Competitive Eating, or Reaching Out?
I was flipping through the pages of 24 Hours, a free daily, and came across a short entry about the "Black Widow", Sonya Thomas. It seems she has just won another speed-eating title by taking only 10 minutes to down 35 sausages in the Johnsonville Brat-Eating World Championship in Wisconsin on the weekend.
The story was bad enough, all by itself, but things got worse. I searched for "competitive eating" and found the I.F.O.C.E., International Federation of Competitive Eating's site. The woman is credited with having taken first place in 22 contests out of the 77 listed. Soft tacos, quesadilla, pulled pork sandwiches, sweet potato casserole, meatballs, lobsters, oysters ... the list goes on and on, ad nauseam.
What the hell is wrong with this picture - mental midgets force-feeding themselves and trying to do it faster than the other idiots at their side, while a crowd of brain-dead fans cheers them on? These people who are "competing" could probably all do with some intensive psychotherapy. At the least, they could do with an introductory course in human compassion, something like "Caring About Others: one-oh-one".
For me, the juxtaposition of the news items in that issue helped things to get even worse still. Literally placed right beside the blurb about the gastronomic excesses being indulged in was a picture of Djamshid Popal, the Afghan boy brought to Toronto for heart surgery last year from his village north of Kabul. The doctors at Sick Kids Hospital did the six-hour surgery for free, replacing two of his damaged valves and repairing a third, and Djamshid came through with flying colours. He was sent home hale and hearty and he slipped out of everyone's thoughts, leaving a warm, comfy after-glow of self-congratulations. Another of the world's impoverished children had been helped by us here in pampered North America.
I wonder if the 'Black Widow" knows about Djamshid, for instance? I wonder if she would care, if she did know? He went home to a mud-brick house that has no running water. He went home to a brother, Rahmeallah, who stepped on a land-mine and lost a leg while Djamshid was here in the hospital. He went home to a lack of coumadin, the medication he must take to ensure his continued health. His country has been through 20 years of war. There is no medical infrastructure left. Even if there were medication available in ready supply, Djamshid could not have any because his family sold everything to bring the boy to Canada, including the taxi his father used to drive. The family is destitute. Djamshid is one of a family group of thirteen, all trying to survive on little to nothing, at the same time as we in the complacent west stage speed-eating contests.
One "quick-fix" intervention seems to be what the majority of westerners like to read about in their newspapers. One fairy-tale of happy circumstance where a saviour-westerner heads up the effort to heal the woes of some less fortunate citizen of the third world, and a sparkle-in-the-sun coating of magical smiles leaves everyone freed up to get back to their Game Boy, and credit spending to one-up the Joneses. We as a group are feeding ourselves too many half-hour sitcoms wherein every problem imaginable can be fixed up in a matter of minutes.
We need to get involved . We need to look past the excesses that happenstance has allowed us and see the horrible deprivation just next door, as close to us as the one story was to the other in that newspaper. We need to forget the quick fixes and start giving over the long-haul. Maybe little miss Sonya and the other "eaters" profiled on the competitive eating site could get together to do something other than indulge in gluttony. Maybe they could brainstorm some ideas on getting the companies that dish up the food for the contests to send equal amounts instead, every month, to destinations in third world countries. Maybe they could think about how to get various companies on-side in a move to "loan" expertise and technology to people like Djamshid's family, so they can use it to dig their way out of the quagmires of misery that ensnare them.
Maybe they could do something that is a little less disgusting and just a little more noble.
The story was bad enough, all by itself, but things got worse. I searched for "competitive eating" and found the I.F.O.C.E., International Federation of Competitive Eating's site. The woman is credited with having taken first place in 22 contests out of the 77 listed. Soft tacos, quesadilla, pulled pork sandwiches, sweet potato casserole, meatballs, lobsters, oysters ... the list goes on and on, ad nauseam.
What the hell is wrong with this picture - mental midgets force-feeding themselves and trying to do it faster than the other idiots at their side, while a crowd of brain-dead fans cheers them on? These people who are "competing" could probably all do with some intensive psychotherapy. At the least, they could do with an introductory course in human compassion, something like "Caring About Others: one-oh-one".
For me, the juxtaposition of the news items in that issue helped things to get even worse still. Literally placed right beside the blurb about the gastronomic excesses being indulged in was a picture of Djamshid Popal, the Afghan boy brought to Toronto for heart surgery last year from his village north of Kabul. The doctors at Sick Kids Hospital did the six-hour surgery for free, replacing two of his damaged valves and repairing a third, and Djamshid came through with flying colours. He was sent home hale and hearty and he slipped out of everyone's thoughts, leaving a warm, comfy after-glow of self-congratulations. Another of the world's impoverished children had been helped by us here in pampered North America.
I wonder if the 'Black Widow" knows about Djamshid, for instance? I wonder if she would care, if she did know? He went home to a mud-brick house that has no running water. He went home to a brother, Rahmeallah, who stepped on a land-mine and lost a leg while Djamshid was here in the hospital. He went home to a lack of coumadin, the medication he must take to ensure his continued health. His country has been through 20 years of war. There is no medical infrastructure left. Even if there were medication available in ready supply, Djamshid could not have any because his family sold everything to bring the boy to Canada, including the taxi his father used to drive. The family is destitute. Djamshid is one of a family group of thirteen, all trying to survive on little to nothing, at the same time as we in the complacent west stage speed-eating contests.
One "quick-fix" intervention seems to be what the majority of westerners like to read about in their newspapers. One fairy-tale of happy circumstance where a saviour-westerner heads up the effort to heal the woes of some less fortunate citizen of the third world, and a sparkle-in-the-sun coating of magical smiles leaves everyone freed up to get back to their Game Boy, and credit spending to one-up the Joneses. We as a group are feeding ourselves too many half-hour sitcoms wherein every problem imaginable can be fixed up in a matter of minutes.
We need to get involved . We need to look past the excesses that happenstance has allowed us and see the horrible deprivation just next door, as close to us as the one story was to the other in that newspaper. We need to forget the quick fixes and start giving over the long-haul. Maybe little miss Sonya and the other "eaters" profiled on the competitive eating site could get together to do something other than indulge in gluttony. Maybe they could brainstorm some ideas on getting the companies that dish up the food for the contests to send equal amounts instead, every month, to destinations in third world countries. Maybe they could think about how to get various companies on-side in a move to "loan" expertise and technology to people like Djamshid's family, so they can use it to dig their way out of the quagmires of misery that ensnare them.
Maybe they could do something that is a little less disgusting and just a little more noble.
1 Comments:
That's seriously fucked up.
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