just the lightest chew…. On second thought, if I didn’t chew enough during this speed session, those shards could shred my throat. Maybe I should steer clear of chunks altogether. After all, chewing would only slow me down, and I certainly didn’t want to choke. I’d stick with straight ice cream, then…. Something with a chocolate base was always good…. Heck, I’d just do straight chocolate. No mucking around.
My flavor choice made, I put my right hand on my waist and leaned to the right, stretching my left hand to the sky. I could feel the blood coursing faster through my brain. I repeated the stretch on my left side, then did five jumping jacks and two squats.
“For crying out loud, Shermie, you’re eating ice cream, not sprinting in the Olympics. Let’s do this already.”
“Stuff it, crank. If I’m going to be a pro, I need to train like a pro. Athletes always stretch. Lucy said so.” Maybe stopping wasn’t such a bad idea, though. I was getting short of breath.
“Athlete? What are you talking about? You’re eating ice cream, not wrestling.”
Just for that, I did an extra squat. The up part was harder that time. “Eating’s a sport that takes training and physical stamina, so I’m an athlete. Don’t argue with me,
I
didn’t make the rules. That’s just the way of it.”
“Fine. You’re an athlete.” He dropped down into a chair to wait, gnawing another empty spoon.
He was looking right at me, so I leaned right then left one more time before I pulled my spoon from the water. I tried not to let him see that I was breathing hard.
The spoon was hot and drippy now, so it would probably slide right into the ice cream. Dropping my arms down by my sides, I shook them to be sure they were totally relaxed. Then I climbed on my footstool, planted my feet a shoulder’s width apart, hunched over the display case, and poised my spoon directly above the chocolate tub. “Okay. Go.”
“Go where?”
“Funny.” I adjusted my feet. “Announce me. Do my play-by-play.”
“Oh, jeez…”
“We do this right or we don’t do it at all. C’mon, my spoon is cooling off.”
Gardo stood up and cleared his throat. But just as he opened his mouth to say something, he suddenly leaned around the display case, swiped his finger across the Triple Chocolate Fudge, then smacked a dark line under each of my eyes.
Smack, smack.
“Ow!”
“
Now
you’re an athlete,” he said. Then he planted his own feet and unleashed a ring announcer voice that put Vince McMahon to shame. “Ladies and gentlemen…sports fans…food lovers everywhere. Welcome to the mecca of competitive eating, the Ground Zero of Gluttony, the icing on the top of the ice cream cake…the one, the only, Glutton Bowl Two!”
He did a fake crowd cheer and whistled through two fingers.
“We’re here in lovely Scoops-a-Million,” he continued, smiling now, “where Cinderella underdog Sherman ‘Thuff Enuff’ Thuff has reached the final round. Now he’ll go spoon to spoon against the reigning champion of ice cream…” He looked at me questioningly.
“Cookie,” I prompted.
“…the reigning champion of ice cream, Cookie Jarvis. Our judges will set the clock for twelve minutes.” I pointed to him, then to the wall clock behind him. “Aaaaaand GO!”
I jammed my warm, wet spoon into the hard-packed ice cream, then rocketed it to my mouth. I swallowed the instant the cold ice cream hit my tongue, barely even tasting chocolate.
Holy jeez, that’s a serious lump of cold!
The image of a snake swallowing a huge frozen mouse crossed my mind, but I pushed it out. I had ice cream to eat.
I jam-and-rocketed again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
My throat was numbing from the freeze. The roof of my mouth, too.
Don’t think about that, Thuff. Focus on technique. Jam and rocket…jam and rocket…
Sugary spit collected under my tongue. Cold chocolate lumps choo-chooed down my food pipe, trailing a slippery, sugary residue.
Jam
My flavor choice made, I put my right hand on my waist and leaned to the right, stretching my left hand to the sky. I could feel the blood coursing faster through my brain. I repeated the stretch on my left side, then did five jumping jacks and two squats.
“For crying out loud, Shermie, you’re eating ice cream, not sprinting in the Olympics. Let’s do this already.”
“Stuff it, crank. If I’m going to be a pro, I need to train like a pro. Athletes always stretch. Lucy said so.” Maybe stopping wasn’t such a bad idea, though. I was getting short of breath.
“Athlete? What are you talking about? You’re eating ice cream, not wrestling.”
Just for that, I did an extra squat. The up part was harder that time. “Eating’s a sport that takes training and physical stamina, so I’m an athlete. Don’t argue with me,
I
didn’t make the rules. That’s just the way of it.”
“Fine. You’re an athlete.” He dropped down into a chair to wait, gnawing another empty spoon.
He was looking right at me, so I leaned right then left one more time before I pulled my spoon from the water. I tried not to let him see that I was breathing hard.
The spoon was hot and drippy now, so it would probably slide right into the ice cream. Dropping my arms down by my sides, I shook them to be sure they were totally relaxed. Then I climbed on my footstool, planted my feet a shoulder’s width apart, hunched over the display case, and poised my spoon directly above the chocolate tub. “Okay. Go.”
“Go where?”
“Funny.” I adjusted my feet. “Announce me. Do my play-by-play.”
“Oh, jeez…”
“We do this right or we don’t do it at all. C’mon, my spoon is cooling off.”
Gardo stood up and cleared his throat. But just as he opened his mouth to say something, he suddenly leaned around the display case, swiped his finger across the Triple Chocolate Fudge, then smacked a dark line under each of my eyes.
Smack, smack.
“Ow!”
“
Now
you’re an athlete,” he said. Then he planted his own feet and unleashed a ring announcer voice that put Vince McMahon to shame. “Ladies and gentlemen…sports fans…food lovers everywhere. Welcome to the mecca of competitive eating, the Ground Zero of Gluttony, the icing on the top of the ice cream cake…the one, the only, Glutton Bowl Two!”
He did a fake crowd cheer and whistled through two fingers.
“We’re here in lovely Scoops-a-Million,” he continued, smiling now, “where Cinderella underdog Sherman ‘Thuff Enuff’ Thuff has reached the final round. Now he’ll go spoon to spoon against the reigning champion of ice cream…” He looked at me questioningly.
“Cookie,” I prompted.
“…the reigning champion of ice cream, Cookie Jarvis. Our judges will set the clock for twelve minutes.” I pointed to him, then to the wall clock behind him. “Aaaaaand GO!”
I jammed my warm, wet spoon into the hard-packed ice cream, then rocketed it to my mouth. I swallowed the instant the cold ice cream hit my tongue, barely even tasting chocolate.
Holy jeez, that’s a serious lump of cold!
The image of a snake swallowing a huge frozen mouse crossed my mind, but I pushed it out. I had ice cream to eat.
I jam-and-rocketed again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
My throat was numbing from the freeze. The roof of my mouth, too.
Don’t think about that, Thuff. Focus on technique. Jam and rocket…jam and rocket…
Sugary spit collected under my tongue. Cold chocolate lumps choo-chooed down my food pipe, trailing a slippery, sugary residue.
Jam
Similar Books
