It’s the type of challenge that occurs when mooks are stoned out of their asses with rampant munchies, talking about “I bet I can eat more than you” or “I once ate 69 hot-dogs, true story guy”. Yeah, we’ve all witnessed this go down, but 99% of the time it’s just a bunch of outlandish, exaggerated claims that never get tested. It’s not like someone’s gonna get off their cozy ass and march down to the local hot dog joint to see if this mook is talking shit. So there we were at Café Saigon, stoned as fuck, smashing down plates like it’s a Jewish wedding when Mooksy made a comment about how he was impressed with the amount of food Budda had. One thing led to another and the testosterone kicked in. Next thing you know, Tron, Budda and Mooksy are all arguing, giving each other dirty looks on some: “c’mon son! You know I can eat more than you, stop frontin”. So: it was on. We chose a spot, set a date and got a couple of additional mooks on board for the first Mook Life eating competition. We had to get to the bottom of this, once and for all.

The same week, I got my hands on some super-sweet Chocolope. This is my favorite strain of 2011. First time I smoked it was in NY (shout out to Zoe) and it was love at first smoke. This bud is everything you want a vagina to be. Smells good, tastes amazing, real pretty to look at. I swear, I’ve had serious urges of sticking my cock in the weed jar a couple of times. It also gets you hungry like a bear after hibernation. I grabbed a handful and jetted to the Clarke Headquarters.

Some of these competitive eaters prepare themselves for competitions months in advance, stretching their stomachs and training their body to be able to withstand such a massive amount of food, probably for safety reasons. However, these mooks have no idea what they’re getting into, so the only preparation they had was a huge smokefest and a few beers to help them forget the upcoming embarrassments.

At the headquarters, Rilly Guilty and Fiend were working on this dope mix for their weekly night at the Royal Phoenix. The name gives it away… yes, it’s a dyke bar. The phoenix always reminded me of dykes, because its a flaming female bird that rocks a mullet. In any case, according to reliable sources, shit gets out of hand at these nights. I bet that them lezzies cave in after a few drinks. Just bump and grind. Once they feel that hard-on, it’s on. And if you don’t get to smash, well, at least you went to a night that had really good music for a change. Peep game:

Rilly Guilty & Fiend – TUFF LOVE RADIO by Rilly Guilty

Speaking of dykes, hooo-ly. Jesus Christ, what the fuck happened here? Not only are the women confused, so are their shoes. As if you’re gonna be sailing, lumbering and going to the club at the same time. This can’t be life.

After the smokefest, we headed down to the chosen location: The Main. Fuck hot-dogs, this is Mook-Life. We are going to do it proper and we are gonna keep it 100% Montreal. Some of you might remember the Smoke Weed-Smoked Meat post from last winter. It’s only right we follow up this winter with another smoked meat experience.

Tron tried to arrange some sort of deal for this event but it was all pointless. They could give a fuck about us and our bullshit. They were not interested in giving us any discounts nor were they interested in knowing where the pictures from this event would end up. This place is as classic as it gets.

Since most of the time we hit The Main completely destroyed at 4AM, we often overlook some of the key elements that make it so legendary. When you take a minute to observer these caricatures, you will quickly come to the conclusion that The Main has a long lineage of mooked-out employees.

Not so long ago, people were allowed to smoke in restaurants, including the staff and cooks. Shit was all good. Even on the airplane, mooks just chained smoked like crazy, with babies and old people sitting next to them and every one was perfectly cool with it. Where did our freedom go?

The guy in the middle is my father.

The rules to the game were simple and straight to the point: these mooks had exactly an hour to eat as many smoked meat sandwiches as possible.

For those who are not familiar with smoked meat, this is it. Pretty much looks like your girl’s busted cunt.

And if her cunt looks like this, well, I feel bad for you son.

Everyone got their first sandwich. It’s game time.

Each mook had their own approach. Like in any competition, mooks are going to cheat. Dean had concealed 2 sandwiches on his bald spot. Only noticed once I uploaded the flicks. What a cheeky bastard.

Tron took the silent and steady route. While everyone is talking shit, he was just eating his sandwiches calmly, in silence, one bite at a time.

Meet Evan (Jeff Daniels’ son), a promising star in the sport of competitive eating. I like his approach, humble and hard, pause. Definitely keep your eye on him, no homo.

Budda always has some sort of shaman remedy up his sleeve. He brought a can of Dole pineapple juice. His claims were that it was going to expand the digestive system and ultimately allow him to eat more. I don’t know if that makes any sense and I’m sure that with a simple Google search, I would be able to find out. I see FAIL all over this but, I might be wrong.

I don’t know what was gayer: his bullshit pineapple-juice trick, the brohawk or that t-shirt. But everything combined including the sandwich deepthroat action is well pause-worthy. Matter of fact, this guy lives in the pause. Pas beng beng…

Tiny Trim might be legally considered a midget, but her eating skills are of legendary proportions. While most of them were on their second sandwich, she was on her fifth. What you know about that?

Mooksy was all talk at first but when the sandwiches came out, so did the excuses. First, they were too dry, then they were too fatty. Backpedaling-ass mooks. There is no way out of this one, motherfucker.

If you don’t find this sexy, you are probably a faggot.

This mook was long disqualified, so all he had to do for the remaining hour was pull stunts. A field in which he excels considerably well, a lot more than competitive eating.

Trim set a new world record with nine and three-quarters of a sandwich in less than 30 minutes. I knew that she was an experienced meat eater but damn, that shit is just fucked.

With half an hour to go, these mooks had more than enough on their plates if they wanted to even come anywhere close to nine sandwiches.

Mooksy and Tron went head-to-head with their fifth plate on the table, pause. Evan was right behind (nh), coming in third with his fourth sandwich and finally, Budda, who was gagging, working that meat down his throat like his name is Alexis Texas with only three mandwiches deep. No homo, of course.

At this point I can see the pain setting in their faces. This was no longer fun. This was no longer amusing. These guys looked like they were seriously suffering.

Tron took the lead with this sixth sandwich. All I could think of were the faces of all the poor children out there who are dying from starvation. Some of them will never get to hit puberty, let alone their first piece of pussy and here we are, forcefully eating in discomfort for the sheer pleasure of proving a point to an equally retarded person who challenged us in a pointless, unnecessary, costly, time-consuming, health-damaging, undeniably stupid and wasteful activity. Only GOD can judge me.

Dean, I think you forgot to feed your dog, homie.

Mr. Daniels was the third person to fall back with close to five sandwiches under his belt. The mustard technique gave him some leverage, but it was not enough to make it into the top three. Sorry, bud.

There were about fifteen minutes left when Tron received his seventh sandwich. He had already one up on Evan and Mooksy, so this was purely to prove a point. This is like when you spit on a man after you beat him down to the floor.

Tron: Look at you. You filthy fucking cow. You little four-legged bitch. You grew up walking around in your own shit and now, because you got kidnapped, carved and wound up in a sauna for a couple days, you’re gonna try and humiliate ME?

Tron: This is where reality comes into play, Mooksy. This is where you separate the real from the phonies… Quit fakin’ jacks, kid. Talk to me again when you’re prepared for double-digit sandwiches. Protège ta nuque.

Tron: What are you doing here? Just go home and get out of my face.

Tron: Six-and-a-half sandwiches… Your 500 pound cousin ain’t got shit on me. There were white flags waving everywhere, bring me some real competition. Until then, give the rest of the sandwich to the hungry mook and get me a black cherry soda. See ya later, chumps.

Thirty two sandwiches later, we had the final verdict for this never-ending stoner argument. All this macho shit-talking and these dumbass mooks got beat by a female midget rocking camo and fucked up hybrid, high-heel boat shoes for dyke hikers on the prowl. Tron came in second with 6.5 sandwiches and Dean got third place for being a proper stunt manager. The other three mooks should be ashamed of themselves and stop fronting. Next time your stoner buddy tries to kick some shit in your ear about how he can eat 69 steamies in one sitting you should tell him to put the hot-dogs where his mouth is, pause. He will either chicken out or embarrass himself. Either way, it’s a win for you and a huge diss to the all the people who are dying of starvation. Most importantly, he will never make those claims again.