Dear Paul,

 

I am a shell of my BMR V two bills.  At best, 175 after a night of gorging and boozing.  I faced a Monster Sandwich in Montreal and after over 2 hours of alimentary expansion, lost.  A mighty whack to my ego.  But I've been itchin' since first I heard of the Finale and as any good Big Man's woman will do, Sara's been whispering things like "Size Matters".  At the Boston Expo, Larry Driscoll started egging me on.  The competition is steaming and temptation is brewing, like the grade D hot dogs and warm beers at the Powderhouse Pub.

 

In the past, I've considered it dishonorable to attempt BMR as a skinny and have toyed with the notion of gaining the lbs in honor of the Finale.  But I have come to the conclusion that Big Men can't be created in a few months, they have to be cured and pickled over a lifetime.  The laughter of the Big Man as he shadows the Skinny is justified- at my fighting weight I too remember laughing at them, toothpicks in a forest of Sequoias- but the time has come for me to accept the jeers and the heckling.  The desire to be a part of this Finale is stronger than my pride.  So, if you will take me back into the fold of your Big Men, accept me as a 170 lb shrimp, I will eagerly sign on for the Finale as a Skinny. 

 

And I'll take it seriously.  I'll do Matinee Idol-esque track workouts.  I'll perfect the dog dipping style of Cavage and Finley.  I won't forget to tip the waitress.  I'll beat as many other Skinnies as I can and I'll do this with the class of all those who have earned their Iron Hooves. 

 

Sincerely yours,

 

-Eric W. Fish.