Winning seems good, doesn't it? Remember when Charlie Sheen had no brain and all he could say was "winning"? It's because, even in that addled state, the remnants of his sanity knew that winning was good. But is that true? We all know parents and teachers will say "Winning isn't everything," but, in fairness, you say that to losers in the hopes they'll buy it because we all know that winning is everything. Everything! Except here. Sometimes winning just exposes that you're the best at something awful, and maybe you need to reconsider the kinds of competitions you're getting involved in.
First one to finish reading this article wins my love. In the physical sense. For 10 solid minutes. No eye contact, though.
Men love their dongs. That's a fact. Mine is like a friend who's always with me and sometimes can't hold his liquor. He's a riot at parties and often pops up uninvited, but dammit if we haven't had a ton of good times together. If I could get a picture of us in matching old-timey cowboy outfits, I would.
As much as everyone except lesbians and the asexual love wieners, there's something to be said for misplaced pride, and when it comes to something like the Small Penis Competition, maybe you need to keep your jorts zipped up and leave to speculation whether your little Tom Thumb is truly the tiniest dingle in the berry patch.
The competition for the shrimpiest shlong takes place at the King's County Bar in Brooklyn, where the winner gets $200 and the knowledge that having a little dick is OK. And arguably having a tiny penis is OK, unless you literally can't use it for its intended purpose and/or you're the sort of guy who's concerned with being able to sexually fulfill a partner, which is going to be more difficult with a dink that looks like a kidney bean in a bird's nest.
Have you heard of air sex? It's like air guitar, only more deplorable to a degree that Good Will Hunting couldn't puzzle out on a hundred blackboards. Basically you emulate sex, in front of a crowd, by yourself.
You may be thinking that, like air guitar, there's some skill involved here. First, no. There's no skill involved in air guitar. There's skill in real guitar. Please play real guitar. The moment you remove a real thing from play, you're literally doing nothing, and that can't, by definition, involve skill. Second, there's less skill in air sex, because why the fuck is this a thing? Do you know what air humping is? It's 75 percent of the descent into hobo madness. If you drink some aftershave and wear the same pants for a month, your air humping becomes known as "why we don't walk down the alley behind Walmart."
Winning an air sex competition implies that you can get your hump on all by yourself better than anyone in the room. Hang your head in shame, you onanistic miscreant. You know who can do themselves like champs? Every teenager ever. This isn't a skill, or an art, or a service. It's the physical manifestation of a drunkard hitting rock bottom, rendered in tragic 3D reality by the depraved mind of someone who thought thrusting desperately at the judgmental eyes of a crowd of people who are going to go home to someone who can hug them is anything other than a sign of your own personal mental and emotional apocalypse. When you hump the air, your soul sits on the sidelines and punches itself in the reproductive organs because it still has the decency to do so, even if you don't.
The world is lousy with eating competitions. Lousy! I engage in them frequently myself. I'll just depants late at night and sit nude in a room I have heated to 95 degrees and stare at a massive plate of pastries and dare myself to eat them. Go on, Felix, eat them. Eat them! Grandma's chubby little man loves Danish, doesn't he?
I take one bite and weep until the heat knocks me unconscious. It's my little bugaboo.
While most eating competitions make some sort of sense, there's got to be some self-loathing bullshit reason behind the stinging nettle eating competition, because winning this means you have to inflict more senseless pain on yourself than the other guy did. Call me crazy, but that sounds kind of stupid.
As you may have guessed from the name, stinging nettles are a kind of nettle that stings. It's kind of like eating poison ivy, only the plants grow a lot bigger, and apparently, if you take the stinging parts away, you can make a delightfully bland tea out of them.
This particular competition comes from England, where things like soccer and Oasis were also born, so everything needs to be looked at with a critical eye. My research tells me one dude claimed he grew the biggest nettles in town and would eat them if someone proved him wrong. Yadda yadda yadda, today there's an annual competition where people eat them, enjoying god-awful mouth and throat pain, blackened tongue and lips, and the curious sensation of nettles fermenting in your gut, which apparently makes an amusing sound to accompany the pain you feel from eating a plant covered in thousands of tiny knives that inject you with itchy chemicals.