Piefesta: Will it Blend?

Wednesday, 9th February 2011.

A day which started like any other, but by the end of the day it would be remembered by many for the rest of their lives.

The Eating Club proudly presents the first ever Eating Club Event: “Piefesta!”

Background – A love of pie

One lazy Sunday afternoon, a bet was made. Details are sketchy, time had obscured the exact circumstances of its creation, but when finally the words were spoken they hung in the air and all around them went people went quiet with anticipation.

It was simple. Would a Piefection pie, without any additional assistance of lubricants, blend into something resembling a beverage? (Sorry for those of you who threw up reading that).

On one side of the fence was Dave. He sat firmly in the yes camp. He was sure a delicious smoothie or perhaps frappe would result, albeit a greasy one. The gravy and fat would assist in that goal. There was no doubt.

Bruce, though, was in opposition. His extensive knowledge of blended Big Macs suggested that the carbohydrate filled pastry would absorb too much liquid and would just be a pile of crumbs by the time it was finished. You would have to add a lubricating substance.

Neither side could agree. The crowd lay divided. There was only one sane option left to mankind.

The dare – A challenge set

A challenge was set. If the pie blended like Dave thought, Bruce would drink the pie. If the pie wouldn’t blend, Dave would have to add gravy till it did and then he’d drink the pie. However, the worst was yet to come.

Not happy with simply devouring a pie in a way god did not intend, the ante was upped. The contest would take place that Wednesday night, just before a Mansfield Sasquatches Touch Football game. Whoever drank the pie would have to play the game with the greasy ball of pre-digested meat slurry sloshing around inside them.

There would be no winners in this contest, only losers. Would they vomit, desperately trying to cover their mouths while chunder spurted from between their fingers as they ran toward the sideline? Only time would tell.

Above: This came up when I typed ‘time’ into google images.

The Day – It was a good day to die

6.00pm – Most of the spectators arrive. All but two of the Mansfield Sasquatches are in attendance. Nervous giggles and murmurs are exchanged. Excitement fills the air like electricity but there are more than a few grim looking faces. No matter what the result everyone was here to witness one of their team mates put their circulatory system in mortal danger.

6.05pm – A poll was taken among the crowd on who thought the pie wouldn’t blend and Dave would be horribly maimed. It’s heavily in Bruce’s favour. He looks jubilant (unpictured).

6.07pm – The rules were agreed upon by both competitors. Dave would be permitted to use his blender, and would use any implement he wanted to try and break up the pie as long as he didn’t add any liquids.

6.09pm – Defibrillator paddles charged.

6.10pm – The time for blending has arrived. The time limit is set at ten minutes. The pie goes in with a plop. The blender is readied.

6.11pm – The blender charges into action. The pie sits atop the blades unmoving, mocking Dave.

6.13pm – After some hard blending the pie is finally breaking up and turning in to what appears to be a sodden pile of crumbs. Dave’s face has gone noticeably pale with fear.

6.15pm – It’s Five minutes in and resultant mixture is dry and crumbly. Dave refuses to give up and pounds at the mixture with a wooden spoon.

6.18pm – It’s not looking good. On an completely related note, I feel a little ill.

6.20pm – And that’s time. The blended pie looks nothing like the ‘beverage’ described but a few days before. It does, however, look like man vomit.

Dave is not a happy boy, while Bruce swings from ecstatic to downright smug.

Piefesta results! Winner: No one attending such an event. Loser: David.

6.22pm – A disappointed Dave brings out the gravy and looks regretfully

at the blender. He adds about a third of the gravy and turns on the blender. Horrifyingly almost no change is realised.

6.23pm – More gravy is added. It darkens noticeably, resembling the black pit of hell from whence it was devised. There’s a slight increase in the fluidity of the mixture as well.

6.24pm – In desperation the last of the gravy is added. The blender works hard but it’s no good. The mixture is dense and thick, still unlike the promised drink. Questions of whether Dave would be required to add sauce arise, but it’s decided it’s up to Dave whether he wanted to add to the mix or not. He’d fulfilled his end of the bargain so as long as he consumed it all would be fine.

6.25pm – The mix is scooped out. It has the consistency of chocolate mousse, and a taste somewhere between delicious and downright filthy. Someone quips that it’s like the ultimate in protein energy drinks. The crowd try to encourage him by promising if he scores four or more tries tonight they’d all eat pie-slurry next week.

6.27pm – An unhappy Dave smashes down the pie-slurry while his mind is off in his happy place.

6.30pm – Our brave loser finishes the concoction and still has not spewed. He may have lost the challenge but he has won our hearts.

The aftermath – Post-pie wash up

While the cheers soon died down there was still work to be done. At 6.50pm the heroic Mansfield Sasquatches took the field. The anticipation was palpable, everyone eyes were plastered on Dave.

While I would love to report that David disgraced himself, spraying himself and the opposition with pie, it was not to be.

Despite the sloshing in his stomach, and the look of dread on his face he was a try scoring machine, getting three over the line (two disgracefully disallowed) before full time denied him the chance to make the rest of us repeat his experience the next week.

And now as you ponder your life, as we all do when we see a man try to drink a pie, I leave you with a few words from David, unashamedly stolen from a certain social network:

“Honestly, that was one of the stupidest things I’ve done in a while. I didn’t spew, but I tasted it more than once.

It was just such a disgusting paste. Like a thick, mushy yogurt-like substance that happened to taste of pie. It wasn’t even like eating mince, because the pastry was mashed into it and gave it a soggy, sad texture which diluted the flavour from “meaty and hearty” to “somewhat meat-like; and doughy”.

Driving to touch footy, I won’t lie: I had serious doubts about my ability to play a game. And then I busted out a try (and two more which were disallowed), so I guess pie-meal is the next gatorade.

The taste is now long-gone from my mouth, and the only wounds I nurse are psychological. They may never heal.”