exit17

BACONATION: One more thing I can add to my list of bad ideas.

So.

Baconation is over. This horrible, horrible experiment – this journey into what a man’s body can take, this test of whether or not his brain can overpower his stomach’s inherent sense of self-preservation – is over.

The final total, ladies and gentlemen:

I kept down four Baconators for thirty minutes, before my stomach said “NOPE, TURN AROUND” to the fifth. I am disappointed, because it is far below my early hopes of eating ten.

After the jump – read the harrowing tale! see photos of me vomiting! join my roommates in questioning my intelligence! Is vomit NSFW? Well…if so…be wary.

First, I must apologize for not doing a live update of Baconation. I did not do this for a variety of reasons:

1. The only computer that would have stayed on long enough to write this is my work laptop. Didn’t want to cover it in Baconator…effluence.
2. After the second Baconator, I think my brain shut down. Not even kidding.
3. Trying to eat as many Wendy’s burgers as possible makes me unappealing to women. Doing so while blogging about it will put me at a point where I am mocked by World of Warcraft nerds.

Moving on.

As I sat in the recliner where I have spent many a hungover Sunday playing Toe Jam and Earl, my roommates and various guests enjoyed pancakes and sausage, prepared by the Captain of Sad.

While I sat, my nose filled with the scents of a healthy, heart warming meal – the smells of what normal people ate on a Sunday morning. My logic questioned my resolve, while my heart and digestive system feared for the 10 a.m. opening of Wendy’s on Central Ave.

At the proper hour, Josh Austin and Ken headed to Wendy’s. I knew of their return by hearing Ken scream his distinctive “OOOOOOHHHHHH!” which is usually reserved for finding a Jean Claude VanDamme movie on TV, or is shouted shortly before he puts me in serious physical or emotional trauma.

In he and Austin walked, holding a bag from Wendy’s.

“It feels as heavy as a baby!” Austin excitedly proclaimed. At this point, I still somewhat shared his joy.

So he tossed one on my plate and threw the remaining three in the oven so they would stay warm while I chowed down on the first. Which I did. Quite easily. And probably too quickly.

It was gone in about 15 minutes, which was much faster than my original plan of one an hour. But that plan was made while not taking into account Austin screaming “YOU’RE A PUSSY!” at me, or the fact that a cold Baconator is similar to wet newspaper covered in mayo.

Second one went down pretty easily, as well. A little slower than the first.

Then the third one came out of the oven, and I realized I needed to slow down if I wanted to even attempt hitting double digits – although at this point, my body had told my brain “NO FUCKING WAY ARE WE GOING TO DEAL WITH TEN OF THESE THINGS”. And, surprisingly, my usually stubborn brain (which typically has a complete disregard for the well-being of my body) actually listened to my body, and made a similar proclamation to the room.

At which point Josh Austin reminded me that I was a pussy.

So the third Baconator was nursed a little bit, but went down pretty easily. Although I was starting to get a headache – which was probably due to the insane amount of sodium that I had ingested at this point, or could have been due to all the neural messages from my stomach saying “STOP. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. STOP.”

Then I opened up the fourth one. Austin, Collin and Ken left to get some more Baconators – even though I told them that there was a good chance that the fourth one might have done me in – as they had to return in time for the New England Patriots football match, which they were planning on viewing on the telly.

It was the fourth one, really, that let me know I was not dealing with an average burger. Now, I have had Baconators many times before – but not three in the span of an hour and a half or so. Nor three in the span of say, three months. But I was at least passingly familiar with the beast.

Although this whole experience is the same as saying “Yeah, I’ve hiked Washington in clear weather in July,” and then deciding to do repeats up with with you Grandmother in January. The experiences are NOT going to be the same.

So the fourth one. I ate it slow. Which was a mistake. Because it transformed from “Food from Wendy’s” to “Gray mass with the consistency of newspaper squished between two salty buns garnished with bits of questionable bacon hanging off of the side”. After that transformation, the eating slowed down even further – because once the Baconator gets cold, it basically wouldn’t get any worse unless it was involved in a freak 2girls1cup incident.

As the three horsemen of my digestive apocalypse re-entered the apartment, I finished the final bite of Baconator four. Austin brought the new bag of pain over – this one contained five Baconators, just in case I got a second wind or our guests wanted to try it themselves – and holy crap it was heavy.

So I threw a fresh one on my plate. And at this point the smell of Baconators was beginning to get nauseating. As was every single bite.

The first bite of number five made my mouth do that “get real watery right before you vomit” thing. And I barely choked it down.

Then I took very tiny bites (Tiny bites which caused Austin to remind me that I was a pussy) until I had eaten half of it – which I think took about half an hour.

It was at this point that I realized the concept of the all-day eatfest was far worse than a four hour event. Because with the all-day version, I had the option to slowdown for several hours while I recovered. But I didn’t want to do that. Every whiff of a Baconator made me want to vomit. Every bite I took had to slide down my throat against the rising tide of bile and the gray, undigested matter that was pressed to make the patties of the Baconator. And I knew that, even with a few hours of rest, this situation was not going to improve.

So after I had kept the fourth Baconator down for half an hour (which Colin had decreed was the time I had to keep it down for it to count, according to some world eating league. Friggin’ engineer. Always ruining things with standards) I was staring down the cold half of the fifth Baconator.

From my memories of my last bite – which caused my teeth to float in stomach fluid – I realized that eating this last half was not going to go well. If I ate it slowly, in a few bites, every bite was going to make me almost vomit – and one of those bites would have probably undone me. Then I made a decision which probably goes along the lines of “go big or go home”.

“Ken,” I said. “Get me a garbage can. Get the video camera. I am going to eat this as fast as I can, and I’m probably going to boot.”

So Ken got prepared with Drew’s MiniDV camera. Austin got prepared with my D50. And I started eating.

Goddamn. Goddamn. This was gross. Every bite brought forth an orchestra of burps and stomach gurgles. I followed every chomp with water to lubricate the cold, gray animal flesh as it fought against rising bile to make it into my stomach.

Bite.
Drink.
Repeat.

Each time, I was sure I was going to lose it.

Then it was the last bite. I shoved it my mouth and started chewing, adding some water.

But then.

The volcano in my stomach had too much.

I felt it coming.

I clamped my mouth shut and jumped from the chair, running to the bathroom as the chewed pile of Baconator sat in my mouth absorbing the initial explosion of vomit.

I made it to the can, got my mouth over it, and spit out a vomit soaked pile of chewed Baconator. Ken and Austin followed me, filming and shooting while I decided that my battle was over – I had thrown up in my mouth.

It was time to “encourage” the rest to get out. So I hit the emergency evacuation button on the back of my throat, while Austin and Ken laughed in joy at the strange fluid that was coming out of my mouth.

Now, to illustrate this chain of events, I present you with three photos.

1. I am eating a Baconator.

2. Moments later, I realize OH SHIT I’M GONNA LOSE IT.

3. The exit signs in my stomach have lit up, and everyone is leaving in an orderly fashion.

Bet you’re glad you saw that.

Here are the “Nutrition” Facts about what I ingested:

Keep in mind that since I puked a bunch, my body probably only absorbed 2-3 Baconators. So I probably won’t die.

So, what did I learn from this? Well, the whole experience reinforced the fact that my friends really only want to see me in pain. Also, there is no fucking way I could eat ten of these in a day.

Plus, the idea of having an all-day gluttonfest was friggin’ terrible. Because, with that, I could have been smart and eaten only one an hour – which I probably could have handled. But that would have led to me eating far too many Baconators, which would probably cause me to turn into the Baconator, at which point I would travel back in time and protect Dave Thomas from some robot sent from future McDonalds to kill him. Or something like that.

I eventually vomited some more and pounded some Pepto.

Also, I quickly took a shower after this whole ordeal in an attempt to wash the grease and memories away…but the memories will never leave.

Any time I pass a Wendy’s, I will probably have dry heaves, and flashback to Austin screaming “PUSSY!” at me while my stomach emptied its gray, unrecognizable contents into the sewer system of Dover.

The question now, though – How man will Lipka eat? I’ve got him pegged for ten, easy. He’s more of a man than I.

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