More Ham

The first time I ever strung two words together to form a cohesive thought, I said "more ham." First words from the mouths of babes can mean jack shit, or they can provide insight into the future of the lifetime of the babe in question. In my case, I grew to be unpleasantly (thankfully not too severely) roly-poly at a young age, loathing exercise in favor of fettucine Alfredo and multiple bowls of Reeses Peanut Butter Puffs cereal. Eating, not necessarily food, has always been my favorite pastime, and I have always had elephantiasis of the appetite. As a vain young adult I must keep my weight below the "fat point" and input a healthy variety of macronutrients, but "more ham" is always there lurking.

Two days ago, I went on a date. We got beer and two dozen chicken wings - Buffalo Hot, BBQ, Chipotle BBQ, and Garlic Parmesan. I could have easily slaughtered all those wings myself, but I pretended to be full after seven or eight since I noticed he was slowing down. Sure enough, when I asked "how many wings could you eat if you were competing?" he said "Probably ten." The night before, I'd gone out for wing fries (shoestring fries soaked in hot wing sauce and bleu cheese) with someone who once ate 67 hot wings in a competition. Not all men are created equal.