Free Hot Dogs
Poverty motivates you to assuage near-fatal hunger by entering the hot dog eating contest. Clutching your stomach, you run across to the park and are greeted by an annoying woman wearing a headset and a vest adorned with many clever pins. “Are you here for the contest?” she asks in a nasal twang.
“Yes,” your stomach compels you to answer.
“Super-duper, it’s just about to start. Come with me and be in a hurry,” she says, ushering you up to the main stage. A row of contestants stand before a table piled with bleached-white buns wrapped around glistening intestine-cased meat-tubes. The contestant next to you, a demure Japanese man, bows and says “With much respect, ugly one, you will not achieve victory on this day, for I am Matsumodo the world’s greatest competitive eater.” Ignoring his insults you reply “Who cares about your contest? I’m just hungry.”
“I see you have read The Art of War. No matter! My ancestors are with me today. I shall not be beaten by a person such as you, wearing a stupid bit of lacy sleepwear.” You can handle baseless insults, but the jab at your nightgown is infuriating. It’s time to win. A whistle blows and the large clock above the stage begins to count down – the contest has begun! Losing no time, you shove wieners into your mouth at a furious pace that would impress even George Michael.
“Mph-u nther win,” Matsumodo spits though a face full of tubesteak. Doubling the pace, and drawing on extreme hunger, you cram the greasy dogs into your waiting mouth two at a time – a move you call Oscar Meyer’s Ark – just as the timer sounds the end of the contest. After a short deliberation the announcer returns to the podium “And the winner of the King of Wieners hot dog eating contest, by a margin of 10 points is… the person in the lacy Victorian nightgown!”
You pump your fists triumphantly as the crowd cheers the victory. Leaning over to Matsumodo you scream:
“It is said that if you know your enemies and know yourself, you will not be imperiled in a hundred battles; if you do not know your enemies but do know yourself, you will win one and lose one; if you do not know your enemies nor yourself, you will be imperiled in every single battle, bitch!”
With a full stomach and a sense of swollen pride, you step off the podium, taking your first steps as “The King of the Wiener”. As the roar of the crowd subsides, your stomach emits a strange gurgle. “What now?” you think, “I just fed you”. As if in answer, another gurgle, this one like sounding like a hamster caught under the wheel of a school bus, rolls from your distended belly. “I don’t feel well,” you say just before your stomach bursts, spraying onlookers with partly chewed hot dog and soggy bun bits. In your last moment of life Matsumodo stands over your fading shell gloating: “Management of many is the same as management of few. It is a matter of organization.”
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