I stand alone in my kitchen, staring at a hot dog and
bun. When I was 12, I was Brooks
Robinson when I threw a ball against the garage fielded it and fired it to
first base. I was Pistol Pete Marivitch
when I dribbled the basketball between my legs then launched a buzzer-beater. And I was the great receiver Homer Jones when
I tossed a football high in the air and caught it on our lawn for the game
winning touchdown. That was over a half
century ago. Today I am a sixty-eight-year-old
empty nester, but I am not without purpose. I intend to eat a hot dog every day for 365
days as I pursue the HOT DOG DIET and FITNESS REGIME. I stare at that hot dog and bun and channel
Joey Chestnut. I hit the timer on my phone and snatch the dog and chew it like
I am a human buzz saw. I swallow twice, grab
the bun, soak it in water, pop it in my mouth and swallow again. Boom! Punch the timer. 34 SECONDS! I dance with my arms high in the
air. HOT DOG MAN! HOT DOG MAN! Day 52 in
the Belly.
