide they’ve had enough and approach the officer. In a completely friendly, and unthreatening, tone, one of the guys says he’s got a chair set up under the awning so they can move our buddy out of the rain. That did it.
The cop explodes at him.
He launches into a tirade about how my concerned friend is a snot mouthed puke and that if he doesn’t walk away right now, “he’s going to punch him in the fucking face.” The cope drops a few more F-bombs and threatens him again, finally telling him he’ll throw him in cuffs right now. I was stunned. I had never seen a police officer act in such an aggressive manor, especially since he was unprovoked. My friend comes back to the table, shaking with adrenaline. Okay, good, the ambulance is here. The cop heads over to attended to our drunk little buddy – slaps him again. He then pulls his flashlight out – it appeared to be a miniature Mag Lite, grabs the mans right hand and raps him across the knuckles. Hard. Twice. The paramedic, who is holding the mans left hand, checking for responsiveness, give the cop a look like ‘I don’t think you’re supposed to do that.’
The paramedics finally get the guy on the roller and into the back of the ambulance. The cop finishes up with the bouncer, then makes his way back to his squad car. Instead of just going back to his car, he stops, turns to my concerned friend and berates him some more, telling him “if he wants to help, why don’t you become a civil service worker.” His response is to mention the typical police motto, ‘To Serve and Protect.” Officer friendly points to his car and says “It doesn’t fucking say serve and protect anymore.” I’ve had enough at this point and holler sarcastically, “wow, what a great attitude,” and he responds equally sarcastically, “thanks.”
Then it’s over.
I have never in my life ever seen any public servant act in such an amazingly disrespectful way. Not only did the guy abuse our drunken little buddy, but he threatened a citizen who was only trying to be helpful. Then, after acting like a complete asshole, the cop has the bas sense to come over and continue antagonizing people. We did get his badge number, car number, and the ambulance number. We’ll – all seven of us – be calling in complaints on Officer Friendly, along with a few of the staff members. I know that coming from where I do, I don’t have to deal with some of the things that people who live in rougher parts of the world do, but it completely blew my mind.
It was like something out of the Twilight Zone.
Then things get weird.
The patio has quieted down a little bit, when the front door of the bar comes banging open. The bouncer has a gentleman that has had a few too many cocktails – so many in fact, that he’s having one hell of a time walking. A cab pulls up. The bouncers drags the drunk towards the cab, nearly losing him as his legs give out. The drunk is dumped into the back of the cab, door closed, this looks like the end of his night. The bouncer talks to the cabbie for a minute, then makes his way back inside. A few minutes later the bouncer is right back outside. He talks with the cabbie some more, opens the back door, and helps the drunk back out of the cab. Good move by the cabbie. The bouncer, not really sure what to do with the guy at this point, grabs a chair and plops the drunk in it.
Now, to give you a better idea of what the scene looks like at this point, it still has yet to start raining, but the skies are becoming more threatening by the minute. The patio itself is covered, but the entrance is not, and this is where our drunk little friend is currently going in and out of consciousness. Then the rain comes.
And it comes hard.
It starts innocently, much like most storms do, but about 10 minutes later it’s a full fledged downpour. It is one of those wonderful Minnesota summer storms that blows in this time of year. The patrons are all under the protection of the roof over the patio, but our drunk little friend is getting soaked. By this point, he’s completely passed out, and has been unresponsive for about 20 minutes. A few of the people at the table are concerned because our little drunk buddy is out getting soaked. The bouncer – or any staff member for that matter – have made no attempt at all the move the gentleman out of the rain, one actually saying “the rain will do him good.” True or not, it’s not a nice thing to do. Detox has apparently been called, but it’s been nearly an hour since they were contacted. I don’t know how it is in other cities, but in Minneapolis, Detox usually has a very quick response time, so it’s strange that they have yet to make an appearance. Finally though, someone shows up.
But it’s not the ambulance.
The rain has slowed slightly – a lull in the storm. Up walks a Minneapolis Police Officer, but something feels different about this guy. He’s carrying a sort of ominous feeling with him as he approaches the entrance, and our little buddy. He speaks with the bouncer for a minute, then turns his attention towards his reason for being there. The officer slaps the drunk across the face once, presumably in an attempt to wake him up. Then he does it again. And again, but this time, he winds up a little more – WHACK! The cops slaps the guy pretty damn hard. At this point, he’s got the attention of almost everyone on the patio.
The guys who had been concerned about the drunk man sitting in the rain, decide they’ve had enough and approach the officer. In a completely friendly, and unthreatening, tone, one of the guys says he’s got a chair set up under the awning so they can move our buddy out of the rain. That did it.
The cop explodes at him.
He launches into a tirade about how my concerned friend is a snot mouthed puke and that if he doesn’t walk away right now, “he’s going to punch him in the fucking face.” The cope drops a few more F-bombs and threatens him again, finally telling him he’ll throw him in cuffs right now. I was stunned. I had never seen a police officer act in such an aggressive manor, especially since he was unprovoked. My friend comes back to the table, shaking with adrenaline. Okay, good, the ambulance is here. The cop heads over to attended to our drunk little buddy – slaps him again. He then pulls his flashlight out – it appeared to be a miniature Mag Lite, grabs the mans right hand and raps him across the knuckles. Hard. Twice. The paramedic, who is holding the mans left hand, checking for responsiveness, give the cop a look like ‘I don’t think you’re supposed to do that.’
The paramedics finally get the guy on the roller and into the back of the ambulance. The cop finishes up with the bouncer, then makes his way back to his squad car. Instead of just going back to his car, he stops, turns to my concerned friend and berates him some more, telling him “if he wants to help, why don’t you become a civil service worker.” His response is to mention the typical police motto, ‘To Serve and Protect.” Officer friendly points to his car and says “It doesn’t fucking say serve and protect anymore.” I’ve had enough at this point and holler sarcastically, “wow, what a great attitude,” and he responds equally sarcastically, “thanks.”
Then it’s over.
I have never in my life ever seen any public servant act in such an amazingly disrespectful way. Not only did the guy abuse our drunken little buddy, but he threatened a citizen who was only trying to be helpful. Then, after acting like a complete asshole, the cop has the bas sense to come over and continue antagonizing people. We did get his badge number, car number, and the ambulance number. We’ll – all seven of us – be calling in complaints on Officer Friendly, along with a few of the staff members. I know that coming from where I do, I don’t have to deal with some of the things that people who live in rougher parts of the world do, but it completely blew my mind.
It was like something out of the Twilight Zone.
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