Next came the biggest, most disgusting event of the day—the annual Camp Wannamorra Eating Contest. Every cabin got to enter two lucky campers, and whoever was left standing at the end got the gold. And probably a stomach-pumping.
We put in Bombardier and Dweebs—who was also the camp’s reigning champ. For such a skinny guy, he sure could eat. He probably packs it all in his crazy-long legs.
The Grossathon started with all twenty-four players lined up behind tables in the Chow Pit. Then the counselors brought out twenty-four blueberry pies. The first sixteen campers to get to the bottom of their plates advanced to the next round.
By the way, one of the rules of contest is that you’re not allowed to use your hands. If you even touch the food with a pinkie, you’re out of the competition.
Sherwood was the official judge. He stood in the middle of the Chow Pit and got the grossness started.
“Competitors ready? On your mark… get set… EAT TILL YOU DROP!”
The campers went at those pies like starving prisoners of war. I couldn’t even see anyone’s face.
For the first forty-five seconds, it was neck and neck. But then Dweebs started doing his thing.
Breathing? That was for wimps. By the time Dweebs finally sat up—at one minute and thirty-eight seconds—he was practically lapping the field as he had lapped up that blueberry pie.
Bombardier survived the first round too. And they both advanced. Now it was down to sixteen gluttons for punishment.
“Next round!” Sherwood yelled, and the counselors came out of the kitchen carrying bowls of… something very strange and gooey.
“What is that?” I asked Cav.
“Oatmeal and grits,” he said. “Every round gets a little harder.”