(UPDATE: Here is the much-better tale from Passan, complete with video, pictures, and the best sore loser campaign seen in these parts since Mark Mangino went dollar signs after the Texas game a few years ago.)
Honestly, I can't think of a more exhausting way to make a fool of myself.
Take two friends, in my case David Boyce and Jeff Passan, dress up like stinky giant hot dogs (seriously, the insides of those thing reek) and run 100 yards or so while most of the crowd couldn't care less who is running, why they're running, or who wins. Just let them know if you fall, because that would be funny.
When it's all over, and you're getting heckled by the folks in the expensive seats -- YOU SUCK MUSTARD!! -- you start to realize that you're sweating like John Edwards on the cover of the Enquirer and it'll be a few minutes before you get your breath back.
And honestly, I can't think of a more fun way to make a fool of myself.
Three days later, and the bottom of my nose is still raw, a scar from rubbing against the opening in the relish bun. I stunk like funky gym clothes the rest of the night. Dayton Moore jokes that he can't stand the hot dog race, but I wonder if he knows that a member of his front office came down after the race to find out who won.
Now, inside that stinky bun, I did learn a cold lesson about jealousy in this world. It seems that ketchup and mustard are sore losers, and want to diminish my victory because my giant green shoes slipped off midway through the race.
You'd think Passan and Boyce would be better losers than that -- they've had enough practice.
Ryan Lefebvre was the first to point out the potential controversy during the post-race interview I did with the FSN guys. Later, Sluggerrr himself gave me a hard time about it.
All I'm saying is that I was the one talking to Joel Goldberg after the race, so that makes me the winner to menopausal women all over the Midwest, and that's good enough for me.
The shoes were slipping off shortly after the turn around the right field corner. Once I saw those other guys in front of me, my shoes, apparently with a life of their own, jumped off my feet.
Maybe it was a preview to the theme of our football section: Just win, baby.
That's when I made my move, beating mustard and ketchup to the tape and striking a blow for not only relish, but overlooked condiments everywhere -- this one's for you, sauerkraut.
Someone asked after the race if I'd challenge Usain Bolt next, and I don't want to get anything started, but I'm game as long as he puts on a hot dog suit. He's gotta race in my world.
Passan is revolutionizing the hot dog game by video taping the whole bit. He ran with a small video camera, which may or may not be his excuse, and I think his wife taped from the stands.
If you're bored at work, check out Kevin Kaduk's blog, I think he'll have a multi-media post about it up sometime today that will surely confirm we all made fools of ourselves.
Three canicule later, and the basal of my adenoids is still raw, a blister from abrading adjoin the aperture in the appetite bun. I stunk like blue gym clothes the blow of the night. Dayton Moore jokes that he can't angle the hot dog race, but I admiration if he knows that a affiliate of his foreground appointment came down afterwards the chase to acquisition out who won.treatments for depression