What your view of sports and life would be if you had too many concussions
Thanks to Adam Richman, I now know that is actually possible to gastrointestinally rape one’s self. So that there is no possibility of missing the full experience, Richman has demonstrated two ways in which to leave your colon a golf-bag sized miasma of undigested beef and guatemalan insanity peppers. Each week, he either attempts to eat a hamburger the size of a water tower , or something so incredibly OMFG-it’s-like-chugging-flaming-turpentine hot that even taking the challenge requires the signing of legal waivers, and the cooks wear HAZMAT gear – otherwise the vapor of the cooking peppers will cause them to do that face-melt thing just like the Nazis at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark.
Even a combo plate of the two won’t match the tsunami of destruction headed for Lane Kiffin’s alimentary canal. The post-game conference after Florida beats Tennessee eleventy-bajillion to six Saturday promises to be the Mother of all Word-Eatings, the sheer volume of which hasn’t been seen since the “Egg Scene” in “Cool Hand Luke.”
Just let yourself picture it. Kiffin scoots his chair up to an old wooden table, his eyes fixed on the eighty-pound breakfast burrito made of his own words sitting in front of him. A single bare bulb illuminates the rest of the Vols’ coaching staff huddled around Kiffin, the table, and a trash-can sized figurative wad of eggs, sausage, cheese…and ghost chile peppers.
Kiffin seems to enjoy the first few bites. In fact, there seems to be just the right blend of flavors, the kind that brings that slight smile of satisfaction. The kind of smile that can only exist in that split-second before the epiphany; the pants-shitting, “we’re-gonna-need-a-bigger-boat” moment.
Then it hits him. He doesn’t hit “the wall,” rather it lands on him like a giant boa constrictor digesting a pig stuffed inside hippo stuffed inside a walrus stuffed inside Phil Fulmer. His chair creaks ominously as his newly-increased girth settles back into it. Ed Orgeron begins to vigorously rub Kiffin’s shoulders (“EEEEEEEEYYYAAAAAAWWW -YOU-GET-MAD-AT-THEM-DAMNED-EGGS-YYYYAAAAAAAAAWWW!!!!!!!“) in what has to be painfully inappropriate encouragement, as Kiffin currently has 23 pounds of undigested food in his esophagus alone.
His eyes roll back in his head as during the sigh of surrender just as the fire from peppers bursts from his mouth like a fusion-powered blast furnace. Bits of incindiary burrito rain fire across the room. Kiffin’s torso splits open, shooting flames like an oil-rig fire. Ed Orgeron sweeps Layla Kiffin under one of his “way-too-manly-too-die-in-a-fire-like-you-pussies” arms and dives out a window, the two of them never to be seen again.
Yeah, I’m pretty sure it will look exactly that way.