I Am Nathan’s Hot Dog #75 and I Pray That Joey Chestnut’s Stomach Is Slowing Down

Americans call it Nathan’s Famous Hot Dog Eating Contest. We in the wiener community just call it Judgment Day.

 

Every Fourth of July, the stretchiest stomachs on the planet gather in Coney Island to inhale all-natural uncured beef franks like me. Joey Chestnut has won this thing 12 times, which is 12 more times than any person should be capable of winning this thing.

 

The dude’s record is 74 hot dogs in 10 minutes. And this Saturday, when the clock starts ticking, I will be the 75th hot dog on Joey Chestnut’s plate.

 

I do not spend a great deal of time talking to the Big Ketchup in the Sky. But if Big Ketchup is listening, I humbly pray that Joey Chestnut’s digestive system is slowing the hell down as we speak.

 

It is fine by me if he takes the title again. He is probably nice, setting aside the whole gluttony thing. I just want him — nay, need him — to call it quits before he extends his mustard-covered fingers my way.

 

May he crunch those 74 hot dogs into his mouth. May he feel an overwhelming wave of nausea. May he emit a massive burp. And may he stop.

 

Here’s the thing: I am not afraid of getting eaten. When you are made of shredded cow parts like I am, the winding trip through Joey Chestnut’s innards is child’s play. Teeth? Get at me. Stomach acid? Do your worst.

 

What makes my buns clench is what comes next. Can you imagine the bowel movement that arrives after a man has consumed dozens of hot dogs in one sitting? Does the stool get balled up in the colon and stay there forever? Does it come out all at once in some sort of sonic blast? Does it drip, drip, drip out like hail? Does it rev up and taper off like a car engine?

 

Are we talking hours on the john? Are we talking days? Are we talking months?

 

And we haven’t even gotten to consistency yet. Does a post-Nathan’s Famous Hot Dog Eating Contest excretion fly out in little pellets? Or big logs? Or maybe a chowder-like goo? Or just…splatter? It cannot be pretty.

 

Don’t get me wrong: The experience will not be entirely doom and gloom. I am actually looking forward to the media exposure. Just think — little old me, hot dog #75, on national TV! That honor is usually reserved for my uncle, the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile. I can see the headline now: “Hot Dog #75 Still on Plate.”

 

The spotlight might give my love life a boost. After all, there is no better way to let all the single snacks out there know that I am available than not getting eaten on ESPN. Have I mentioned that I always use a condiment?

 

Nevertheless, I am ready to get this whole shebang over with. Every year, when Thanksgiving rolls around in Washington, D.C., the president pardons a turkey. But when the Fourth of July approaches in New York City, do you see the mayor out here saving a hot dog from Joey Chestnut’s gut? Do you see the governor marching over to Brooklyn to select a hot dog to live out its days on a Virginian farm?

 

No. You do not. And without a pardon, all I can cling to is my hope that Joey Chestnut’s stomach will just give up. The only thing standing between me and the shitter is the strength or weakness of that guy’s intestines.

 

Big Ketchup, I beg of you: 74 hot dogs tops.