This morning, Paul Constant cut me off from food. He is monitoring my fluid intake and pee breaks (128 ounces of water* and 16 ounces of coffee; three**). I feel like a tick. Or a race horse. A prized race horse.

My heads in the game.
  • Coma via Flickr
  • My head's in the game.
Sometime between 6:00 p.m. and 9:00 p.m. tonight at the Seattle Union Station, I will stuff my face full of fried spring rolls with a bunch of local celebrities—including a Sounder, an army major, and a Seahawk named Lawyer—to vie for the title of 2010 ID Spring Roll Champion (Paul dominated last year). This event, along with silent and live auctions and tasty samplings from local restaurants, will raise money for the International District.


What a fantastic cause.

But I'm not competing for purely philanthropic reasons. I entered this competition because of my desire to beat one man: local poet and Hugo House staffer Brian McGuigan. I know what you're thinking: professional athletes at the table and you're worried about a motherfucking poet? What you don't understand is that Brian is from New York, which basically means he lives to eat and talk shit, and then write poems about it.

More after the jump.

*I drank 60 more ounces of water while writing this post.
**I also peed twice.

For example:
I talk about eating cheese, he talks about buying his wife a cheese cave.
I talk about running, he brags he can beat me in a 40-meter sprint.
I talk about being a lady, he says he's twice the woman I am and he's got the tits to prove it.

While Brian's appetite could drop a mule. In a marathon eating contest, he would definitely kick my ass. In this shorter sprint, I'm hoping I can hold my own because if I beat him, he will cry a single, New York tear. Then he will demand a rematch and I will promptly retire. I'll take pictures of myself with my trophy, frame them, and then line his home and office. My trophy will be my date to his birthday and 4th of July party. I will show up at his readings, like Cheap Wine and Poetry, and stroke it in the front row.

Science has proven that trophies have 4 billion times the half-life of shit talk, which means I will remain a winner 4 billion times longer than anyone will ever remember Brian's latest bout of shit-talking bravado.

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But if I lose, I'm fucked. I might have to give up shit-talking back. I might be forced to concede that Brian is the bigger woman. I might do something stupid, like become a vegan, just to reclaim an ounce of misplaced superiority.

Charity is great. You should come to this fundraiser tonight to support the International District. But personally, I'm in this thing to eat out out eat Brian McGuigan.

Wish me luck.