Hey Joey, it’s me down here. Your fucking stomach. Remember me? Seeing as you’ve already started preparing, I wanna get in fast. I got some serious issues going on, and we need to talk. Capisce?
Why do I sound like Joe Pesci in Goodfellas? Because that’s how angry stomachs sound when you don’t feed us right. We whine. We growl. We threaten.
Yeah, sure, you were always a big eater. You always loved to eat big. You’re a big guy, Joey—6 feet, 230 lbs. A real fucking powerhouse. There’s money to be made in eating big. I understand that. And guys like you, competitive speed-eaters, are wired differently because there’s this satiety issue, this brain wiring issue, where you don’t know when to fucking stop! Well, here’s the thing, you have a mouth, a stomach, and an asshole, and we all fucking hate you! Capisce? Sure, everyone overeats, sometimes, but I ain’t made for this kinda abuse. You’re a handsome guy, Joey. I gotta say. But the way you muscle hot dogs down your gullet like a greedy baby bird. It ain’t pretty. I’m thinking you’re descended from those two gluttonous fucks–emperors Claudius and Vitellius. Which means, I share their DNA. Which would be kinda cool, actually, if I didn’t happen to hate gluttonous fucks!
How do I know about Roman Emperors? I just know! Capisce?!
Listen up, fucker. You only got one stomach. And that’s me. You might be chomping at the bit to devour more than 63 fucking hot dogs, for the Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest on July 4th, but I’m fucking not. You may be prepping yourself to eat like a fucking madman, and I’m quoting you here, but I am not! Capisce? Think of all those starving babies in Africa, fucker! Last year, you forced down 63 hot dogs in 10 minutes! The year before it was 71. Sensing a downward trend? Getting a bit old for the “LET’S TORTURE THE FUCKING STOMACH” routine? Remember how you felt like shit afterward—and were sweating hot dogs? Yeah, I was responsible, fucker! While you were cramming them in and wiggling your body around to help them digest, I was twisting myself into knots, almost rupturing your fucking spleen, frantically pushing that seemingly never-ending stream of masticated hot dogs back up your esophagus, to try to make you throw up.
And hot dogs ain’t exactly healthy. Once in a while at the ballpark, maybe. Special treat. Which means we’re looking at some serious gastrointestinal complications. Translation: you’re fucked, baby. And as I’m your stomach, I’m fucked too! If you’re gonna indulge in this gorge fest, every fucking year, how about entering some stewed prune eating contest. You could suck down a ton of those high-fiber, slippery fucks in 10 minutes. In-out, real swift. Fucking easy street. Because, I have news for you, Joey boy! In terms of hot dogs, I ain’t gonna do it anymore. Yup, that’s right! AIN’T…GONNA…DO…IT…ANYMORE! Capisce?
Hey, what’s with the delivery of 50 rotisserie chickens? Are you having a party…? Uh-oh, you’ve got that crazed look in your eyes, and you’re licking your lips. You’re not training for some ROTISSERIE CHICKEN-EATING contest, are you? EYES BIGGER THAN YOUR FUCKING BELLY!
Oh, you gotta be kidding me! You can’t be serious! Put that fucker down, real slow, Joey. Yeah, that’s right, PUT…THAT…FUCKER…DOWN…REAL…SLOW. Do NOT expand your jaws around that rotisserie chicken like you’re some fucking giant 16-ft python. Do NOT attempt to swallow it whole! YOU ARE NOT A SNAKE!
Uh-oh, too late. I hear a crunchy sound. Hey, spit out the fucking bones, asshole!
One day, I tell you, Joey. Could be today. Could be tomorrow. I’m gonna spill my guts out! CAPISCE?
