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As I mentioned on Saturday, I did an incredibly dumb thing, where I embarked out to eat as many Doritos Locos tacos as I could in a one-hour time limit. You can check the last post here if you want a further explanation of the rules… In short, I lived to tell the tale, but my body has undoubtedly seen better days. Here’s a recap of my weekend. Let this serve as both entertainment and a warning to you all to not make the same mistakes that I did.
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 7TH
9:00 AM: Saturday morning. It’s pouring rain outside – some dramatic pathos, perhaps? I can sleep in a little bit. This is a nice start to the day. Can’t fill up before embarking on this idiotic journey, so gotta keep breakfast small.
9:10 AM: Get a text from a friend, offering me a free ticket to the Senators game that night. Hell yeah, man! Sounds great. A totally unexpected bonus. Maybe this is a good sign for my day ahead.
9:47 AM: Consume breakfast – a single cup of coffee and a glass of water. Maybe should have had a communion wafer as well, but I doubt any priest out there would bless me if I explained to them the nature of this unholy task.
12:26 PM: The tacomobile pulls out of the driveway. I have specifically picked a location far away from my home in order to ensure I won’t run into anyone I know while attempting this ludicrous idea.
12:47 PM: Arrive at Taco Bell. Observe the entrance. Is it the Pearly Gates, or is it the opening of a hellmouth? You be the judge.
12:49 PM: The order has been placed. I am competing in the Heavyweight Division, so I’ve selected one dozen Nacho Cheese DLTs – my goal for the day is to eat ten. A small Mountain Dew to wash everything down, because I don’t value my health at all, whatsoever. The cashier gives me a bit of a cockeyed look when I ask for the dozen. I think he’s judging me. Whatever, bud. Fuck you. I see your little neckbeard – don’t tell me you and your buds in the back haven’t gotten stoned after your shifts and done the exact same goddamn thing. No PEDs for me, though – all-natural for this competition. Joey Chestnut ain’t smoke the kush, and neither will I.
12:58 PM: My order is ready. Time to take a deep breath, go pick up a few handfuls of napkins, and get down to business.
1:00 PM: The clock begins. Off I go. The first one goes down quick and easy. The nacho cheese shell actually has a pretty good balance with everything else going on in the taco. These are, of course, woefully inadequate compared to the proper thing, but nobody with an ounce of self-esteem will ever set foot in a Taco Bell in their lifetime. Like an idiot, I am also adding their hottest sauce to each one – it is, of course, not really that hot, particularly when compared to the evil that is Senor Weaselo’s collection, but it’s enough to at least break up the forthcoming monotony that I am certain is going to happen.
1:03 PM: Three tacos in three minutes. This is a good pace. Like a fool, I feel this is actually going to be easier than I thought. Maybe I can actually get through all twelve!
1:08 PM: Halfway through the dozen. Still feeling pretty good. I let loose a few sonorous burps; in my peripheral vision, I can feel a few patrons on the other side of the restaurant giving me the stinkeye. Whatever, man. Only God and Ric Flair can judge me.
1:16 PM: I’m slowing down. I’m feeling hot. Time to take off my jacket. I’ll be more aerodynamic this way – I’m sure of it. I have now finished eight tacos.
1:17 PM: Ah yes, there it is. Self-loathing. Hello, my old friend. I knew it would only be a matter of time before you showed up again. Still, too late to quit now.
1:22 PM: I have finished taco number nine. I notice outside that the rain has finally stopped. Is this a sign from God that He’s actually supporting me in this, a dark hour? Little does He realize that it’s already way, way too late for that, for I’m already in a Hell entirely of my own creation.
1:24 PM: This sauce isn’t even hot. Why is my nose running? This is shameful. Every inch of me is utterly shameful. I think I have Doritos dust everywhere. All other customers are giving me a very wide berth as I sit in the corner, chewing and groaning. I see a mother walk in her with her two young children, and promptly turn around immediately after looking at me. This is no place for young ones, lady. You’ve walked into a battlefield.
1:31 PM: I have finished taco number ten. I have hit my goal, but am ready to crawl into a hole. I’m waving the white flag. Time to pack it in. I don’t even care that I have almost a half hour left – if I eat another taco, I’m gonna ralph. I’m bringing the last two home. Why, you ask? Fuck if I have an answer for you.
1:38 PM: I emerge from the bathroom, hunched over; I have washed my hands for seven minutes, and still cannot get all of the Dorito dust off. My stomach is literally dragging my body forward, throwing my spine out of kilter. I want Chris Kyle to emerge from the bushes and just put me out of my fucking misery.
2:10 PM: I have returned home. It is time to lie down and focus on not dying. This seems like a tall order. I drift off into a dreamless sleep. I never want to see a fucking taco again in my whole goddamn life.
5:30 PM: Fuck, I gotta get moving. Gotta pick up my buddy downtown and head out to the rink. I’m not feeling hungry in the slightest, but at least I’ll be able to make it until the morning.
8:45 PM: How in the fucking fuck am I hungry? How is this possible?
8:52 PM: Order some egg rolls at the rink: they’re fucking delicious. They’re in fact so good that the restaurant ships them out to Toronto and Montreal to their arenas as well – no joke.
10:05 PM: The Sens lose in a shootout to the Red Wings, 2-1. Disappointing end to an otherwise entertaining (albeit low-scoring) game. Jimmy Howard and Craig Anderson both have excellent nights in goal for their respective teams.
10:15 PM: Get back in the car, drop my buddy at home, head back to my own house.
11:08 PM: I look in my fridge. Fuck my life, and fuck my inability to waste food, ever.
11:30 PM: I am headed to bed. I am never doing this shit again. I’ll survive until the morning, but I’m nervous about what’s to come, especially since Sunday has a giant Thanksgiving dinner for 25 on schedule.
SUNDAY, OCTOBER 8TH
7:05 AM: Pouring rain again. I’ve awoken in a cold sweat. Why? I check the bed. I didn’t shit myself from all the “food” product I’ve consumed. That’s a good sign.
8:15 AM: Bagel with some cream cheese and a cup of coffee. Gotta get prepped to help my folks with various Thanksgiving-related stuff. Feeling pretty normal. Got some marking to do as well. Busy morning ahead – better get cracking.
9:27 AM: Oh dear God. I hear gurgling. It’s happening.
9:29 AM: DEAR GOD NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
9:30 AM: I AM GOING TO COMMIT SUICIDE.
9:37 AM: I walk out of my bathroom. It’s finally over… but at what cost?
11:22 AM: Fucking Christ. Not again. Just bury me alive already. I don’t want my entire extended family to have to deal with me like this.
3:00 PM: Finally feeling back to normal… mostly. I mean, I’ll probably never be completely normal again after this ordeal. But at least now I’ve cleared space for the turkey, potatoes, stuffing and gravy that will be arriving in a few short hours. The battle between me and my colon will never, ever end.