“Soon ... you will learn to appreciate me,” it muttered gutturally.

“You ready?” I asked Al, who was fretting over The Triple King as if it were a worrisome philosophical dilemma. Or a pit viper.

Our stubby fingers compressed the sandwiches, to allow that all-important first bite, as Al and I dug into our King Burgers like Vikings sacking a coastal village.

A half hour later, none of that would matter.

A half hour later ...

The insanity of competitive eating was now obvious. It’s gluttonous, we admitted, wasteful and pointless, a sad remnant of our youth and stupidity.

“I was fairly confident, maybe cocky, that I was going to finish it,” Al remembered years later. “Of course, as I do, I ate the fries first. That turned out to be a problematic strategery.”

As for me, I waddled out to the car like a cow strolling into a slaughterhouse, thankful to live through this beef encounter.

Cheeseburgers had lost their appeal. I could smell beef oozing from my pores. I needed a stack of napkins, plus a hot shower. And a couple of handfuls of Lipitor.

Contact Rodney Richey, 640-4861, rodney.richey@heraldbulletin.com. He’s so glad that Lea & Perrins makes a thick Worcestershire sauce now.