I can't help it, but I take hot dogs personally. I don't like to get on a soapbox much here on ssspunerisms, but I guess I'm about to. When someone eats a chicken wing or thigh, it is clear that an animal is being consumed. But a hot dog? Each one is an anonymous death on a roll, no indication whatsoever of who or what it was before it became smooth and pink, briny and bulging and bellybuttoned at the tip. And that just makes me so, so sad.
The dang shape doesn't help either--it's just so freakin' archetypal, so caveman, so primal… Who knows what sort of switches that eating something even vaguely resembling a schlong triggers in the subconscious mind? It's the same way that you often can't help staring at breasts, no matter your gender or age or sexual preference. They represent mother/lover/safety/pleasure--whatever thrills you, whatever kills you, you know? And would more or less hot dog-eating make for a better, more peaceful world? That not even Oscar Meyer could answer.
So, for all intents and purposes, and to put this poor blog post out of its misery, let's pretend this photo is of a dapper but sleazy tofu pup, hitting the town in style with his twin buns. Oh crap, all I wanted was to find a few words to go with something funny I saw on 22nd Street earlier today and it sounds like I'm describing Charlie Sheen.