GUEST LOGGER - "The Tapeworm"

Here's The Tapeworm's account of his piss-poor (ahem, I mean't "poo-poor") performance in the Hot Dog eating contest...

************************
After sulking away from a disappointing 7-hot-dog run in the Nathan's Famous Hot Dog Eating Contest in Philadelphia, PA, I had little to hang my hat on. I had failed to live up to my self-appointed moniker of Scott "The Tapeworm" Pollack, let alone the expectations of my devoted fan base. With a somber tone I made my way back up to my native New York, putting out of mind the forgettable events of recent past to look
forward to the inevitable release to come.

I learned the art of the Pollack poo from my father, Gilbert "The Incinerator" Pollack, so named for his ability to consume everyday foods and some objects and produce smoldering masses of human waste. Between me and my only other sibling, Justin "The Music Man" Pollack, I was a favored, star pupil of the poo-pil.. Over the years I'd honed my excretion skills, to the point where no bathroom is safe from the wrath of my expunging anus. Today, however, I was to make my father proud.

From the moment the clock struck down the last second of the twelve minute contest, as the beefy juices of seven meat by-product sausages and corresponding spongy potato buns stewed in my distended belly, I knew I had a a few good logs in the chute. I crashed for a couple hours, allowing an appropriate curing time for the masterful shit I had been awaiting. Seven hours for seven hot dogs, an hour of colonic brewing for each meatstick. With moments to spare, I began the Pre-Poo
Launch Procedures. Primary TP: check. Secondary backup roll: check. Long-use reading material (book, not magazine): check. T-minus 1 minute. I made my way to the toilet like a member of the Apollo missions. My warm flesh created a tight seal around the hole of the bowl, and I buckled down for takeoff. I hit the ignition. The engine flared, the starter turned over with a few chugs of pre-log flatulence.
Like a virginal deflowering I bit my lip and tightened my grip, as I pushed that baby out.

I wish I could report that the resulting feces was a sight for sore eyes, but alas, the shit-baby I had so built up in my mind and large intestine was stillborn. A few tadpoles, a couple of gaseuous releases, but hardly anything to warrant the excitement. Like my run for the coveted championship Nathan's Mustard Yellow Belt, a spectacular leadup led to another stunning round of soul-tearing disappointment, rather than ass-tearing pooping. I am sorry, Father, I have failed you.

Regrettably yours,
Scott "The Tapeworm" Pollack