Celebrity Pie
I was recently asked to participate in a celebrity pie eating contest. When I inquired as to which celebrity’s pie I was going to be eating, I was informed that it was ME, in fact, that was the celebrity, and I would be eating pie with other local celebrities. It is important to note just what makes one a celebrity in a town of roughly 1,500 full time residents, since I am somehow a member of this demographic. The mayor was to be there eating pie, so I guess that holding political office in a ski town qualifies one as a celebrity. There were a few town council members, as well. The winner of the “Favorite Bus Driver” award every year, a tall and muscular black man with a Gene Simmons-esque tongue and a flair for the lewd, drunken, and lascivious, was there, and was undoubtedly the crowd favorite. The marketing director of the ski area, the editor of the local paper, and a local restaurateur friend were all seated at the pie table. There were some other celebrities there, as well, but I don’t know who they were or what they did to attain their celebrity status. And there was me. How did I come to be included in the ranks of the other local “celebrities”? Good question. I write for the paper. I write opinion pieces that drip with sarcasm, cynicism, and attitude. I’m somewhat infamous for speaking my mind, and my mind is often at odds with the general consensus of the peace and love hippie mindset that is so prevalent here. The funny thing is, as much as I expect negative feedback from my columns, all I ever get is praise. Maybe the hippies are scared. Or maybe I’m really just saying what everyone else is thinking, but that everyone else is too afraid to verbalize. In any event, I write for the paper, and I wear my heart on my sleeve, so I guess that makes me a celebrity, although I was under the impression that celebrities make way better money than what I’m making, which is approximately zero.
The pie eating contest was put on by the local youth council. The celebrities didn’t have to pay to be involved, and the spectators didn’t have to pay to watch, so I’m not quite sure how any money was raised. Maybe there was illegal gambling going on, from which the youths were taking a cut. As far as I’m concerned, though, if the youths are going to try to raise money through illegal activities, they would be well advised to say “Fuck the pie eating”, and instead sell drugs and pimp some hookers out. I feel like I have a finger on the pulse of what this community needs, and sex and drugs trump pie any day of the week. Who wouldn’t want to watch our lily white mayor bang some fat, slutty, black hooker? I’d gladly throw a few bucks to the youths for that retina burner.
On the day of the eating, I donned my Miami Hurricanes jersey and a silly foam and mesh trucker hat and drove downtown. There was already quite a crowd gathered at the celebrity pie booth. I had previously spoken to one of the youths on the council, and he had assured me that we would be eating some sort of fruit pie. I was vociferously in favor of this, as I was counting on this pie being my meal for the day, fruit and sugar and starchy crust serving to fill my belly until the next free meal came along. I had heard that chocolate cream was an option, something to which I was opposed. Most people seemed to believe that cherry was the decided upon flavor, and I had already begun strategizing my technique, which included swallowing the cherries whole and not taking the extra time to chew anything. This was a timed eating contest, not a volume eating contest. Speed was of the essence. In any event, I was getting a free lunch of pie out of the deal, so win or lose, I’d be full. Imagine my dismay, then, when I arrived at the prep table to see aluminum pie plates filled with nothing more than store bought, high fructose corn syrup enriched, cherry pie filling and whipped cream. No crust. No golden baked brown sugar goodness. Just nasty, gooey, disgustingly sweet, bright red syrup with what was most likely synthetic cherries designed to be so soft that no infant could ever choke on them. Oh, and cans and cans of fake, nitrous oxide propelled whipped cream. I had arrived in a foul mood already, due to miscellaneous circumstances beyond my control, and now I was confronted by this barely edible atrocity. I grabbed an empty can of whipped cream and promptly sucked back a huge nitrous hit in full view of the women and children gathered to watch this spectacle.
There were three divisions of pie eaters – children, adults, and celebrities. The rules were simple – no hands allowed, and the first one to finish his or her “pie” stands up and is declared the winner. The kids went first, and I must say, I’ve never seen such a sorry collective effort. One kid started crying. The pace was painfully slow. These kids were apparently well fed and had obviously never engaged in competitive eating or cunnilingus. Disgusted, I grabbed a fresh empty can and huffed another hit of hippie crack.
The adults were next, adults who may have paid to be included, but I wasn’t sure. Being overly competitive by nature, I was intent on watching the various techniques exhibited by this group. The children had shown me nothing of value, serving only to reinforce my already held notion that children are useless and good for nothing other than creating aggravation for their owners and anyone else within earshot. As the adults smashed their faces into their respective aluminum pie plates of bright red high fructose corn syrup, I saw that chewing was not getting the job done. Having previously won a sweet PBR hoodie in a slider eating contest, I knew that the key to victory was swallowing those synthetic cherries whole. One particularly scraggly looking dude kicked everyone’s asses in the adult class, and I figured that he must have been employing my strategy. The eating table was wiped, and the celebrities were seated. I sat in the middle of the table, next to my friend the celebrity restauranteur. Cameras lined the table. The crowd buzzed with anticipation.
The spectators were asked to show, by applause, just whom they thought would win the contest. I figured myself to be a favorite, but I received relatively little support from the audience. “Fuck ‘em”, I thought, and increased my resolve to destroy everyone and take home whatever retarded trophy the youths had managed to throw together in art class. I focused on my pie, visualizing my Hoover vacuum sucking and swallowing system. I removed my ridiculous mesh trucker hat and my lost and found score Ralph Lauren shades and exhaled. You’re going down, pie, and so are the rest of you celebrity bitches.
One of the youths counted down to “GO!”, as apparently no one could find a cap gun or whistle laying around. Again, the products of poorly conceived fundraising. I started licking and sucking and swallowing, wondering why Jenna Jameson or some other world renowned slut was not involved in the promotion of this event. Those youths would do well to hire me as a consultant next year. I’d blow that shit up. Everything was going pretty well, and I could tell from the crowd response that I was in the lead. The synthetic cherries were going down smoothly until about three quarters of the way through the “pie”. Then it all backed up. There was suddenly a cherry jam about half way down my esophagus, and I could not get it to move either way. I tried to swallow, to no avail. I tried to belch it out, but nothing happened. I entertained a fabulous vision of projectile vomiting all over the crowd, mothers and their crying children coated with neon red stomach bile. It made me smile, but I could not dislodge the syrupy sweet blockage. “God damn it, I’m losing valuable time!”, I thought to myself, as I heard the husband of the celebrity restaurateur laugh at me from the crowd. Eventually, my esophageal peristalsis reactivated, and the jam was dislodged downstream. I returned to my pie, sucked down the last few cherries, and leapt to my feet, arms raised in triumph. The crowd screamed. I looked to my right, and the celebrities in this direction were still seated. Then, a glance to the left. Oh no. A lone stander. Some guy I did not know, apparently some vendor at the farmer’s market. I don’t know how the fuck selling organic zucchini renders one to be worthy of celebrity status, but there he was, standing in undeserved glory. The youths declared a photo finish, and went to the crowd for arbitration. Again, the applause meter was to be used to determine the winner. Again, those ungrateful fucktards showed me no love whatsoever, reserving their clapping and hollering for the organic zucchini farmer. I was stripped of my victory. I raised two middle fingers of disgust to the crowd, hoping that later in the day the children would imitate this gesture to their mothers at the dinner table.
Then it hit me. The pie, that is. My restaurateur friend grabbed what was left of her half eaten goo and slammed it squarely in my face. Insult to injury. I grabbed a pie and planted it on the side of her head. All hell broke loose. Glistening red slop, frothy whiteness, and aluminum flew every which way. My right eye become glued shut in the melee. Someone grabbed the restaurateur and threw her on the table. The table collapsed, WWF style. The crowd squealed with delight. We battled ferociously until our arsenals were fully depleted. I turned from the table, disgusted with second place and the processed shit that covered my face and my ‘Canes jersey. I grabbed a gallon of water and poured it over myself, spitting the sugary residue that ended up in my mouth at the crowd through my front teeth. Ungrateful bastards, the lot of them. Good luck getting any decent reading material out of the organic zucchini farmer, although I can think of something you can all do with his crop.
Come to think of it, if I’m in charge of next years Youth Council Celebrity Pie Eating Contest, which I should be, and I’m compensated appropriately, I will place a call to Jenna Jameson, as well as a host of other second-tier professional sluts, and we’ll invite the organic zucchini farmer back as returning champion, and I’ll be sure to have him bring some of his product along, and I’ll get the local ski movie film crew to bring their expensive, high end, HD cameras, and we’ll put on a show that will raise some SERIOUS money, and one that will not soon be forgotten by the youths, or the adults, or the farm animals, or anyone else, for that matter.
