Given that I sweat profusely when I eat sour things, it was decided that the most sensible thing to do would be to break the world pickle-eating record: thirty pickles in five minutes. Not those little Snack 'Ems, not baby dills, not the mysterious gherkin, but the big, fat, Mickey Rourkes of the pickle world: Polish fucking dills.
The night before I did it, I was told, I had to eat a giant, stomach-stretching meal and wash it down with a cow's worth of stomach-swelling dairy. I ate a huge bowl of pho and ordered a strawberry milkshake, which turned out to be dairy-free, but whatever--did Patrick Bertoletti let anything set him back before eating 29.5 date-nut bread and cream cheese sandwiches in eight minutes? Probably not. Also, I got wasted, figuring that a hungover, beer-and-nachos bloated stomach would be my secret weapon--or so a mini pitcher of Long Island iced tea ended up convincing me.
It turns out that some hangovers don't make you hungry. Some staple your stomach shut and tell your brain to ignore it until tomorrow. Granted, it killed any jitters I might have had, but the previous night's drunken boasting was replaced with the hungover realisation that I had to eat a pickle every ten seconds to even tie a record. Good thing people had cameras.
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