Heading into the Taco Challenge, I went in feeling like Goliath and the tacos were that of David. One glance at my robust belly and it was clear who the clear favorite was to win this match. 20 tacos in 40 minutes, f****ng child’s Play for Belly Boo. However, for those of you who attended Sunday school, David took that sling shot flung a pebble at the mighty Goliath’s head and was crowned victorious. Similar scenario here, except the sling was our waiter and the pebble was the competition “rules.” The rules were that of a carny basketball game with oval rims.
Let’s talk some saber metrics here. The so-called time started a whole 4 minutes before I even indulged into the plethora of tacos in front of me. After I crushed the 10 tacos like the raged induced hungry ogre I am, it took 5 more minutes to bring the second batch of hard shells. For those of you not sitting handy with a calculator in your cubicle, 9 precious minutes were taken from me. I can almost run half a mile in 9 minutes, crushing 10 tacos in that time is in evadible. If time discrepancy wasn’t enough, all but the two stoner host bros were rooting against me. The manager pierced into my soul glaring from a distance just praying I would fail or choke on a taco. Our waiter was so f****ng concerned I was going to complete this challenge and he wouldn’t receive a hearty tip, he was popping wise cracks every time he creeped by the table. It was a set up from the get go. A well orchestrated attack against Belly Boo and what stood in his way, 20 tacos. By the time the clock struck 40 minutes, the waiter sprinted to the table snatched the plate up and smugly “So close, sorry.” I was more stunned being the timer I had brought was a whole 3 minutes behind theirs with 3 bites of taco left. I don’t normally give into Uncle Ant and his governmental conspiracies, but holy shit, some sorcery was at play. After paying the whole $20 tab, the restaurant was so distraught over losing, I proceeded to hurl my guts out on their patio in spite. After collecting my wits, I felt more cheated than anything. What really fires me up was not the time but the entire staff rooting for failure. If you have the audacity to advertise a food challenge but display combativeness towards the competitor, then you ought to get rid of the challenge all together. That being said, a fire has been lit in my robust belly and you bet your ass Belly Boo is coming back.
Let’s dive into the aftermath. A taco full is a whole different level when speaking in terms of a stuffed tummy. For starters, my driver (DGD) kicked me out of his stupid hick jeep due to my smelly aroma. What people don’t tell you about eating a large mass of food is the smell afterwards. Your body is literally trying to flush the toxins from your pores. The smell was that of a cheap hooker’s perfume. Next came the stomach cramps. With 4 pounds of food pushing up against my organs, I couldn’t tell if I was having a stroke or the first male to give birth. At any given point, I felt the air bag would deploy due to the pressure my belly was forcing upon it. Next on the menu, the injuries. The roof of my mouth was scarred and battered from the razor-sharp taco shells that sliced into my gums like the gusts of a thousand winds.
Part 3 of the post food challenge symptoms is the exhaustion. You just gave it your f****ng all out there like it was game 7. With one quick nose dive onto the couch I transformed into my spirit animal, Snorlax. After a quick siesta of 14 hours, came the digestive part of excessive eating. I’ll leave that detail up to imagination. RIP toilet, your death will not be in vain as Belly Boo’s vengeance will be swift and victory shall be as sweet as the cream pie from which Boston was named after. Pablonos, you’ve officially been put on blast. I’m coming for you! Check out our Diet Starts Tomorrow tank top featured in the video. $22.99 with free and fast shipping!
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