Well, well, well, it looks like that bastard Jones lost his page to the true Eating King.
Eating King? How on Earth did you become an Eating King Lauvray?
Well Evan, last spring, on one of the few Saturday nights I was sober, Jones and myself had an eating contest at a certain east-side all -you-can-eat Chinese Buffet. The stipulations of the bet were simple: Whoever lost owed the victor one column (in the case of Jones) and a bottle of Jack Daniels. If I had lost the bet, then Jones would have won the \trophy dog"" as well as a bottle of Jack. After a weak attempt at eating prowess, consisting of two plates of sweet and sour chicken, Jones threw in the towel and his pride to me, the Eating King.
OK, Evan, let me ask you a question now. How much do you weigh and could you take me in an eating contest?
We'll put it this way: I look like a prepubescent boy and I weigh accordingly. Ironically enough, however, I probably could take you in an eating contest.
Those are pretty big words coming from a small man. Do you realize how badly I beat Jones?
How did you beat him anyway? Did you practice?
There really isn't a token sports metaphor I could draw up for something like this. Jones basically spent the week before saying some dirty stuff about my mama and I just don't let that stand. Not in my house and definitely not in my Chinese restaurant. A message to Jones and any would-be challengers: ""You step to Big D and you stepping to Death Row.""
Big D?
Yeah, Big D is my mom's nickname. I've been calling her that since probably '93. At first it was a reference to her giant portions. (6'2'... not sure how much she weighs) and she still gets upset about it. In fact if she read this she'd beat me up and eat you, Evan.
OK, my fault for asking. I can't believe Jones is letting you waste his column like this. He must have really thought he could win, or wanted that ""trophy dog"" and bottle of Jack. What's a ""trophy dog"" anyway?
The ""trophy dog"" stems back from a carnival I was at on the east side of Madison. The carnival itself was really great, what with elephant ears and grifters trying to grift my cell phone off of me. Luckily, I had the foresight to know if I had tried my hand at grifting, I'd have been out a cell phone; instead, I stuck to my guns and won the ""trophy dog"" at the dart throwing game.
Those carnivals kind of scare me. When I first moved to Madison from the city I went to one of them. I started thinking to myself, ""Hey, maybe these small towns aren't so bad after all. I should stop being such a large city elitist."" And then I saw all of these vendors selling assorted confederate flag merchandise, and little local kids buying them. It was terrible; I spent the rest of the day in the fetal position thinking about how much I missed Milwaukee.
Yeah, I can respect that. I think it's sort of terrifying that people picture small towns as idyllic places away from the dangers of the ""big city,"" instead of seeing the small towns for what they really are: terrifying cultural backwashes where cousins kiss and salute the Stars and Bars. Let's get away from the hate and back to the love.
Speaking of eating contests, who would win, you or that red-headed dodger you hang out with in the graphics room?
Me.
Yeah, I think so too. It was sort of a throw out question. Speaking of which how do we end this beast of an interview/conversation?
With sincere apologies to Mike Jones, who probably should have known better than challenging you to an eating contest in the first place.
Say good night, Evan.
Good night Evan.
