Generally it's frowned upon to invent a eating disorder. For instance, there's a reason you don't know the names of the guys or gals who first dreamed up bulimia and anorexia -- because they most likely not only failed to take credit for their abominable creations, they perhaps suffered from them on their own and decided to hide their afflictions away from the world.
Not so with Chewlimia, a hybrid eating disorder I came up with today. Someday the history books -- or history hovercraft/laser e-scrolls, or whatever people read or download into their brains in the future -- will cite this blog post alongside Isaac Newton's discovery of gravity after being bonked with an apple.
While recklessly stuffing my face with wings, cupcakes, cookies, chips, bean dip, pulled pork, rolls, and whatever else my unthinking hands could grasp, I caught a bad bite of something or other and spat it into the trash can.
Then it occurred to me: Why swallow at all, unless you're hungry? Despite what the Arizona State University cheerleaders would have you believe, there's no pleasure at all to come from swallowing. All the joy mankind gets from eating comes from the act of chewing. By combining the self-control of an anorexic with the lust for indulgence of a bulimic, you can become a chewlimic and enjoy the best of all worlds.
Granted, there's no need to become such a chewlimic that you under-nourish yourself and whither away. Just keep chewlimia in your back pocket for when you're at a party and are already stuffed, yet can't resist the siren call of hot wings and ranch.
I foresee chewlimia catching on and Super Bowl party hosts adopting the social norm of handing guests personal spitoons in order to save them from the indignity of rushing off to the bathroom, as well as filling garbage cans with unsightly, gooey masticated glop.
Together we can make this happen, folks. The more you know!