GEEK BEAT: The lord of the onion rings

Gather around my feet children. It’s time for me to tell you a story.

It’s a tragic story about a heroic youth and his struggle to overcome the impossible. But like all epic tales, this one starts not with him, but with a butt-load of backstory and explanation.

Our story begins in the far-away, magical land of Idaho with a man named Big Judd. Big Judd was a big man with a big dream.

Big Judd loved hamburgers. He dreamed of owning his own burger joint. Being a big man, he found himself unsatisfied with the standard hamburger.

So Big Judd created himself a big hamburger. It was not a quarter-pounder. It wasn’t a half-pounder or even a three-quarter-pounder. Yes children, Big Judd created a one-pound hamburger.

Soon the legend of the burger that bore its creator’s name was known throughout the land. People came to try their hands at conquering the beast. Those who succeeded were immortalized on the wall of the restaurant.

By offering such a chance at immortality, the legend continued to grow.

Some called him a visionary. Others hailed him as a prophet. But when Big Judd announced he was unleashing a double and even a triple version of his sandwich, I saw him for what he really was, just another mad scientist with a monstrous creation just waiting to run amuck on the populous.

I couldn’t let this stand. As soon as I heard about this place, I decided to march right down there, slam one of these enormous burgers into my gut and show Big Judd who the real Big Dog of Idaho was.

The problem was I was only 14, and Rexburg was a long way to march.

The years passed until over Spring Break, I had my chance to finally have redemption. A couple friends and I made the journey to Rexburg.

I ordered the Big Judd. My friend ordered the double.

Finally I would know if I was the man I thought I was. I could only hope that I hadn’t been in Utah so long I’d grown soft or been married so long I developed enough common sense not to go through with it.

I sat down, with the challenger in front of me. I used the knife Big Judd had foolishly given me to slice the beast in fourths.

With bravado I took my first bite. I was delicious. The meat tasted like conquest, the grease from the fresh-cooked fries tasted like victory, the ketchup was honor and the cheese glory.

I licked my fingers, relishing my triumph; then I looked down at my plate. I was only one fourth of the way through my trial by burger.

My heart sank into my stomach, leaving even less room for the burger.

The second quarter I was still going strong. I kept a good ratio of burger-to-fry intake (no one told me the fries weren’t part of the Big Judd Challenge), and I’m proud to say after the second quarter I still thought I could do it.

The third quarter is where I started to feel it. By the time I got half way through it, each bite became a battle.

You know when you’re so full you have to keep the food in one cheek and wash it down a little bit at a time with your drink? That’s the stage I was at.

After that third quarter, I had to step back and rethink things. I tried to walk it off, but it hurt to stand. I tried to make more room by using the restroom, but for a man who owns an establishment that encourages people to consume so much grease in such a small amount of time, Big Judd does not have a very nice bathroom.

As the first stages of meat poisoning started to set in, I cursed myself for eating breakfast that morning. I cursed my wife for teaching me good eating habits. I even cursed my parents for not being fatter people.

The faces of those who had gone before looked down from their pictures on me with disgust. Men, women, even a 10-year-old boy mocked me with their smiles and thumbs in the up position.

But their imagined mockery forced me to soldier on and against all odds and even with my stomach crying out for mercy, I did the unthinkable and ate two more bites.

That was it. I was done. I left the last 7/32ths of the burger and what was left of my pride on my plate. As far as I know, they’re both there on the table, left as a monument to my failure.

My friend got about as far into his double as I did into my single, but he’s eight or nine inches taller than me which, according to my calculations, gives him an extra foot of stomach to work with.

I’m not giving up, though. One day, after ample training, I’m going to go back and I’m eating that freaking hamburger!

Actually I hope it’s a different hamburger, because if they still have my old one, that’ll be pretty gross.

Geek on.

Steve Shinney is a senior in computer science who will eat pretty much anything if you call him a chicken. Comments and dares can be sent to him at steveshinney@cc.usu.edu.