From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag
Dear Adam Richman,
I have been astounded that a show about excess and waste has done so well in the time of this recession. While the general public is trying to stretch a dollar as far as possible they are doing so while tuning in to watch you try to eat a giant pizza or a butt-load of oysters, and for that, I congratulate you. A show about eating contests of massive proportions like Man vs. Food is one of the most American shows on TV. Giant portions of food being conquered by a big white guy traveling across the country, trading stories with the “real” Americans, what is more red, white, and blue than that? I should warn you though, Adam, if Kevin Spacey’s character from Se7en is ever reincarnated, you need to start looking over your shoulder, for you, my corpulent friend, are a fucking glutton.
As you can probably tell though, I’m a fan. My devotion runs deep for Man vs. Food and I want to know all about what happens off camera and how the show works. First question: when you participate in the eating challenges where a t-shirt is won upon completion of eating all that fodder, do the restaurants carry those shirts in any size smaller than a 2XL? I mean has anyone ever completed any of these eating challenges that could actually run a mile, or do twenty sit-ups, or actually buy pants in a normal store? I suppose there is the Kobayashi-defense where the 130-pound guy eats the most, but honestly, aren’t the majority of the people competing in these contests are farmers and truckers, trying to do something for once in their lives that their in-bred children will be proud of?
I’m guess you must be at least a little drunk when you’re doing the show. Either that or you just slur your words like than when you’re sober. Tell me if you’re not, but I think I would want to be drunk during the contests, as I have an insatiable appetite when I’m hammered and that could give me an edge with eating crazy amount of whatever. Regardless of improving eating ability, being drunk has a notion to get me excited about even the most mundane things, which would actually make it look I give a fuck about being in Boise, Kalamazoo, or Little Rock, instead of just getting in and collecting my paycheck.
One quick suggestion for the show is that you put most of your emphasis on cramming sustenance in, but you rarely address said sustenance coming out. You get me? I think for the credits instead of doing that Q&A bullshit where the answer to every question seems to be answered with, “I just powered through all of it and you fans were the inspiration I needed”, you should shoot these clips from right outside the stall in the restaurant of the competition as you violently crap out the five-pounds of nachos you just ate. It would be a vivid look at the consequences of over-eating as well as a way for the audience to judge the cleanliness of that particular restaurant’s bathroom.
Last question and probably the one that I am most interested in would be: would you be willing to paint me a picture of the types of groupies you attract? The image I’ve conjured in my head would be that of some overweight divorcées who have a proclivity for cheese fondue during sex. I’m sure there are the celebrity chubby chasers that get lost into the thick batter that is Adam Richman’s sex life. Would food fetishes be involved? I’m guessing so, but not in the traditional sense, oh-no, there will be no whipped cream and strawberries in that bed, I’m picturing a woman eating barbecue ribs off of your stomach as you eat a Snickers bar out of one of her remaining orifices*. In my mind this scene is either your foreplay or post-play with this woman, but it would be impossible to tell, since I envision both events would involve a considerable amount of eating.
Anyways, I’m a fan, and my penchant for your show and inquisitively restless mind tend to keep me up at night. Please, be my angel and set my weary mind to rest so that I can finally rest.
However, you should be wary, man (you) may win a battle from time to time, but I assure you that food will eventually win the war when you die of a heart attack.
Cordially,
Justin Gawel
P.S. How are your ratings in third world countries? I’m just wondering
*I took a brief barf break here before finishing the letter.
In one of my fantasies, I am a middle school gym teacher. Glamour, fame, respect, I get none of it in this fantasy. In fact, I don’t think I’m describing a fantasy at all; it seems more like a backup plan, just in case literally everything else in my life does not work out (unintentional gym pun). Nevertheless, in my gym life lessons would be worked into the curriculum. This isn’t just physical education; it’s an education about living. The first day I would state this fact loud and clear and make it known, “That if you fail this class, more than likely you will fail in life.” A smartass kid pointed out that I must have failed this class thirty years ago. He didn’t say too much after that because I popped him in his mouth and then it needed to be packed with gauze.
Second day of class: obstacle course. No doubt in my mind. It will not be confined to the gym, no, no. I’ll give the students a map and let them loose in the community, turn it into a pseudo-scavenger hunt. Give some of the students who show a little more effort a chance for some extra credit. Have one of them pick up my dry cleaning as they’re running back. Make another one pick up some stamps that I tell them I’ll reimburse them for (but then always “forget”). Hopefully there is a twenty-one year old who has been held back for several years that could save me a trip to the liquor store. Finally, at the end of the scavenger hunt, when the adolescents come up to me to ask for their time, I push them on the ground and yell at them to get up. As soon as they stand up, I stop the clock. They have learned the message that when life knocks you down (even if it takes the form of a forty-two-year-old gym instructor going through a mid-life crisis), you need to get right back up.
Leading up to Dodge Ball Day I would hype up the game to the teachers, maybe even start some faculty betting on it (for networking and profit of course). Having pre-picked the teams personally, I would put the more athletic and fit kids on one team, with the scrawny, fat, and that foreign exchange student that knows no English on the opposite team. A mismatch on paper? Of course, but this mismatch will likely lead to the highest level of physical carnage, which will lead to the highest enjoyment of the blood sport by yours truly; thus, teaching the kids the invaluable point that violence is amusing to watch.
From time to time, or when I’m having a day that I’m feeling down or out of shape, I would play in the games with the kids. I wouldn’t hold anything back in these sports; I’d block shots, boot soccer balls, and even tackle a kid if the game needed it. It would be a good life lesson for them to learn: no matter how good you think you are at anything, someone somewhere is always better than you at it. Also, on these days, if class was nearly over and my team was losing, I’d just change the rules so my team would win. It’s times these that children learn that life isn’t fair. Plus, I’m sure that a full day of beating children in sports will be great for my self-esteem.
Of course the real life lesson here is that the strong will survive. It’s a survival of the fittest, with the bigger, faster, and sporty kids not getting hurt as easily as the weak, little, out-of-shape kids. However, in actuality, the ones who decided to fake menstrual cramps or depression to get out of class would be deemed the most fit by Darwin’s theory.
Looking back on this, I must say that I’m certain this is by far the least sexual essay that can be found using a Google search of “Gym, Teacher, Fantasy”.
Yes, I’m planning on dying someday. And since I plan on sitting in my shitty apartment watching reruns of Maury for the rest of my life, I do not plan on being remembered for greatness. However, I have decided that without being remembered for being lazy, my life would be a total loss. I don’t plan on having enough money to die in some national disaster or doomsday scenario; I need to plan on leaving a legacy with how I am remembered once I’m dead. I have run through all of these with my lawyer and he assures me that no matter how ridiculous stipulations in a will are that the parties involved will be required to do it. It also should be noted that by “lawyer” I actually mean “Yahoo Answers.”
Taxidermist Route
I have never been to a taxidermist or killed anything that I would like to have stuffed, but when I die I would ask that my remaining money would be used to find a black market taxidermist who would be willing to stuff my now lifeless body (not stuff in a necrophilia sort of way though). As a stipulation I would ask that he make all of my joints in my body moveable, so that I am more of a giant action figure and not a statue. This way I’ll be able to be positioned in lots of hilarious poses in the afterlife, as I loved to do so much in my waking life.
Think of all the great practical jokes one would be able to pull with a stuffed person. Pose me like a grizzly bear over my relatives’ bed while they’re sleeping and send them into a scare/potential heart attack in the middle of the night. Or lay me into a bed with that promiscuous niece of yours to show her the terror that accompanies waking up to an unfamiliar stiff. No more being a little slut for her!
Tired of not being able to use the car pool lane? Just plop me into your passenger seat and you’re off to making record time on your daily commute.
Picture this: it’s the night of a big family dinner party and the coat closet is way behind schedule on its renovations. Easy, just set up my dead body with my fingers outstretched and then just hang their coats on those fingers. Be sure to set me up in a wacky pose with a hilarious facial expression and maybe a silly hat on so your guests can have a good chuckle as I “greet” them. For extra credit, open my mouth and fill it with after-dinner mints for the guests to take as they’re leaving.
This taxidermist route is also perfect for avoiding how to explain death to young children. “Grandpa isn’t dead, he’s just sleeping and not responding to anything”. I’m sure Terry Schivo’s children were issued a similar statement at some point and they turned out alright.
Frozen
I really don’t know the logistics of cryogenics, but the idea of being thawed out with a vaccine to my once-incurable illness is tempting. Who knows, perhaps the will have discovered the spring from Tuck Everlasting by that point in time. Think about how easy it would be to tell the grandchildren that grandpa has decided to become a gigantic Popsicle. I bet they would be fucking excited about that shit. Even if I were never thawed out in their lifetime, they would still think of their granddad as pretty cool (feel free to murder me later for making that horrible pun).
Epic Funeral Route
My body would be saved until the last day of summer (even if I died on the first day of fall, you would have to wait until the next year) and a gigantic pyre would be constructed. It would be sundown and everyone would gather at the beach to see me off. Yes, yes, sundown on the last day of summer, as everyone’s life will undoubtedly be colder without me in it and I want to embrace the symbolism.
The funeral would begin with the guests chopping down the largest available tree, because like that tree, I have been cut down in the prime of my life. This will be required even if I have been senile for several years or have been living in an iron lung. This master log will be sliced up into three sections. One of the sections will become part of my pyre, one will be donated to a charity that needs logs, and the final one will be ground up into little action figures of me that my funeral guests will take home as party favors.
Hymns will be sung at the beginning, but they will not be the traditional funeral music. “When Doves Cry” by Prince will be followed by Elton John’s “Candle In the Wind” and then the theme to Dawson’s Creek. By the end of these I assure there will not be a dry eye in the whole crowd, so we may need to add a party song at the end*, you know, to raise morale, because I don’t want to be downer.
The eulogy will be conducted by passing a microphone throughout the entire audience. This will be a good chance for anyone to not leave anything unsaid. Also it will give my haters a chance to make jokes at my expense and provide some of the younger children in the crowd with an opportunity to say “butt”, “penis”, or “dooty” into a microphone.
The pyre will then be lit, and cast off into the sea. The part of the ceremony where this happens should be similar to lighting of the Olympic Torch during the opening ceremonies. I’m not saying to make it EXACTLY like that, but they do a good job with it, so maybe use it as a jumping off point, you know? I mean, I’m dead you’ll have to organize this.
At this point the crowd will disperse and head for the wake, which will be held at a Denny’s of course.
*Naturally, my choice for the party song will be “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun”.
