I’d like to be Stylus Magazine’s first sponsored athlete. The magazine would pay me a monthly stipend, enough to cover my training costs and maybe help a bit with rent, and in turn I would compete in a variety of events while wearing Stylus regalia. I’m in decent shape (football in high school and club rugby in college), and I imagine I could be quite the competitor.

I’d need a marketing partner, also decked out in Stylus merchandise, to hold a boom-box above their head and play appropriate music while I worked—I’m imagining an attractive, college-aged woman, but really anyone with arms would do. Afterwards, we’d pass out flyers for the site and maybe a couple promo CDs. All songs played during the competition and my inevitable victory would be available at Stylus under the newly featured “Athletics” section.

Competitive Mechanical Bull Riding

I have no interest in getting trampled by some half-ton bull, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to ride one. Competitive Mechanical Bull Riding has all of the thrill with none of the consequences. Further, its varied speeds and electronic controls will allow me to drunkenly talk shit to its operator—on behalf of Stylus. “This piece of shit doesn’t have the power to buck Stylus, and you (points to operator) don’t have the fucking balls!” I’ll then take off my novelty “Stylus” shaped sunglasses and throw them to the crowd.

My partner would hold the boom-box above her head and play The Arrival’s “Tornado.” “Tornado” sounds enough like “Rawhide” to make you wonder if it was playing in the background when they wrote it, but not many songs can capture the intensity and faint nod towards Southwestern culture that encapsulates my mechanical bull riding.

Rock Paper Scissors

Last year’s purse for the national title weighed in at a hefty $50,000. I’d wear a Stylus T-shirt and cowboy hat and every time I beat someone’s throw, I’d make a remark. If I won with rock, I’d say “Stylus will always rock harder than you.” If scissors, I’d shout “Stylus will cut you down, son!” When I won with paper, I’d scoff a bit, shake my head condescendingly and remind my vanquished foe “Come on, you know Stylus has that shit covered,” and maybe pat him on the shoulder before turning away.

The boom-box would shake the room with Death From Above 1979’s “Blood on our Hands.” I want to have something rocking to dance to when I mock those I trampled on my way to the title. The audience members will be too distracted by my gyrations and winks to really hear the lyrics, but the heavy cymbals and the frequent references to blood will let them know I’m serious.

Competitive Eating

We have an obesity epidemic in this country. It’s time to embrace our troubles. Competitive eating is a sport on the verge of making it big. The annual hot dog eating contest is televised on ESPN and minor events are becoming mainstays at local fairs. I am more than willing to eat my way across the country, shouting out the Stylus name through half-chewed pieces of asparagus.

I would wait until my assistant began playing “Hungry Like the Wolf” before making my entrance in a full-body wolf costume with “StylusMagazine.Com” shaved into its chest. I wouldn’t speak to the crowd until after I had the trophy in my paws, at which point I’d answer the inevitable “Why a wolf?” question. “Because here at Stylus, we’re always on the hunt for good music,” I’d say with a wink and a point of my claw. Then I’d ask my former competitors if any of them wanted to step out for a bite to eat.

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