LIFE’S WONDERS PRAISED IN SUGGESTIVE, ODDBALL, AND NONSENSE WAYS
As a counterpoint to my usual cynical antics, I’ve committed myself to a weekly, year-long discussion of my life’s joys. But, never one for the more traditional approaches, I intend to keep things a little off side, a tad outlandish, and always one foot outside of polite company.
You’re probably expecting me to make a penis joke.
And it wouldn’t be that hard . . .
But the truth is that my adoration for these tubular throat pluggers is completely in earnest. At one point in my adolescence I used to eat three hotdogs for lunch. Every day. And, no, those weren’t gourmet dogs of supreme nutritional value. They were no name hotdogs microwaved for a minute, and then eaten on folded slices of bread.
Have I mentioned that I don’t have a particularly refined palate? You already knew that, didn’t you?
Now, years later, I eat hotdogs only on rare occasions, though not because my appetites have matured. Mostly, it’s the dogs to buns dilemma. I understand the business strategy behind selling more hotdogs per pack (10) than buns per bag (8) – it perpetuates the need to keep buying more and more of both — but it’s damn irritating. And, generally, I like to keep irritating out of my mouth.
But, seeing as the barbeque season is back in full swing, I’ve found myself craving these nitrate-filled meat logs in a way I haven’t in quite a long time. And while hotdogs may not be as sophisticated a choice as, say, barbequed steak or pineapple-glazed bananas (which isn’t actually a thing, but maybe should be), there’s no denying that they’re pretty darn delicious.
I mean, who doesn’t like six or eight inches of hot meat filling their mouth? What a salty extravaganza. I mean, come on.
Did you miss last week’s entry on SCRAPYARD BOYS? Catch up here.
For a full list of all HOT DAMNs, click here.