The Contest

So I promised a flowery, embellished account of my wing-eating contest with Jordan. And it's coming. And since John Juanda won't just fucking put Stanislav Alekhin away at the final table of the WSOP-E so I can finish this recap and GO TO BED, now's as good a time as any.

Hey, at least I haven't been covering that thing for 15+ hours.

So our hero spent the afternoon preparing for battle, forgoing all sustenance in favor of libations (or, I didn't eat much and drank a lot) in light of his upcoming battle. It was sure to be an epic confrontation, the litigator versus the lighting designer, the Jew versus the Gentile, the North versus the South, the... you get the picture.

It was with no small trepidation that our hero sallied forth onto the field of battle. He was the Goliath of the match, facing a smaller, nimbler opponent. Frankly, an opponent that looked a little like an appetizer himself.

I did mention that I'd stopped eating early in the day, right?

The plates of battle were brought forth, and extra libation was provided for the competitors. The mighty Jordan applied his headgear, a bandana of intimidation +2, and forsook the option of a chair, choosing to stand and attack the wings. Our hero sat, napkin tucked into his t-shirt, calmly waiting the go-ahead nod.

And it began - 10 wings - as hot as the kitchen could make them - to the finish or to the vomit! Jordan did indeed leap out to an early lead, largely on the strength of his two-fisted attack. Our hero waded in gamely, methodically, like there was no hurry. Because there wasn't. Slow and steady was the plan, and when the bones began to hit plates, we were even. Around wing #4 there was a moment of concern as a series of volcanic mini-belches wracked my frame, threatening with an explosion of wing from mouth, nose, ears, and other places that food was not supposed to explode from. But I prevailed, the fate of our team and the pride of my Southern heritage riding on this one contest.

As Jordan turned his back on me to play to the crowd, I picked up my most challenging wing - a massive drumstick with far more skin than was necessary. I knew if I could get through this wing without losing much speed, I was in good shape. I didn't lag much, and as Jordan turned back to me, I had a 1-wing lead. I grabbed a flapper, and showcasing a talent developed by years of eating a LOT of chicken, sucked it clean in a second, giving myself a solid lead and becoming comfortable in the bout. Jordan found himself hung up by his grab and stuff tactic, with two hands full of wing and more chicken in his mouth than he could chew, while I just plowed through the wings without pause. As I grabbed for my last wing I saw that he had one in his mouth, one in his hand, and one on his plate, and I knew that victory, at long last, was mine. I sucked the last wing clean, stood, spiked the bones into my plate and raised my hands in victory.

The other benefit to my slower approach was that I was a little cleaner than Jordan at the end of the match.
Now I never mentioned to anyone the real reason that I felt I was the clear leader in this event the whole time. It's not because I outweigh Jordan by a good 40 lbs. It's not that I'm a redneck. It really all goes back to my childhood. I grew up on a chicken farm. My parents had something in the neighborhood of 8,000 of the little bastards when I was a kid. And one pecked me when I was very small. Ever since that day, I've eaten a fuckton of chicken, and I see that feathery bastard's face on every piece of chicken I eat.

It's personal. It's payback. And with that kind of Freudian shit going for me, Jordan never stood a chance. He kept it close, though, and for that, good game, bro.

Photo by Bam Bam