The Fourth of July. Independence Day. A time when Americans celebrate the signing of the Declaration of Independence with parades and picnics, fireworks and franks. As a patriotic American, I practice what I preach. Accordingly, I didn’t just eat a hot dog on July 4th. I was a hot dog. Or more accurately, a Frankster.
That’s right, on our nation’s 231st birthday, I was Nathan’s Frankster at the 90th annual hot dog-eating contest at Coney Island. Why me? Well it turns out the long-serving Frankster — let’s call her Julie Rosenberg — got pregnant. Now, I know Rosenberg was up to the rigors of the job, but there’s no way contest sponsors were going to let a pregnant woman remind the public of the potential teratogenic effects of hot dog nitrates (never proven, by the way). But the fates of insemination decreed it: I would be the Frankster during Rosenberg’s sauerkraut sabbatical.
We all know what happened: Joey “Jaws” Chestnut ingested 66 of my beefy fellow franks and made history. I’ll leave the description of the actual competition to the sportswriters, cultural pundits and cardiologists. Instead, I will focus on the perspective from inside the bun.
To begin with, I had some concerns. Knowing that I would need to stay hydrated with gallons of Diet Coke (available in various sizes at Nathan’s), I considered wearing an adult diaper. But then I remembered that story about the NASA astronaut who apparently drove hundreds of miles to kidnap/kill a rival girlfriend. The next day, the only thing anyone was talking about was the fact she apparently wore an adult diaper to avoid having to make a pit stop. So I decided that this hot dog would hold it in, thus serving as a role model to my 3-year-old niece and all the other cocktail wieners out there.
It turns out urination was not a burning issue. It can get stifling hot inside what prior Franksters call “the bun in the sun.” And even though July 4 was relatively cool, I still perspired so much that my bun was soggier than Takeru Kobayashi’s barf-covered T-shirt after the contest. Urination was the last thing I was thinking about.
Of course, the most important thing a Frankster does is come up with his own moves. Prior Franksters have been good, but I felt that I had my own interpretation of what a hot dog should be, honed through years of eating at Nathan’s (many convenient locations). Now I know it all looks freewheeling up there, but there are rules governing what a Frankster can and cannot do: the Frankster does not talk, and cannot make gang signals or obscene gestures. So I focused on a lot of dancing, classic mime theater (the Frankster stuck in a box), air guitar and shadow-boxing. I was a physical Frankster; at the weigh-in at City Hall on July 3, I even hugged the mayor (now that photo could hurt a presidential candidate, but I swear, it was strictly platonic).
Most important: never interfere with the competitors during the contest. I may be a patriotic American hot dog, but I had too much respect for six-time winner Kobayashi to give Chestnut an advantage (besides, anyone who can eat 17-1/2 pounds of pan-seared cow-brains in 15 minutes is a gentleman, a scholar and an athlete). In addition, I was a little concerned to be dressed as a hot dog and get too close to men and women who are furiously eating — anyone who can eat 5-1/2 pounds of buffet food in 15 minutes (Crazy Legs Conti) can’t be that discerning (and I’m not even going to get into the dangers of standing too close to someone who is the baked-bean eating champion of the world (9.4 pounds in 2 minutes 47 seconds, Sonya Thomas).
Much of my job involved interacting with the public. I now know that young children, and some of the elderly, are frightened of the Frankster. Despite rumors that one Russian mobster had a contract out on the Frankster due to some unfortunate wagers on last year’s contest, I was unharmed. Most people love the Frankster, though there was a Boy Scout who asked, “Dude, have you lost all self-respect?” (Does he get a demerit for that?)
But my only moment of true self-doubt was July 5, when the Nathan’s team rang the opening bell at NASDAQ, and I was sent outside to pace the sidewalks of Times Square. The Frankster was out of context. It is amazing how many new Yorkers will refuse to make eye contact with a six-foot-tall hot-dog.
I was also a little concerned with the man who came up to shake my hand, the spent the next 25 minutes five feet away looking at me and talking to himself. And I’m not even going to repeat some of the things the construction workers across the street were yelling at me.
I may be all beef, but those guys are pigs.
