As an American person of America, a couple of times a year, I will be in the grocery store and suddenly decide I have to have a hotdog. There I am, faced with packages of meat tubes. Their excessively phallic nature immediately calls to my smutty hind brain which responds gleefully
while my responsible conscious shrieks “No, no, stop that. That is not what is in that wrapper. All that is in there is some pink thing that has somehow managed to qualify as “Meat,” and sodium by the bucket, chemicals I can’t even spell, and grief, sorrow and remorse.” Somehow, the hot dogs wind up as dinner that very evening and now the grief, sorrow, remorse and heartburn have all kicked in.
What is it with these nasty skinlesss sausages? Isn’t that phrase in itself enough to make one turn aside? But I remember loving them as a stupid small child, and thus I need to be retaught, a few times annually, that they are to food as Miley Cyrus is to singing. Anyway, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go knock back the traditional post-hot dog quaff: Alka Seltzer.