Mahbles.

On Friday, following a semi-cultural afternoon at the Met, my friends Jason, Shirley and I decided to get a drink at the Oyster Bar in Grand Central. After a rather daunting trek to get the hell out of the Upper East Side/White Collar Purgatory after the trains broke down, we settled on a bottle of their finest (night have been cheapest) wine and some calamari. Finishing up, I make my usual run to the bathroom, and as I'm coming back, I spot a celebrity near and dear to my heart.

Me: Oh my God. I think that's Kobayashi, the World Hot Dog Eating Champion.
Shirley: Where?
Me: Over there, eating like 17 pounds of lobster.

Shirley, is just as excited by this prospect as I am, and Jason, having an Asian fetish, musters up some excitement. After a few seemingly logical inferences ("He's wearing a bib!""It's near July 4th!""He's with other Asians!") Shirley takes a run to the bathroom and agrees that it looks like him, and demands that I ask him to confirm. I mention that if I'm wrong, this would mean that I basically saw an Asian dude eating, then assumed he was the World Hot Dog Eating Champion, and if someone saw me eating and out of the blue asked me if I was the World Eating Champion of something, it might dampen my appetite for the rest of the meal. But this doesn't matter, as we're two crazed bitches on a Racist Mission®.

As with every other important aspect of my life, the matter of who would ask is settled with a best 2-out-of-3 Rock Paper Scissors. I lost (damn you, rock), and we planned an escape route, a dingy back staircase that led to places unknown, where we both agreed to live out our days in hiding. I put on my sweetest face, we approach, and I mumble something about an odd question and the World Hot Dog Eating Champion, to which one of the men looks at me and says, very slowly and deliberately, like he's an 80s Movie Foriegn Exchange Student, "Hot....Dog?"

And then we ran up the mystery staircase (ends at a Brookstone, not a twisted alter dimension, thankfully) and giggled like the embarassed little white girls we were.* And then we drowned our guilt in whiskey, which we probably would have been doing anyway.

*Shirley, incidentally, is Chinese, but I seem less loathsome if I refer to all racist activities using "we".