The final seconds were ticking down, and the two behemoths were hunched over their plates, their juice-stained jowls dangling inches from the chicken wings. This was the moment the crowd of 12,000 screaming fans had been waiting for all morning.

The man named El Wingador had eaten 102 wings in 29 minutes, and now it looked like the effort was all in vain. The monster named War Pig who was sitting next to him had just moved into the lead with 103. A trip to Mexico was at stake. A year of celebrity and honor awaited the winner.

Suddenly, War Pig moved away from his plate and his face turned purple. The bevy of provocatively dressed women near him scurried in all directions. Major League umpire Eric Gregg moved closer, as if to call a close play at second base.

"He’s gonna blow!" I screeched. "Get back everybody!" For a brief moment, War Pig appeared to choke back the wave of nausea, but it was a fleeting victory.

The rest of the story of what happened last January at the First Union Spectrum is probably best left to the imagination. Let’s just say, War Pig did not get to see Mexico after all. As he finally surrendered to the distress, the crowd created a din that hadn’t been heard at the Spectrum since Bobby Clarke and Bernie Parent were hoisting a Stanley Cup at center ice.

It was a scene that had to be experienced to be believed. It was just a few minutes before nine on a Friday morning, and 12,000 people were going crazy because a fat man had just thrown up.

Welcome to Wing Bowl, the most bizarre, most incomprehensible event on the Philadelphia cultural calendar. It happens on the Friday before the Super Bowl each January, and it may very well be conclusive proof that the Apocalypse truly is upon us.

Simply put, Wing Bowl is a gathering of 22 of the biggest, fattest, craziest people we can find in the Delaware Valley, and 40 of the sexiest, most extroverted women, for a two-hour journey into the insane. This year the event is scheduled for the morning of Jan. 28 at the First Union Center, our first venture in the big house.

The fat guys are seated on a stage in the middle of the floor of the arena, and heaping plates are brought out for them. The girls, known as Wingettes, are responsible for keeping track of how many wings are consumed in 30 minutes and for replacing empty plates with full ones.

The rest is better witnessed than described. There are sideshows galore — cheering sections, marching bands, live chickens, team mascots and cheerleaders, visiting dignitaries, local celebrities, parade floats, a midget, a 600-pound man, a stirring rendition of the national anthem, girls in bathing suits (and occasionally less) and usually a poignant (and juice-soaked) award presentation presided over by the mayor himself.

"Only in Philadelphia could an event like this happen," said former Mayor Ed Rendell when he made the presentation at a recent Wing Bowl. "When I tell people in other cities about the event, they can’t believe it."

Actually, I’d like to tell you that we are all geniuses at the WIP Morning Show, but by now you’ve probably heard our program and know better. The whole thing began when we were trying to figure out a way to tap into the excitement of the Super Bowl. The best way, of course, is to have a team in the big game. But let’s be realistic here, OK? The Eagles stink.

So my co-host, Al Morganti, suggested one day early in 1993 that we have a wing-eating contest a couple of days before the Super Bowl. He reasoned that since Buffalo kept going to the game (and then losing it), maybe we should eat their specialty, chicken wings. The fact that people eat more chicken wings at Super Bowl parties than any other day of the year cemented our plan.

The first year we held the event in the lobby of the Wyndham Franklin Plaza Hotel, where we were doing our Friday remote broadcasts. There were six contestants, two of whom looked like they entered just to get a free meal. The grand prize was a dusty old hibachi we had dug out of the back of the WIP prize closet.

We expected a crowd of maybe 50 curiosity-seekers that first year. We got four times that — so big a crowd, in fact, that the hotel asked us never to hold it there again. They said something about fat guys eating wings in their lobby being bad for business in a posh hotel.

From there, the snowball just kept rolling. The next year we drew 800 in the middle of an ice storm at the defunct Market Street East, as a soft-spoken human vacuum named Heavy Kevvy emerged as the first real celebrity spawned by the event. Kevvy became our first (and only) two-time champion the next year before a howling mob of 2,000 fans (and 1,000 more who couldn’t squeeze into the nightclub) in 1995.

The Mummers stormed our stage at the Electric Factory in 1996, knocking us off the air for several minutes, but the crowd had doubled again, to 4,000. At the beginning of the contest, Kevvy stunned everyone by dropping to his knee, proposing to his girlfriend and then vowing to go on a diet. He never ate a wing that day.

At the urging of Mayor Rendell, we moved to the Spectrum in 1998, where a crowd of more than 10,000 braved torrential rains in the wee hours to watch the spectacle. The event just kept getting bigger and bigger. Sen. Arlen Specter showed up that first year at the Spectrum and ended up making fast friends with former boxer Randall "Tex" Cobb. Where else do you think you’d ever see that?

Last year was the best Wing Bowl ever, as more than 12,000 attended the closest, most intense battle yet. One of the contestants showed up wearing only a disposable diaper. Another chose to eat an appetizer before the contest began: live worms. A crazed fan smashed a six-pack of beer cans on his head, leaving a residue of beer on the stage. Exotic dancers joined the entourages of some of the contestants as they made their ceremonial procession into the arena.

And now the moment is at hand again, Wing Bowl 8. For the first time this year, official Wing Bowl T-shirts will be sold, with all proceeds going to the Philadelphia Recreation Department. Eric Gregg will be back as the commissioner of the event. The prize is the best ever — eight days and seven nights in Aruba.

Best of all, the rematch will happen. El Wingador and War Pig will be sitting in the middle of the First Union Center, elbow to elbow, ready to do battle again. Both have trained hard for the return bout. They’ve each gained 15 or 20 pounds. And they’ve got lots of competition, including our first man who tips — and often breaks — the scales at 600 pounds!

A lot has happened in the past year. El Wingador is marketing his own wing sauce now, and it’s doing very well. War Pig has lived a life of seclusion. The other contenders have stretched their bellies to the bursting point, hoping that their gluttony will lead to the biggest ovation they ever got in their lives.

Only one thing is certain already about Wing Bowl 8. When it is over, one of these men will experience the thrill of victory — and all of them will suffer the agony of indigestion.

Wing Bowl 8, First Union Center, Fri. Jan. 28. Doors open at 5:45 a.m. Admission and parking are free.

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