Last week's column dealt with Takeru Kobayashi, a "competitive eater" from Nagano, Japan, who not long ago set the world's record for hot dog eating by downing 53 ½ wieners in just 12 minutes.

In that column, I said I would like to go up against Kobayashi in competition, being something of an avid, though amateur, eater myself.  It would take some serious training, I admitted, but I felt I had "the right stuff" - meaning a comfortable layer of blubber developed over years of indulgent chow-snarfling at Mexican and Italian restaurants across the region.

I felt I made a pretty good case for my alleged ingestion abilities, but a couple folks who know me too well called me on it.  So - like a televangelist who decides to "clear his conscience" after he's been caught at the Motel 6 with his teenaged "fundraising coordinator" - I've decided to come clean with you: I've already participated in a competitive eating competition and failed miserably at it.

If this were a televised confession, I'd have The Lovely Mrs. Taylor standing next to me with her hair done up huge, crying through runny mascara.  I'd be wearing a powder blue suit and asking viewers to forgive my youthful indiscretions and send money anyway.

Thankfully, this is print, Mrs. T doesn't wear mascara and I don't even own a powder blue suit.  But you can still send money, if you want to.

At any rate, as I mentioned already, I have eaten competitively.

It was a few years ago, on my youngest son's birthday.  He was turning 12 and being a lad after my own heart, wanted to have his party at The Corner Bar in Rockford.

For those few of you who don't already know, The Corner Bar is most famous for its "Hot Dog Wall of Fame," where the names of customers who have downed copious amounts of wieners are displayed on row after row of small, plastic plaques mounted to the restaurant's walls.

In the old days, anyone who ate at least eight chilidogs got their name on the wall.  These days - in keeping with ever-expanding American waistlines - the "magic number" is 12.

The record is currently held by New York City resident Tim Janus, who gobbled 43 ½ dogs in the allotted four hours.

At my son's birthday party I knew I had no hope of coming close to the record, but figured I could put away at least 12 chilidogs.  For one thing, I love The Corner Bar's dogs.  For another, four hours divided by 12 dogs comes out to only, uh ... hold on, I'm an English major ... uh, three dogs per hour.

I figured, how hard could it be?

Besides my son and myself, the party was attended by my son-in-law, Clinton, his brother, Adam, my brother-in-law, Mark, and my older son, Jordan.  We invited The Lovely Mrs. Taylor and my daughter, Aubreii, but the idea of sitting for four hours with five sweaty, belching, overeating men didn't appeal to them, for some reason.  Girls.  Go figure.

My son Jordan's kind of a wimpy eater, as is Mark, but Clint and Adam both come from a Big Catholic Family, where hearty eating is not only expected, but required.  (I love family gatherings with that clan!)  I also come from a Big Catholic Family and figured I could hold my own when the forks came up.

Both Mark and Jordan - who harbor illusions of self-respect and a desire to live beyond age 50 - ordered just two dogs each.  The rest of us, 12-year-old James included, ordered ‘em four at a time.

There is, the waitress informed us, a scientific method for downing several wieners in a short amount of time.  Her advice?  Eat fast, drink water, ignore the pain.

I tried to follow her counsel, but what's a chilidog without beer and fries?  I ordered some of both.  And some coleslaw.

Despite these additions to the menu, I got through the first four dogs easily, as did the rest of the party - with the exception Mark and Jordan, our gastronomic wimps.

The second plate of four went down a little slower, but they did go down.

By this time, we were deep into Hour Three of our dog-a-thon.  The noises emanating from my stomach were similar to those produced by a fat man in SCUBA flippers slogging through a pool filled with mashed potatoes and gravy.  A quarter dropped on my inflated belly would have bounced clear across the room, possibly injuring another patron, so we didn't try that.

The birthday boy bowed out of the competition at six dogs, which was impressive for a 12-year-old, I thought.  Adam and Clinton were holding their own, matching me dog-for-dog.

We all ordered four more.

Clinton lasted through dog nine.  I made it to nine-and-a-half before collapsing facedown in my remaining coleslaw.  Only Adam crossed the finish line, earning a hearty round of applause and several complimentary burps from the rest of the table.

As a 12-dog eater, Adam also got a free Corner Bar T-shirt, which he presented to the birthday boy, who cherishes it to this day.

Getting everyone to the car involved several trips and a wheelbarrow, pushed by Mark and Jordan, the only two members of the party still able to walk upright and unassisted.

Back at the car, belts were loosened and buttons undone in an effort to make room for the repast.  As men, men who had eaten far too many chilidogs, we were all feeling certain, ah, pressures.  The ride home was not a pleasant one, even with the windows down.

And that, if the truth be known, was the extent of my competitive eating.  Takeru Kobayashi's got nothing to worry about, not from me, at any rate.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or start times of local Weight Watchers meetings, e-mail mtaylor@midmich.net or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429.