Much to my undying shame, I recently discovered I was not doing my part in being an American. Oh, I vote. And when I do, whether it’s for dog catcher or governor, I just write in, “moron.” I don’t litter, snitch or park sideways in handicapped spaces. I’ve even been known to hum, “America, the Beautiful.” Alas, it turns out I’m not doing my fair share of eating hot dogs.
Came across an interesting statistic from The National Hot Dog and Sausage Council. They reported that between Memorial Day and Labor Day, Americans will eat 7 billion hot dogs. That’s roughly 23.3 hot dogs per person and that’s counting babies, who really shouldn’t be eating hot dogs, especially laced with chili and especially Chicago dogs, which have chili, onions, hot peppers and relish. Talk about blowing $350 on disposable diapers in one, ahem, sitting.
Years ago, when I was editing this august periodical weekly and national award-winning entertainment section, Escape, we had this kid who came to me with a great idea for a column. The topic? Fast food. The problem was that the rookie turned in his first essay and it made you look behind the computer to ask: “Where’s the beef?” I recall it consisted either of the one word of, “The” or, “Uh,” and obviously, with such minimalist prose, the intellectual experience is all downhill after that. With such minimalism, you’d think he was writing a vegan think piece. Don’t want to destroy the planet with an adverb.
We’d have heart-to-hearts about adding maybe a second sentence to stretch the thing out. But, the guy never could grasp the concept that people read Escape not just to look at the nice pictures, but, in the dwindling end of American civilization, there were still a few people who picked up newspapers to, “… what’s that word I’m looking for?” I addressed the columnist: “Oh, yes. I remember now. ‘Read.’”
I liked the kid, subverbal as he was, although I wished I were paying him by the word. Perhaps his writing strength should have been directed to create movie dialogue for Tonto or Tarzan. Now there’s a script — “Frankenstein vs. Tonto!”
“Fire, bad …!” says the bolt-headed monster in the size 42 Doc Martins.
“Mmmm,” answers Tonto.
They fight.
My apologies. They would have had to rush my columnist to Henry Mayo Newhall Hospital after such an epic creative endeavor. One day, our paragraphist boasted that he could eat 25 hot dogs. Not between Labor and Memorial days. In one sitting. Under one hour. We were owned by this Georgia guy who was the spitting image of the craven Mr. Smithers on “The Simpsons.” Needless to say, try sneaking, “Two dozen hot dogs, two dozen hot dog buns, a gallon of Nehi grape soda, ketchup, mustard and some salt” on your expense account without getting threatened by some pencil-pushing bean-counter with a Confederate accent and, yes, our fearless fast food correspondent would put salt on a hot dog.
The buildup to the in-house event put the Super Bowl to shame. No one in the office felt the writer of 10 words per month could eat 25 hot dogs. Eventually, the world record for hot dog eating would be set in 2021 by Joey Chestnut, who ate 76 wieners in 10 minutes. He set the record at the 92nd annual Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest at Coney Island. Well. That year, because of COVID, the competition was moved to a nearby Little League field. Chestnut holds the record for competitive eating in 55 different food categories. You’d think the guy must weigh several tons and have a mouth the size of a Megamouth shark. Waffles. Cheeseburgers. Deep-fried asparagus (6.3 pounds in under 11 minutes). Grilled cheese sandwiches. Hot wings. Gyoza (the Japanese version of Chinese pot stickers). The guy weighs about 220 and approaches his “sport” like it’s pro football. At home, Mr. Chestnut’ll regularly cook up and pert near swallow 40 hot dogs just to train.
I don’t know where journalists got the money, but there was a lot of cash riding on just how many hot dogs our Signal boy could consume. Normally reserved for tales of woe, boredom, shaming and low expectations, the event was held in the spacious Signal conference room. Somehow, we even arranged for the frankfurters to be steamed, on premises. Condiments were strategically placed within reach of our chowhound. Staff massaged his shoulders. The clock struck 12 and everyone yelled, “GO!!”
Besides a blind date in the 1980s, it was one of the most disappointing moments of my life. Deep down, I knew, like his writing, this guy couldn’t deliver. I figured he’d max out after six dogs. Seeing I had paid for the tube steaks out of my own pocket, I didn’t put any money on the guy, one way or the other.
He ate — two.
Two. Damn. Hot dogs.
I haven’t been let down this much since “The Blair Witch Project” or eight years of Obama.
I recall he apologized for his performance, shrugging, “Guess I wasn’t hungry …”
In hot dog eating, like marriage, you gotta want it. On the bright side, there were 23 hot dogs left over. I tied the new Signal record by eating two and I think our features editor, a bowling ball of a farm girl, ate six.
I think here, in Santa Clarita, probably by the railroad tracks on Newhall Avenue, we need a big, neon sign, a doomsday clock, if you will, counting down how many hot dogs America has consumed between Memorial and Labor days. In red, that figure of “7 BILLION HOT DOGS” will keep blinking. Underneath, we’ll have a clock showing not only how many hot dogs America has consumed, but also, how many wieners our patriotic SClaritonians have swallowed.
This Labor Day weekend, let us do our part …
With more than 100 writing awards, Santa Clarita’s John Boston is Earth’s most prolific humorist and satirist. Look for “Naked Came the Novelist” Boston’s long-awaited sequel to “Naked Came the Sasquatch, coming this fall on
johnboston-books.com.
