Chicken Nuggets and Peyton Manning
I woke up Friday morning feeling unusually refreshed. I can’t explain it, but sometimes I manage the perfect mixture of booze and late night Jimmy Johns to actually cancel out the negative effects of both. Bewildered as to how to spend this clear-headed Friday morning, I decide to accompany my roommate Miles to the gym before venturing to Hollywood. Upon hitting the free weight rack to curl some 25’s (Don’t be jealous, I know I’m huge), I flipped on today’s Tony Kornheiser’s podcast. From the get-go Tony becomes obsessed with the snow storm about to hit the east coast, warning those who plan on bringing home hook ups on Friday night “to be picky, because they might be snowed in at your place ‘til Tuesday.”
**** I hope it misses us, I need to get my gambol on, I think as I look out the window to see the flakes beginning their descent onto Oxford.
By the time we’re done lifting the snow has staged a full on attack. I can barely see enough of the road to make it back to my apartment, yet alone the boat. So Instead of playing live PLO against guys who think they can use all 4 hole cards, I’m stuck trying to turn my 200k FTP points into some sort of real money bankroll.
Anyways, in between folding my way into the money of an 1800 ftp (that’s full tilt points) sit-n-go, I began chatting online with my fat friend from high school. We’ll call him Fat Fred to protect the obese. Anyways Fat Fred tells me how he recently finished a chicken nugget power hour. I’m in awe. My very own Kobyashi. Anyone who’s been to college (or visited for that matter) knows that a power hour is an hour of drinking beer, one shot at a time, usually accompanied by a music playlist that changes every minute. After the hour it adds up to about 7 ½ beers. Fred simply replaced the shots of beer with chicken nuggets.
My roommate Phil, however, is not impressed. In fact he says he could do both power hours simultaneously. One chicken nugget and one shot of beer a minute.
Care to make a bet? By the end of our negotiations we settle on a $100 bet, 2 to 1 odds, and he must hold it all in for an hour after the competition. By 9 o’clock our apartment is filled with our friends, 200 McNuggets, and a keg of Keystone light (Phil’s choice). We even garnered enough interest in the bet to start a pool, 5 dollars a number, wagering on which minute Phil would bow out (minutes 30-60). I draw minute 38.
It’s clearly a pro-Phil crowd, everybody loves the underdog. I’m the villain; the guy betting the “don’ts” at a friendly dice table. He’s cruising early too, feeding off the crowd energy (no pun intended). By minute 20, he looks as if he’s only getting started. That confidence quickly turns to cockiness, as Phil makes a crucial mistake. He starts dipping the nuggets in bar-b-que. Now I’m no eating expert, but I do know there’s a reason that the likes of Kobyashi and Joey Chesnut don’t put ketchup and mustard on their dogs. By minute 35 Phil is visibly struggling. The beer is going down smoothly, but it’s leaving little space in the stomach for nuggets. The crowd can tell too. With every head shake and swallow, the end is becoming more inevitable.
Finally on his 38th minute, my number, Phil heads to the trash can, mouth open, hands on the sides.
No way! Not only am I going to win, but I’m gonna hit the number too. Let it all out Phily! Release the demons! As Phil bends over, out comes the longest, most disgusting burp I’ve heard to date. “Game on bitches.” Friends, girlfriends, random drunks, everyone erupts. I’ve been slowrolled, and Phil’s caught his 2nd wind. For the first time in the match, I can envision defeat.
As the nugget box approaches vacancy, and the music becomes more recent (our power hour mix was made in chronological order starting in the 60s), I become more worried. But as is the case with most Cinderella stories, the clock strikes midnight, or in this case 9:51. Phil can’t get the 51st nugget down his throat. The struggle is over. The patrons “golf clap” the effort from a Man who almost accomplished the incredible. But like Tom Watson at last year’s British Open, This underdog story ends in defeat. Phil pays up, makes a not-so-quick trip to the bathroom and we all head to the bar where I gladly buy drinks in celebration.
Come Sunday and it’s time to pick a team to bet my new found fortune on. The choice is easy, the Saints. Yeah it has a lot to do with the feel good story of the “resurrection of New Orleans”, but mostly it has to do with my animosity towards Peyton Manning. In a day and age where Tiger Woods has a different mistress for every day of the week, infidelity obviously isn’t the most unusual vice amongst pro athletes. Still something inside me feels immoral rooting for these cheaters. Peyton Manning is no exception.
Four years ago I was a senior in high school, grinding through the final days of the Party Poker era, when I came across an Instant Message from my ex-girl friend, who I was still very friendly with. A college freshman at the time, she had just returned from a spring break trip to the Bahamas. As a girl who knew little about sports and even less about football, I was surprised to say the least when she asked me if I had heard of Peyton Manning. “Of course”, I responded, “Why?” She went on to tell the steamy details of an encounter she had with the Colts QB.
Apparently after seeing crowds of people surrounding two men at a Bahaman bar, she wondered out loud who it might me. The guys in her group confirmed that it was no other than Peyton Manning and his brother Eli. Not knowing or caring who that was, she proceeded with her night. Two hours later, after Eli had left, Peyton came up and started talking to her. After a little bit of dancing and drinking he asked her if she wanted to check out his golf cart, which apparently they travel by in the Bahamas. She innocently obliged and next thing she knew they were kissing in the woods by the bar. According to her, in the midst of the steamy make out he asked if she wanted to go back to her room. Not wanting to be a “groupie”, she declined and after a little while longer in the woods they headed their separate ways. Peyton married Ashley Manning in 2001. This was 2006.
So take what you want from that 2nd hand story. I personally believe it for a few reasons. The particular girl knows nothing about sports, so if she were to make up a crazy celebrity story, it would’ve involved like Dave Matthews or someone like that. Secondly, for a while I was the only person she told so it wasn’t like she did it for the publicity. Finally after reading this story…
http://www.usatoday.com/sports/colum...-brennan_x.htm
about some bizarre incident with a female trainer, I’ve got the idea Peyton isn’t exactly the golden child everyone makes him out to be. But again there’s no hard evidence, so I guess you can be the judge.
Anyways after watching the game it looks like karma prevailed in more ways than one. As 105 million Americans witnessed, Tracy Porter returned Manning’s 4th quarter interception for a 74 yard touchdown, sealing the Saints victory. Great to see a victory from a city that desperately needed it, not to mention a loss from a guy who in my mind deserved it.
Miami Matt
PS just found this
http://www.xyhd.tv/2009/11/random-ne...nning-divorce/...
certainly doesn't help his case
Last edited by MooreMoney19; 02-08-2010 at 08:14 PM.
Reason: Just found this article
