The King of the Wing
So for some reason, I've been being social the last week or so, and while out one evening, Nick happened to notice that this bar that we go to has a wing eating contest the next Thursday. He says he wants to go, so I'm like "okay, sure." I mean, I'm a laid back guy (at least while I'm on my drugs). So yesterday was Thursday. Off we went, not knowing what to expect.
So we arrive at the bar and there are a good number of people there, including some guy on a microphone trying to get people to sign up and all that jazz. So me and Nick signed up, not knowing the rules. I had figured they'd put people in a big line w/ lots of wings, say go, and count the bones (assuming you didn't eat those too). Apparently, I was wrong. Instead, they call each person up in front of everyone, one at a time, to eat as many wings as you can in 5 minutes. Well, everything was fine and dandy until I knew this fact. Apparently, standing up in front of everyone while they watch you try and eat wings is not a fun activity for those of us with panic attacks. Who knew? Of course, I couldn't back out now. I'd look bad. (Not that I didn't try, but Nick would have none of it). So I heard my name a few times being called and just kinda ignored it, figuring I was off the hook if neither Nick nor Erica heard it, but unfortunately, I think Nick caught the last call and my fate was sealed.
So off I go. There is a plate full of wings in front of me (and no ranch), and the guy with the microphone makes the statement that I claimed I could eat my weight in wings. Of course, that's not saying much. So here we go...panic surging through me....feeling like I was about to throw up...but I have five minutes. At this point, I have the opposite of an appetite and am actually trying to surpess nausea, but I can't go back. Go! Not that the urgency in the guy's voice was necessary. I was in no hurry. So I started in on my first wing. A minute and a half later, I forced myself to swallow it. Yes, a minute and a half later--amid a chorus of "boo's" eminating from the quasi-drunken crowd and the constant mocking of the guy behind me. (Though he was mildly amusing..."You know this is a timed contest, right?") But I disregarded all and chugged on, realizing that I now had three and 1/2 minutes left to eat an adequate dinner. I hit my stride at about four minutes, and dispite my slow start, made a valiant charge all the way to eight wings. Yes, eight wings. I felt like Prefontaine, giving it all I had to the very end. Of course, unlike Pre, I don't buy into the whole front-running thing. As I stepped down, I was quite relieved and relatively full. (Though I was hungry about 20 minutes later.) And one thing was for certain, I had solidified my spot in last place, but attained a free dinner. And that, my friends, is what really matters.
So we arrive at the bar and there are a good number of people there, including some guy on a microphone trying to get people to sign up and all that jazz. So me and Nick signed up, not knowing the rules. I had figured they'd put people in a big line w/ lots of wings, say go, and count the bones (assuming you didn't eat those too). Apparently, I was wrong. Instead, they call each person up in front of everyone, one at a time, to eat as many wings as you can in 5 minutes. Well, everything was fine and dandy until I knew this fact. Apparently, standing up in front of everyone while they watch you try and eat wings is not a fun activity for those of us with panic attacks. Who knew? Of course, I couldn't back out now. I'd look bad. (Not that I didn't try, but Nick would have none of it). So I heard my name a few times being called and just kinda ignored it, figuring I was off the hook if neither Nick nor Erica heard it, but unfortunately, I think Nick caught the last call and my fate was sealed.
So off I go. There is a plate full of wings in front of me (and no ranch), and the guy with the microphone makes the statement that I claimed I could eat my weight in wings. Of course, that's not saying much. So here we go...panic surging through me....feeling like I was about to throw up...but I have five minutes. At this point, I have the opposite of an appetite and am actually trying to surpess nausea, but I can't go back. Go! Not that the urgency in the guy's voice was necessary. I was in no hurry. So I started in on my first wing. A minute and a half later, I forced myself to swallow it. Yes, a minute and a half later--amid a chorus of "boo's" eminating from the quasi-drunken crowd and the constant mocking of the guy behind me. (Though he was mildly amusing..."You know this is a timed contest, right?") But I disregarded all and chugged on, realizing that I now had three and 1/2 minutes left to eat an adequate dinner. I hit my stride at about four minutes, and dispite my slow start, made a valiant charge all the way to eight wings. Yes, eight wings. I felt like Prefontaine, giving it all I had to the very end. Of course, unlike Pre, I don't buy into the whole front-running thing. As I stepped down, I was quite relieved and relatively full. (Though I was hungry about 20 minutes later.) And one thing was for certain, I had solidified my spot in last place, but attained a free dinner. And that, my friends, is what really matters.
