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One year ago today, I published my first post here on Anyone Can Enter.

In the 12 months that followed, I’ve stuck to my mission of competing in at least one offbeat, obscure, wacky, or just plain ridiculous event each month, so long as anyone can enter. Along the way, I have succeeded (winning a national championship in egg tossing) and failed (in nearly everything else). More than anything, I’ve had fun at every step. Even when I was earning the title Last Ass in a pack burro race in Colorado or listening to my friends crack on me for failing to complete the Krispy Kreme Challenge.

The way I see it, this occasion deserves a professionally baked cake. It may seem crazy—buying a cake to celebrate the anniversary of a blog—but is it really any crazier than jumping into a freezing cold lake on New Year’s Day or throwing yourself down a hill after a wheel of cheese? I don’t think so.

Plus, this blog is responsible for more than a series of wacky adventures. Back in that first post, I set a few additional goals. One was to lose about 20 pounds. The other was to run a marathon. I’m happy to say that I have exceeded my weight loss goal and that in four days, I’m running in the Tobacco Road Marathon.

As for next year, I doubt I can stand to lose 20 more pounds and I’m not sure I can continue competing in one event each month. But I do plan to maintain this blog. Sometime after the marathon, expect a more sentimental retrospective, complete with a year-in-review video and a more detailed plan for the future of Anyone Can Enter.

For now, let’s take a look at the first year of Anyone Can Enter by the numbers…

11,975—All-time blog views (not including my own views)

8,667—Miles traveled to and from events

6,913—YouTube views

1,776—Stairs climbed at the CN Tower Climb

725 Tossing For Hunger YouTube views

650—Approximate number of people who endured my attempt to holler at the National Hollerin’ Contest

365—Days my awesome, beautiful wife Carie has had to put up with all this nonsense

350—Most blog views in one day, largely thanks to @darrenrovell

349—Second-most blog views in one day, largely thanks to Penn Holderness

335—Comments you’ve made on the blog

253—Miles I’ve run since October, when I started training for the Tobacco Road Marathon

149—Votes I lost by to the eventual winner of the News & Observer’s Ugly Sweater Contest

145Tweets posted

86—Percentage of people who voted for me to shave my head for the Warrior Dash

73—Twitter followers

62—Feet between Mike Hepp and I when we completed our winning toss in the National Egg Toss Championship

50—Approximate number of people who jumped into a freezing cold lake with me on New Year’s Day

42—Stone skips registered by Russ Byars at the Pennsylvania Stone Skipping Tournament, 27 more than my best effort

25 (and counting)—pounds I’ve lost since starting this blog

15—Trees we planted during the Asheville Idiotarod

10.5—Doughnuts I managed to eat at the Krispy Kreme Challenge, 1.5 less than the necessary dozen to complete the challenge

10—Men, including me, who entered the Idaho Springs Pack Burro Race

9—Men who finished ahead of me in the Idaho Springs Pack Burro Race

4—Orange habanero peppers I ate during the Bailey Farms Chile Pepper Eating Contest before bowing out to the Toothless Pepper King, who ate 14

3National champion coaches who declined my request for advice leading up to the National Egg Toss Championship

1—National championship won without the help of national championship coaches


My delusions of grandeur began weeks after attempting my first castrato soprano holler in the comfort of my own home and days before mounting the rickety steps to the stage at the 42nd National Hollerin’ Contest in Spivey’s Corner.

Maybe, I thought, I could actually win. Maybe my picture and quotes would adorn the front pages of small-town newspapers scattered across eastern North Carolina. Maybe I’d even receive the coveted invite from David Letterman to appear on The Late Show. Or maybe I’d hold out for Conan O’Brien’s new show in the fall. Sure, I was a long shot, but I’d done my homework. I knew that hollerin’ was much more than a battle of vocal decibels. As an ancient form of communication, I knew that hollerin’ was once a vital part of life. Long before e-mail and telephones, hollerin’ was a lifeline to the neighbors and it provided a diversion while working long, hot hours on the farm. And I knew that the people of Spivey’s Corner—a sleepy crossroads, miles from nowhere, where the contest takes place on the third Saturday every June—had little respect for those who disrespect their heritage.

I had mastered the distress holler, a short but loud ambulance-like sound used as a cry for help. I was pretty good at an old time expressive holler, a minute-long song-like series of falsetto hoots and yodel sounds. And I was ready to bring something new to this contest: the N.C. State fight song and a soulful rendition of Jesus Loves Me. If only some of the former hollerin’ champions decided to skip this year’s contest to stay out of the 90-degree heat, maybe I actually had a shot at winning.

The day of the contest arrives, and with less than an hour until game time, the announcement of the judges gives me two promising signs. One of them is an N.C. State graduate. Another is Gregory Jackson, a four-time Hollerin’ Contest champ. That means there is one less former champion competing. But it doesn’t help ease my nerves. I’m confident in my routine, but not my poise on stage. My previous stage experience includes several pre-voice-change youth choir shows and an eighth-grade play in which I successfully portrayed my Southern-drawled, Coca-Cola-addicted math teacher, Ms. Thornton. In the former, I blended in with the crowd. In the latter, I wore a dress, chugged a 3-liter Coke, and produced a 3-second-long burp. Each of these events, however, lacked judging and local media coverage.

As the Conch Shell Blowin’, Whistlin’, Junior Hollerin’, and Teen Hollerin’ Contests come and go, pressure builds in my stomach. I sneak to the parking lot to find some solitude and clear my thoughts. Unfortunately, a fellow competitor, who parked next to us, is also at his car. And he’s in the mood to chat. About everything. Especially the story of his life. My pithy responses are an ineffective means of deterring him.

“Yeah, I gotta’ wear these hot boots because I broke my furnal bone,” he says.

“Interesting,” I say.

“I was supposed to be at a memorial service today for a friend, but I figured I’d come holler, instead.”


“You see that girl walkin’ round here in the green dress? Boyy-ee, she was sumpthin’ else!”

“Must have missed her.”

“Yeah, my ex-wife has cancer. I take care of her. We’re still real close.”

“That’s great.”

This drags on for at least 10 minutes. Don’t get me wrong, my new friend seems like a great guy. I’m just not in the mood to banter. I decide that it might be a good idea to join the audience again and watch the Women’s Callin’ Contest.  I’m pleased to hear that none of them perform any of my hollers. After the Women’s Contest, the emcee asks the men to gather behind the stage. Calling it a stage, by the way, is doing it a favor. It’s actually a hollowed-out tractor-trailer car.

I don’t recognize the first few contestants. But the former champions trickle in.

First, there’s four-time winner Kevin Jasper. The winner of the contest in 2009, Jasper was the first person I contacted for hollerin’ help. Three weeks earlier, he advised me to listen to some of the old time hollers on the album Hollerin’ and to throw a hymn into my routine. Many of the contestants holler Amazing Grace, he told me, so he stays away from it. Instead, he often hollers How Great Thou Art. Best to stay away from that one, too, I thought. He also mentioned that he would probably do an old time holler that he once performed over his father’s grave. I decided not to ask about that holler, assuming that I’d hear it in due time.

Jasper greets me with a welcoming handshake behind the stage. Moments later, I notice Larry Jackson, a seven-time winner, and Tony Peacock, a one-time champion. I recognize them both from news stories and videos I’ve seen online. They introduce themselves and offer me luck. I now realize that I’ll need plenty of it. For I am walking in the footsteps of hollerin’ royalty. So much for my hopes for a weak field.

I walk to the corner of the stage to peek at the crowd. As the first contestant performs, I pretend that it’s me. And then I hear it. The point of no return.

“My friends, help me welcome to the stage, from Raaaaa-leigh, North Carolina, contestant six zero two, Mr. Jon Page!”

Somehow, my legs confidently carry me on stage. Behind a tinted pair of aviator sunglasses, I find Carie and my dad, the only two familiar faces I know in this audience of strangers scattered across the lawn on folding chairs. While I’ve practiced my hollers for hours, I never wrote a script of what I was going to say between them. I figured it might be best to wing it. I take a deep breath and start talking before I even reach the microphone.

“Hello Spivey’s Corner! I’ll tell you what, it’s a pleasure to be here. This is my first Hollerin’ Contest and I thought I would be nervous, but you people are far too beautiful for anybody to be scared of. Now if I had been in trouble, I could have done a distress holler that goes like this: wuppp, WHEWWWW-EWWWWWWWW…”

I’m off without a hitch.

I transition from my distress holler to my old time expressive holler. Considering that I only started perfecting it 5 days before the contest, it goes incredibly well.

Next, I inform the crowd that my own expressive holler will be the N.C. State fight song. I don’t get much of a reaction from the announcement. I start to worry that there might be more University of North Carolina fans in this audience than State fans, but I start, nonetheless. Halfway through, I make eye contact with a woman in the crowd who is clearly displeased. It’s probably because of my hollerin’, but I chalk it up to an upset stomach from too much barbecue. Either that, or she’s a Tar Heel. I finish the fight song to a smattering of cheers. In an unplanned move, I raise my arms and make the Wolfpack wolf-chomping symbol with my hands. “Yeah, Wolfpack,” I say. “You know what I’m talking about.” I feel like an idiot for saying, “You know what I’m talking about.”

Finally, I close with what I call something we can “hopefully all agree on,” and I belt out a soprano rendition of Jesus Loves Me that would make Justin Timberlake jealous.

Two more contestants give it their best, and then it’s Jackson’s turn, and he’s clearly a seven-time national champ for a reason. At one point in his routine, he performs a holler in which he is hollerin’ as he breathes IN and OUT.

Jasper is next, and he’s incredible. I’m enjoying the artistry of his hollerin’ too much to notice that my dreams of placing in the contest are evaporating. Also, I start to feel like a jerk.

“The last holler I’d like to do, and I’ll do two of them, is a holler that I did over my father’s grave last summer with my mother,” Jasper says. “She asked me to do it because I’d done it the year that he passed, after his funeral. And I’m going to do a part of Mr. Floyd Lee’s Old Timey Holler.”

Wait a second, I think, Floyd Lee? I know that name. Why do I know that name? Oh no! I know that name because he’s the guy whose holler I mimicked for my expressive holler! This is the holler Jasper did over his father’s grave? Seriously? Why didn’t I just ask him that in the first place?

My embarrassment is magnified when Jasper starts hollerin’. There’s no way to properly quantify how much better his version is than mine, but I’d start by guessing that it’s 50 times better. At least.

Finally, Peacock impresses the audience with a variety of hollers, including his own personal creation. I realize it will take a miracle to win. Jasper confirms this when he approaches me behind the stage.

“Jon, congratulations. You did a great job,” he says. “I really hope you come back again next year because you really have potential. Now, you might not place today. There are three national champions here, after all.”

Yeah, tell me about it, I think. But, wait… what did he just say? Did he just say I did a great job? And he’s telling me I should come back next year? Before I can say anything else, the emcee invites all the contestants on stage and announces the winners.

Jackson is the second runner-up. Jasper is the runner-up. Peacock is the champion. And I’m going home empty-handed.

Or am I?

Behind the stage, Jackson echoes Jasper’s sentiments. So does Peacock. The newly crowned champion of the National Hollerin’ Contest is congratulating me—and he’s the one holding the trophy!

I start to think these guys are simply messing with me, that this is nothing more than some sick, twisted form of hollerin’ hazin’. I’m chatting with my friend from the parking lot when I see Gregory Jackson, the aforementioned four-time champion judge. He locks eye contact with me from 20 yards away. His face is void of expression as he plots a direct path towards me. Perhaps he is preparing to do what Jasper was too nice to do: tell me that I’m an inconsiderate jerk for stealing Jasper’s old timey holler. I feel like a weak prey being stalked by a great hunter.

Jackson puts one hand on my right shoulder. He shakes my hand with the other. Circulation is temporarily halted in my fingers.

“I just wanted to tell you personally what a fine job you did,” Jackson says. “You showed us a lot today. Keep practicing and please come back next year.” My new friend from the parking lot is still standing next to me, but Jackson has yet to acknowledge him. “Seriously, Jon. You’ve got it, and I think you have great potential.” Finally, Jackson looks at my friend. “And you … too. Come on back.”

Minutes later, a teary-eyed spectator thanks me for hollerin’ Jesus Loves Me.

It hits me. I really wasn’t as terrible as I thought. Sure, I wasn’t great, but I wasn’t bad. And these hollerin’ champs weren’t hazin’ me, after all. So what if I wasn’t going home with a trophy? I was taking something more valuable: some hard-earned respect from the kings of hollerin’.

And maybe my dreams of hollerin’ fame weren’t so crazy. Maybe they were just a year early.

Contestants 606 and 602: four-time Hollerin’ Contest champion Kevin Jasper and rookie hollerer Jon Page.

Contestants 602 and 607: rookie hollerer Jon Page and National Hollerin’ Contest Champion Tony Peacock.

Special thanks to Kevin Jasper, Tony Peacock, Larry Jackson, Gregory Jackson, and all the other competitors at the Hollerin’ Contest. They are truly talented, genuinely great people. I hope to holler at you guys next year.


Now that I’ve competed in my first National Hollerin’ Contest, I feel adequately qualified to pen a first timer’s guide to hollerin’. As I see it, there are 10 basic steps to go from hollerin’ mess to hollerin’ success.

1. Respect your hollerin’ elders. When I first told people I was competing, many of them assumed that the hollerin’ contest is a shouting match. Far from it. Hollerin’ is possibly one of the oldest forms of communication in the world. Before telephones, hollerin’ was the only way to let your neighbors know that you were OK, or that you needed help, or to let your girlfriend know that you were half a mile from her house. Otherwise, she might not clean up for your arrival, and she’d stink of tobacco. So each holler is as different as the message it carries. Some hollers are as intricate as opera songs, so don’t show up simply expecting to scream, like some folks have in the past.

2. Buy the album Hollerin’. It’s going to be your hollerin’ bible. Without it’s nuggets of wisdom, you don’t stand a chance.

3. Listen to the album, lots. Listen to it in your car, at home, at work, wherever you can.

4. Practice, lots. Practice in your car, at home, at work, wherever you can. Learning some of the more complicated hollers takes time. And energy. And the patience of your spouse. Or roommate. Or neighbor. Or dog. You’re probably going to be really bad, at first. Hell, you might be really bad by the end of it, too, but you’re going to be really bad at first. Even if you’re a decent singer, learning some of the hollers is like learning a new language. To make it easier on myself, I broke one 45-second holler into seven smaller parts using an audio editor. Then I listed to one section at a time, over and over and over until each individual track sounded like static. In time, however, it all started to make sense.

5. Practice more.

6. Develop your routine. Once you’ve got a few weeks of practice under your belt, it’s time to start piecing together your routine. In the National Hollerin’ Contest, you’ve got 4 minutes. If you go longer, you’re disqualified. There seems to be no official standard that the judges are looking for, but you’ll be safe if you talk about the history of hollerin’ and throw in a hymn.

7. Practice your routine in front of a few trusted family members or friends. Performing for actual people is a lot different than performing in the car or the shower. Plus, your friends might be able to give you some helpful advice.

8. Congratulations! You’re nearly ready to compete in the National Hollerin’ Contest. But make sure you’ve got the following before leaving for the contest: giant sun umbrella, sunglasses, hat, chairs, cooler full of water, sunscreen. Summers in North Carolina are hot. And there’s no shade at the Hollerin’ Contest, so you should be prepared to battle the sun.

9. Keep practicing. Just because you’re already at the contest doesn’t mean you can’t practice a little more.

10. Have fun. If you’ve followed steps 1-9, then you’ve got a decent chance of making a respectable showing at the Hollerin’ Contest. Just don’t take yourself too seriously. You’re probably not going to win your first competition, so you might as well enjoy yourself. At least, as much as you can in 90-degree heat.

So it turns out I’m not a national champion in hollerin’. Or a runner up. Or a second runner up.
I could care less.
Competing in my first National Hollerin’ Contest was worth every minute of practice over the past few weeks and every drop of sweat I lost in Spivey’s Corner on this hot afternoon.
More to come soon, including a video of me in action.

I just spoke to the national whistlin’ champion.
Who cares if the whistlin’ contest doesn’t start for another hour? She’s the only person who entered.
Winning the Hollerin’ Contest, however, won’t be so easy. When I registered, there were at least 8 entries. That might not seem like a lot, but that field is likely to include every hollerer whose won a national title in the past 20 years.
I might need to go practice once more.


I’m here in Spivey’s Corner at the 42nd annual National Hollerin’ Contest. And it’s hot. Ridiculously hot.
I’ve heard the turnout for this all-day event of food, fun, and games can suffer because of the heat. Now I see why. We’re basically in the middle of farming country without a hint of shade, unless you brought a beach umbrella, which we did not.
Although the men’s hollerin’ contest doesn’t begin until 6, I’m glad my dad and I made it out here early. Mainly because I wanted to make sure that I made the 2 p.m. registration deadline, but also because I just ate one of the tastiest barbecue sandwiches ever.
After spending an hour in the heat, I was starting to get frustrated. My new Anyone Can Enter t-shirt is already drenched in sweat. Fortunately, my dad snapped me out of my funk, forcing me to take three throws at some stranger in a dunking booth. I took her out on the third throw.
Now if only the Hollerin’ Contest could be that easy.


After weeks of moderately casual practice, followed by five days of intensive cramming, my day of reckoning has arrived.

In a few hours, I will compete in my first National Hollerin’ Contest. (Game time is at 6 p.m.)

Am I ready? Mostly.

Am I nervous? Sorta’.

Am I going to leave everything I’ve got on the hollerin’ stage? Damn right.

If cell phone service allows it, I’ll be posting from the event. If you’d like to stay in the loop, subscribe to the blog through e-mail via the handy widget on the top left of this page.

Either way, I promise a full recap of the event, including video, sometime tomorrow.

Here goes nothing…

My dad has many gifts. He’s fluent in several languages and dabbles in a few more. He built his own organ, and he plays it quite well. He can go years without so much as sniffing a driving range, then borrow a rusted-out set of golf clubs and outplay a sad sap who’s been practicing weekly with a new set of Callaways. He has a PhD and is an ordained minister.

But he also happens to have a magnificent voice. Which makes him the closest thing I have to a vocal coach.  Before registering for the National Hollerin’ Contest, I never thought I’d have a need for one. But then I spoke to four-time champion Kevin Jasper. He asked me if I could carry a tune. “That’s all that matters,” Jasper said. “We’ve got some national champions that can’t really carry a tune. If you can carry a tune, you’ll be fine.” The more I thought about it, I realized that singing along with my car radio probably isn’t what Jasper meant by carrying a tune.

My dad, however, has a voice that launched a national opera. It’s true. While my parents were missionaries in Thailand, my dad landed the lead role in the Bangkok Symphony Orchestra’s maiden production of Madame Butterfly. It was 1984, and it was Thailand’s first opera. Ever.

I was only 3, so my memories of his performance as B.F. Pinkerton are fuzzy. I only remember wondering why he was parading around on stage with another woman. And why wasn’t my mom jealous? Fortunately, I don’t need to remember much. A reporter for The Bangkok Post wrote all I really need to know about my dad’s performance.

In the final scene when Butterfly chose to die with honour rather than live in disgrace, Pinkerton’s cry of despair, guilt and shame made the audience forget that they were watching an opera but witnessing a live scene and were moved to tears.

Not only were the reviews good, but check out these pictures from the paper and the program. At 41, my dad looked fitter and better than I do at 29.

Surely I could learn a lot from someone who moved a sold-out audience to tears, even if he’s never hollered. So on Tuesday night, I performed a few short, uncomplicated hollers for my dad. I expected the worst.  Honestly, I welcomed it. Maybe a vocal boot camp was just what I’d need to properly prepare myself for the contest.

Instead, my dad nearly applauded when I finished. OK, I thought, so maybe my hollerin’ is coming along. But what about the crowd? I’m not exactly accustomed to performing in front of an audience. How could I possibly prepare for that? “Practice,” he said. “Practice. Practice. Practice. You practice so much that when you actually perform it just feels like another practice.”

So that’s what I did. I went straight home and practiced. For an hour. By the time I was done, I’d practiced myself silly. So silly that I almost unlearned everything I thought I had learned. On Wednesday night I did the same, and confused myself even more.

Finally, tonight something clicked. I’ll admit, I’m still not much of a threat to the kings of hollerin’, but I’m starting to find my rhythm. Maybe no one will notice that I can’t actually carry a tune.

Check out this video to see some more video footage of me hollerin’. At first, it’s not pretty. Later, it’s slightly better, but still not that pretty.

Kevin Jasper is a rarity among national champions. While most elite athletes and performers shield themselves from encounters with the common man, Jasper actually seeks the interaction.

When I was looking for some advice from a National Hollerin’ Contest champion a few weeks ago, I didn’t have to look far. The four-time Hollerin’ champ has a web site (the aptly named with his personal e-mail address and home phone number listed on the home page.

Intrigued, I fired off a late-night e-mail to solicit some advice. But I was convinced that this was merely some sort of PR ploy to make Jasper seem human. I imagined a computer program would read that e-mail before sending me an auto-reply form letter from Jasper. A few days later, I thought, I might even receive a 5×7 black and white facsimile-signed photograph of Jasper, with some additional information regarding his fan club.

Instead, I was surprised to wake up the next morning to a personally written (and funny, I might add) note from the man himself. A week later, on Memorial Day, Jasper and I chatted on the phone for an hour. Yes, you read that right. A four-time national champion took an hour out of a national holiday to chat shop with some random guy he met on the Internet.

Thanks to his advice, I’m half as nervous about competing in my first Hollerin’ Contest on Saturday.

Anyone Can Enter: How did you get interested in hollerin’?

Kevin Jasper: I had seen a winner or two of the contest on the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson back in the mid 70s, and I thought to myself, here’s a local yokel from North Carolina getting to meet Johnny Carson and be on his show. I filed that back in my brain and thought about it over and over, off and on for years. I moved away from North Carolina and lived in California, Kentucky, and Virginia, but I finally moved back to North Carolina in 1994. Three years later, I went down to the public library and asked what the Hollerin’ Contest was all about. The reference librarian came back with the name of the fellow who started the contest. His name was Ermon Godwin Jr. I called him up and he told me about the CD Hollerin’ and told me that would be a good way to learn.

Anyone Can Enter: So when you got the CD did you just start mimicking everything you heard?

Jasper: Yeah, I was trying to. As you’ve heard, it’s not easy to do some of them.

Anyone Can Enter: What do you remember about your first contest?

Jasper: The first year I did a few simple things. I couldn’t even tell you what I did. The second year, I started listening to it a little more and tried some of the more complicated hollers like Rollin’ Waters and Mr. Leonard Emmanuel’s Ditty.

Anyone Can Enter: How did you perfect the more advanced hollers?

Jasper: I lived in Burlington at the time. I quit my job and ended up taking a contract job at Wake Forest University in Winston-Salem. I was driving about 50 miles one-way. I recorded Ditty on a tape seven times in a row so I could listen to it and try to mimic it as I was driving in my car. That’s where I did most of my practicing after 1999.

Anyone Can Enter: I’m somewhat nervous about all this. Any more advice for a first timer?

Jasper: Well, if you take this seriously, and you listen to the CD, you’re going to do fine. People come up there and think it’s just how loud can you holler. There are people that come up there and make total asses out of themselves. That’s kind of part of the thing. We expect that. We kind of want that, but you’re taking it a lot more seriously. You’re not going to make an ass out of yourself. Of course, you might not win.

Training for two national championships that have absolutely nothing in common, except that they take place within a week of each other, may sound like a completely foolish idea. In fact, it probably is.

Or maybe it’s just plain brilliant.

Especially if you’re only half-decent in one event, half-awesome in the other, and there’s a chance that no more than 20 competitors will show up for each one.

I’d like to think that I’ve made some great strides in my preparation for the National Hollerin’ Contest. Unfortunately, I think that I’d simply like to think this. You see, until a few weeks ago, I’d never hollered in my life. And unlike my dad, who has international opera experience, I’ve never been much of a vocalist. So perhaps I was overconfident this weekend when I decided to perform a few intermediate-skilled hollers for Carie, which elicited the following reactions:

“You sound good, but maybe it would be a good idea if you asked your dad for some voice lessons.”


“It sounds sort of like someone is twisting your balls.”

Luckily, it doesn’t feel like that.

But here’s the good news. Not that many people usually show up for the Hollerin’ Contest. I’ve heard that several years ago, only four people competed. That means that there’s a somewhat reasonable chance that I could show up and have a 25 percent chance of winning. Maybe.

Even if I fail miserably, there’s another national championship opportunity awaiting me the next week. And there’s a reasonable chance that I’ll be part of the winning team. My partner Mike and I practiced again today, this time in a thunderous downpour. So far, we’ve completed 60-plus-feet throws in the following conditions: nearly dark, extremely hot, rainy, and slightly drunk.

On a side note, after Mike and I attempted a throw of more than 150 feet, count me in the party of folks who believe a successful egg throw-and-catch combination of more than 200 feet, let alone the alleged world record of more than 300 feet, is humanly impossible. Especially bogus, is this video in which a guy throws an egg as far as he can and watches it safely land on the ground. He might as well have been throwing that egg to Bigfoot. On Jupiter. With Elvis behind the camera.

But on the off chance that it isn’t bogus, and that this guy shows up at the National Egg Toss Championship with a blue-suede-shoed partner, I suppose Mike and I will keep practicing.

And I’ve scheduled a voice lesson with my dad for Tuesday night. I hope he’s ready to work a miracle.

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