I'm b-b-b-b-buzzing like a honey b-b-b-bee right n-n-n-now. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely hold them steady over my keyboard. The fillings in my teeth feel like they each have about 220 volts of electric current running through them and I'm actually experiencing each individual hair on my head, every one of which is standing on end.

How did I wind up like this? Since I suddenly find myself able to type at a rate of about 8,000 words per minute, it shouldn't take long to explain.

On mornings when it isn't raining, too hot or too cold, I walk down to the corner convenience store near my house to purchase a cup of coffee before starting work for the day. A very large cup; 28 ounces, I believe. To the coffee, I add three or four creamers and several of those little packets of fake sugar. By the time I get back to my desk 15 minutes later, the coffee's gone.

I'm not a small guy, and 28 ounces of coffee has little discernible effect on me. By 11 a.m. or so, I'm usually able to sleep at my desk, despite this morning influx of caffeine. (I've trained myself to sleep with my eyes open, so it'll look like I'm working, just in case somebody stops by, but don't mention this to my editor. In fact, forget I said anything about it.)

I usually have a cup of tea (more caffeine) mid-morning, then a Coke or two (still more caffeine) later in the afternoon. As far as I can tell, the total effect of all that caffeine on my metabolism is exactly zilch, nada, zippo.

But today is different. Today I'm sparking like a downed power cable.

Today, when I strolled down for my morning coffee, I also picked up a pack of mints. Usually I'm not overly-concerned about my breath (If you don't like it, step back and get the hell out of my personal space, already!), but I made fettuccine Alfredo last night and went a little overboard with the garlic. Two teeth brushings and six ounces of Listerine later I could still taste it.

So I brought the mints. Cute packaging; they looked like little geodesic balls, smaller than a dime and mounted individually on a bubble card, the kind where you push on the plastic front and the mint pops out through a thin covering of aluminum foil on the back.

I ate a couple before starting on my coffee. The coffee, as usual, I finished during my walk home. I ate a couple more mints

Back home, I ate a couple more.

It was right around this time I began to notice a marked increase in my typing speed. Also, I was having a hard time hearing the ringer on my phone, as my teeth were chattering together like castanets played by a panicky hummingbird.

A high, buzzing sound, like a mosquito zipping from ear to ear - inside my head - started up and didn't stop.

Certainly, I thought, they weren't suddenly making the convenience store coffee that much stronger, were they? It hadn't tasted any stronger.

To give my jittering teeth something to do, I popped another mint into my mouth and crunched it. That's when I noticed the word "ENERGY" printed in bright red and yellow letters on the front of the package. Energy was certainly what I was feeling, all righty. Energy like a faulty nuclear reactor in its final moments before going China Syndrome.

On the back of the pack of mints, the ingredients were listed, and among them - in some of the tiniest type I've ever seen - was caffeine. Fifty milligrams of caffeine. Per mint! Of which I had now eaten seven, for a total caffeine intake of 350 milligrams, not counting the caffeine in the coffee I'd drunk on the walk home from the convenience store.

Figuring about 100 milligrams of caffeine for each 5 ounce serving of coffee, my 28 ounce morning "cuppa" contained about 560 milligrams of caffeine, which - when combined with the 350 milligrams of "mint" caffeine - comes out to a grand total of 910 milligrams, or roughly the yearly caffeine intake of the entire country of Peru, not counting that drunk by Juan Valdez or his donkey.

So now my heart's hammering away at about 600 beats per minute (the average is between 60 and 90) and my blood pressure's 12,000 over 1,900 (normal is 110 over 60).

On the plus side, I find I can now flap my arms fast enough to fly short distances and dodge bullets with ease. Maybe I should have myself fitted for a Spandex super-hero costume. I could get "The 910-Milligram Man" sewn into the cape.

Makers of decaf beware! The Caffeinated Crusader is on the c-c-c-c-case!

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or directions to nearby Starbuck's, e-mail mtaylor@midmich.net or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429.

I don't know about you, but my money troubles are finally over.  After years of scraping by on a writer's salary, I'm about to join the Trump's, Rockefeller's, and Gates' of this world.  In fact, by the time you read this, I'll probably be halfway across the Pacific, sunning on the deck of my luxury cabin cruiser, drinking margaritas and listening to Jimmy Buffet - not on the stereo, but in person, a private concert for an audience of one (if you don't count the bevy of former Playboy bunnies I'll have hired on as deck-hands by then).

The Lovely Mrs. Taylor will be there, too, assuming she doesn't have a problem with my choice of deck-hands.  Considering how low-down, stinking, filthy rich I'm going to be, I think she'll be amenable to the bunnies.

How is all this going to come about, you may ask?  Lemme tell ya.

In just a few days, I'll be entering into a business relationship with Mark Yaya.  OK, I didn't know who Mark Yaya was, either, until he e-mailed me late last week.

Mark Yaya, it seems, is the son of Mr. and Mrs. Adama Yaya, wealthy farmers and cocoa merchants from ... uh ... well, the letter doesn't make it entirely clear where they're from, but they're really, really wealthy, and that's all that matters to a shrewd businessman like me.

Mark Yaya's e-mail starts out with the salutation: "My Dearest One."  I'll admit I'm usually uncomfortable dealing with men who call me "dearest."  I have a few gay friends, and I ran the "dearest" thing past them.  Even they think it's a little fruity.

Still, Mark Yaya is rich and wants to make me rich, too.  He can call me "sugar-pie, honey-bun" if he wants to, as long as the checks keep rolling in.

Of course, Mark Yaya isn't going to just give me the money.  He's no fool, after all!  I'm going to have to earn it by helping him out with a little financial trouble he's gotten into.

Apparently, Mark Yaya's mother died a while back - of natural causes, which I understand is kind of unusual in Mark Yaya's country, whatever that might be - and his father was poisoned to death last month by business associates.

OK. I know what you're thinking.  Do I really want to get mixed up with business people who poison each other?  I mean, I've had a few bosses in my time I would liked to have poisoned, but I never actually did it (despite certain court documents indicating otherwise).

What you have to understand is that in whatever country Mark Yaya is from, poisoning business associates is an accepted practice.  Probably.

Anyway, with the death of Mr. Adama Yaya, Mark Yaya was left with a bank account containing $10.7 million, American.  That's a lotta millions, brother!  Enough to keep me in beer and burritos for the rest of my life.

The problem is, poor Mark Yaya needs my help to transfer those millions from his country (whatever it is) to the United States.  My help!  What are the odds?

I don't know why Mark Yaya needs my help, and frankly, I don't care.  All I care about is that sweet, sweet money!

To get that, all I have to do is send Mark Yaya all my banking information; account numbers, access codes, stuff like that.  Ordinarily, I'd be a little nervous giving out that information to a stranger, but, c'mon, Mark Yaya's worth over $10 million!  Why would he be interested in the paltry sums in my meager accounts?  Besides, can anyone who calls you his "dearest one," really be considered a stranger?

As soon as Mark Yaya has my banking information, he promises to deposit the entire $10.7 million into my checking account.  This is going to come as a big surprise to Tim, who manages the credit union where I bank.  Until now, the largest deposit into my account was last May, when I put in $237.42, all at once.  Imagine Tim's surprise when my balance suddenly rockets to $10,700,237.42.  Maybe I'll get a free toaster.

Once the money's in my account - in my name, no less - Mark Yaya will get in touch with me and we'll decide how to split it up.  All I can say is, Mark Yaya is one trusting guy!  I'm sure we're going to be great friends.

Maybe I'll even invite him to spend some time on my yacht, assuming they like Jimmy Buffet music in ... um ... whatever country he's from.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or investment opportunities that seem - at first glace - to be too good to be true, e-mail mtaylor@midmich.net or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429.

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.

This may surprise those of you familiar with my granite-hard abs and pecs of steel, but - brace yourself - I was never much of an athlete.

Oh, I tried; I played softball and football in elementary and junior high, but by the time I had reached high school it was pretty apparent I wasn't going to make first string of, well, anything.
I boxed a little Golden Gloves at a west side gym near my house, but I wasn't all that great at that, either.  And after getting the dignity and a few teeth knocked out of me by a kid half my size I decided to retire from the ring while I still had molars and most of my pride.

Then in my senior year, I ran cross-country - the official sport of people who can't do sports. I only joined the team because I had a mad crush on Corrine Turner, a coltish brunette who also ran; I thought being a fellow runner might be an "in" for me.

It was, and as soon as Corrine agreed to go out with me, I quit the team. The coach, as I recall, was not especially distraught over my departure.

I also tried ski team for a while, but my heart wasn't really in that, either.

In college, I was too busy even to consider sports. Also, I was one of those "serious" kids who dress only in black, write bad poetry, and drink a lot of expensive coffee while thinking extraordinarily deep thoughts about life, the universe, and everything.

I was an arts nerd.

But back to my original point: When it comes to sports, I, for the most part, bite, and have always bitten.

Until now, that is.

While Googling the Internet the other day in search of instructions for canning banana peppers (a story for another time), I came across a site dedicated to Takeru Kobayashi.

Who  is Takeru Kobayashi? Good question.

Kobayashi (What a cool name! I'm tempted to change my own!) is the four-time winner of Nathan's Famous Hot Dog Eating Competition, held each year in New York.

Kobayashi, who hails from Nagano, Japan, recently choked down 53 1/2 wieners in just 12 minutes, breaking his own world record by three dogs.

Following the links on Kobayashi's Web site, I discovered there's an actual organization devoted solely to "competitive eating." I swear I'm not making this up.

It's called the International Federation of Competitive Eating (www.ifoce.com) and let me tell you, these folks take the sport SERIOUSLY.

There are hundreds of competitions held throughout the world each year, and it won't be long before you see me chowing down at a few of ‘em.

Being a newcomer to the sport, I won't try to jump right in against competitors like Takeru Kobayashi. I'll need to start off slow, do some training.

I plan to start tonight with a burrito and several beers. By this time next week, with a lot of hard work on my part, I hope to be up to two burritos. By summer's end, I'll be a burrito-eating machine!

Unfortunately, I could find no burrito-eating competitions. Still, burritos are a great training tool. If you can eat a dozen burritos you can eat most anything.

Once I'm in shape (the shape of a walrus is what I'm shooting for) I'll travel to Texas to compete in the jalapeno peppers-eating competition they hold there every year. I've been scarfing down jalapenos since my third birthday and can eat a jar of ‘em without the slightest hint of heartburn.

The pizza-eating contest in New England is likewise a natural for me, as is the Bratwurst-snarfling competition in Hanover, Germany.

Once I've earned my street creds at those events, I'll move on to some of the more exotic chow-downs: In April I can return to Texas to compete in the pickled quail egg-eating competition, then head over to Baton Rouge to see how many crawfish I can consume.

Finally, in October I'll head to Brighton Beach and join in the Pelemeni-eating contest that takes place there. This one may be tough for me, as I have absolutely no idea what Pelemeni is. I'm hoping it's not a squid-like sea creature; I won't eat anything with suckers on its tentacles no matter how fashionable it is.

After that, I'll choke back a few hundred Matzo Balls in New York, some Pomme Frites (just French Fries with a frou-frou name) in London, and finish up by downing my fill of Maui Onions in Hawaii in February.

By then, I figure I'll be ready to face off against the indomitable master of the wiener, Takeru Kobayashi.

I can see it now (somebody cue the music from "A Fistful of Dollars"):

A feverish sun marks high noon, basting the dusty, hoof-hammered boulevard in its enervated, washed-out glare.

Anxious, frightened faces peer from behind the streaked glass windows of the tavern, the church, the general store.

Pacing toward me, his worn boot heels softly rapping a steady cadence in the dirt, is Takeru Kobayashi, his face all but obscured in the shadow cast by the black Stetson drawn low over his eyes.

My eatin' hand trembles slightly, but Kobayashi doesn't notice. His eyes, like mine, are fixed on the table that has been set up in the middle of the road by the townsfolk.

That table is covered with wieners. Hundreds and hundreds of wieners.

Kobayashi and I reach the table at the same time. We stand there - two statues casting frozen, hippopotamus-like shadows across the sun-baked earth. The clock in the bell tower ticks off the final seconds until noon.

Somewhere, across the wind-whipped plain, a lone coyote cries into the desert sky. A falcon pinwheels overhead and a tumbleweed scuds across the boulevard. A billboard bearing the legend "Good Writers Avoid Hackneyed Clichés at all Costs!" flashes neon-bright in the distance.

And then, the clock strikes noon. We dig into the dogs, Kobayashi and I.

When the sun sets eight hours later, only one of us is still standing.

I would tell you which of us it is, but I'm hoping to market the whole thing to pay-per-view.

Let's just say that - in my scenario at least - I've finally found a sport I'm good at.

Do you have a comment, question or terrifying hot dogs ingredients list you'd like to share with Mike Taylor? Send it to: mtaylor@midmich.net, or via snail mail to Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429.