I can barely look at you. Nathan himself is rolling over in his grave right now. You don’t even deserve to touch a hot dog, let alone a belt. Another year of blood, meat sweats, and tears all for… what? That thing you call a performance out there? You lacked sizzle, you didn’t bring the heat. Honestly, you were the worst one out there.
Your technique? It was non-existent. Mustarding up between dogs? Where’s your bite? Dunk the dog in the water and swallow it whole down your gullet like a cartoon, man. And let’s not even talk about the number of wieners left on your platter when all was said and done. Looked like a fucking seven-year-old picky eater’s plate. Grow up.
But I think what I found most unsettling today was how much of a stranger you looked out there. When I scouted you at the Ohio State Fair in ‘07, slurping down a glizzy like it was your job, I saw potential. I saw greatness. I saw a champion. And that young kid isn’t here anymore. I surely didn’t see him out there today. I saw someone who hates hot dogs, who knows what they’re made of. A vegan. I saw a wussy-ass herbivore out there.
I thought you could teach an old dog new tricks, but all our training was for nothing. Me shoving wieners in your mouth as soon as your alarm went off at 4:30 a.m. like a new Marine getting hazed. Throwing them at you and making you catch them in your mouth like a pup begging for treats. Forcing you to watch that documentary on how hot dogs are made so you would know the hot dog inside and out. To truly know the food group. To understand it. To gain respect for the pyramid. But I saw no respect out there on that long picnic table today. You were a foreigner on Coney’s great island. All I saw was someone disgusted by hot dogs and all it stands for. Is that what makes a champion? Do you think Joey Chestnut hates hot dogs? No. He fucking loves them. And that’s why he’s the winner.
Did you ever consider this whole contest is not only about you? You have to think outside the bun here. This whole thing is about legacy, specifically mine. I was in your shoes once. The year was 1981, Coney Island, dog days of summer. I had an empty stomach, but I was full of heart. It was me against Joseph Chestnut Sr, Joey’s father. Only ten minutes were between me and the Mustard Belt. And man, we fought until the last bite. I won, eating 63 dogs to Joseph’s 62 and I relished in the victory. Despite my three heart transplants since then, I still haven’t lost my appetite for another belt. But it seems like you got lost in the sauce this year and couldn’t beat the best eater of all time.
Frankly, we need a big change if we’re ever going to come close to roasting a Chestnut on an open fire. We have to eat more, train better, and that starts today.
4 a.m: You’ll wake up and do your two hours of jaw extension exercises to help you fit multiple dogs at a time.
6 a.m.: I’m going to pick you up in the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile and we’re going to drive 90 miles away to an abandoned Vienna Beef manufacturing plant. I need you to embody the mind and body of the dog so you’ll change into a hot dog suit from Spirit Halloween.
9:00 a.m.: We form a new dipping technique, so we head over to the ocean and you dunk yourself ten feet underwater as fast as you can to learn the optimal way to dip the dog.
Noon: Break for lunch. I know a great place where we can get Chinese food.
1:00 p.m.: Set up an authentic environment of the contest crowd noise. I scream into a microphone and simulate the loud shrieks of children because they’re horrified by the indulgence of humanity.
3:00 p.m.: We find a couch someone is looking to get rid of in an alley next to a dumpster and you fall into a tragic food coma.
7:00 p.m.: I wake you up. I will tell you who’s president, what year it is, and everything you missed in the last four hours.
8:00 p.m.: Watch old contest tape, but only my 1981 win and I yell at you throughout the contest and say “See?! See?! This is what a champion looks like!”
11:00 p.m. Run off all the hot dogs you ate today, sicko.
Alright champ. Hope you didn’t make any plans for the rest of the year or intended to see your family ever again. Now, drop and give me 20 hot dogs.