Hot dog hangover
In a society as health conscious as ours, what with all of our “low carbs” and smoke-free airplanes, it amazes me that hot dogs have survived this long. It’s pretty much common knowledge that hot dogs are made from ostrich testicles and spare tires, but wieners still remain as big a part of American culture as Wayne Newton. Or even Paul Revere. The reason for this, quite simply, is that hot dogs are downright delicious.
I have a long history with hot dogs. When I was a young boy, I used to eat them raw, right out of the package, until my mom would catch me and scream things like, “Get that raw processed meat product out of your mouth this second,” which was a rather ironic scolding considering she used to send me to school with “Lunchables.” Anyway, I don’t know why I ate them that way. I thought they tasted like bologna, except slimier. And I suppose that my metabolism at such a young age was able to process and digest raw chunks of ostrich testicles much better than it does today, because currently, that doesn’t seem to be the case.
Amazingly, I still eat hot dogs these days, but only if they’re cooked. In fact, every time I go to a baseball game, especially at Yankee Stadium, I have to have one. Of course, the second I bite into one, I feel a surge of something nasty trying to escape my intestinal track, at which point I clench my ass cheeks together tightly until I am able to reach the men’s room. Then I wait behind seven guys wearing Paul O’Neill jerseys, as I sway back and forth like Dustin Hoffman in “Rain Main,” until I obtain access to a graffiti-filled stall, which I soon discover was previously occupied by someone who was also unable to resist the calling of the hot dog. By the time I have flushed my predecessor’s waste, and have laid down some protective tp on the seat, I unleash what I like to call “hell,” all the while knowing that if I had been just one second later in reaching my destination, I would have been shamefully escorted out of the stadium by two security guards wearing atomic ponchos, with clothespins over their noses. And there’s nothing uncomfortable — nothing at all I tell you — about releasing hot dog-inspired diarrhea inside of a 6' by 4' stall with a faulty hinge, while 75 drunken Yankees’ fans are outside waiting their turn, and a father is potty training his young son in the stall right next to you. But the worst part is, whenever this happens, I always end up missing an integral part of the game, like for example, innings two through six.
At my old job as a project manager for a construction company, I was on a tight budget, and spent many a lunch hour at the 7 Eleven “buffet,” which consisted of two wrinkled dogs, a bag o’ chips, and a drink for just $1.99. (My favorite part was constructing my dogs at the 7 Eleven “fixins bar,” which had a keg-style tube of cheese with a pump — for easy cheese removal — and several compartments for lettuce, tomatoes, chili, used napkins, and other diseases.) Anyway, one day after chomping down this exquisite meal, I felt the urge to relieve myself rather immediately. When I got back to the site, I ran into one of the houses being built that was on the verge of completion, and did so in the upstairs bathroom. Unfortunately, I was in such a rush that I failed to notice that there was no water in the toilet, because the plumbing work had not yet been completed. This was a rather embarrassing dilemma, especially considering that I was, technically, “in charge” of this particular site. So I did the only thing I could — I blamed it on one of the laborers who didn’t speak English. Problem solved.
Yes, frankfurters have gotten me in a bunch of shit over the years, I guess you could say. Nevertheless, I have never been able to stray from my one-sided relationship with hot dogs. They’re just so gosh darn delicious. In fact, I was at a wedding reception recently, and when they started passing around those “wieners-in-a-blanket” at cocktail hour, I was ALL over it. Luckily for me, the music was loud enough to reach the basement restroom. I hear the bride looked nice.
I have a long history with hot dogs. When I was a young boy, I used to eat them raw, right out of the package, until my mom would catch me and scream things like, “Get that raw processed meat product out of your mouth this second,” which was a rather ironic scolding considering she used to send me to school with “Lunchables.” Anyway, I don’t know why I ate them that way. I thought they tasted like bologna, except slimier. And I suppose that my metabolism at such a young age was able to process and digest raw chunks of ostrich testicles much better than it does today, because currently, that doesn’t seem to be the case.
Amazingly, I still eat hot dogs these days, but only if they’re cooked. In fact, every time I go to a baseball game, especially at Yankee Stadium, I have to have one. Of course, the second I bite into one, I feel a surge of something nasty trying to escape my intestinal track, at which point I clench my ass cheeks together tightly until I am able to reach the men’s room. Then I wait behind seven guys wearing Paul O’Neill jerseys, as I sway back and forth like Dustin Hoffman in “Rain Main,” until I obtain access to a graffiti-filled stall, which I soon discover was previously occupied by someone who was also unable to resist the calling of the hot dog. By the time I have flushed my predecessor’s waste, and have laid down some protective tp on the seat, I unleash what I like to call “hell,” all the while knowing that if I had been just one second later in reaching my destination, I would have been shamefully escorted out of the stadium by two security guards wearing atomic ponchos, with clothespins over their noses. And there’s nothing uncomfortable — nothing at all I tell you — about releasing hot dog-inspired diarrhea inside of a 6' by 4' stall with a faulty hinge, while 75 drunken Yankees’ fans are outside waiting their turn, and a father is potty training his young son in the stall right next to you. But the worst part is, whenever this happens, I always end up missing an integral part of the game, like for example, innings two through six.
At my old job as a project manager for a construction company, I was on a tight budget, and spent many a lunch hour at the 7 Eleven “buffet,” which consisted of two wrinkled dogs, a bag o’ chips, and a drink for just $1.99. (My favorite part was constructing my dogs at the 7 Eleven “fixins bar,” which had a keg-style tube of cheese with a pump — for easy cheese removal — and several compartments for lettuce, tomatoes, chili, used napkins, and other diseases.) Anyway, one day after chomping down this exquisite meal, I felt the urge to relieve myself rather immediately. When I got back to the site, I ran into one of the houses being built that was on the verge of completion, and did so in the upstairs bathroom. Unfortunately, I was in such a rush that I failed to notice that there was no water in the toilet, because the plumbing work had not yet been completed. This was a rather embarrassing dilemma, especially considering that I was, technically, “in charge” of this particular site. So I did the only thing I could — I blamed it on one of the laborers who didn’t speak English. Problem solved.
Yes, frankfurters have gotten me in a bunch of shit over the years, I guess you could say. Nevertheless, I have never been able to stray from my one-sided relationship with hot dogs. They’re just so gosh darn delicious. In fact, I was at a wedding reception recently, and when they started passing around those “wieners-in-a-blanket” at cocktail hour, I was ALL over it. Luckily for me, the music was loud enough to reach the basement restroom. I hear the bride looked nice.
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