Four short stories about hot dogs

What's that you say? There's disgusting shit in hot dogs? Like intestines, brains, skin and bone? Stuff scraped off the floor of the slaughter house?

Well guess what? I love them, so fuck off. If intestines, brains, skin and bone and stuff scraped off the floor of the slaughter house tastes like hot dogs, sign me up.

Look, I can't be choosing what to eat based on what grosses me out. I mean, if that was the case, I'd have to give up those things that grow up in mud and dirt and get sprayed with animal shit all the time. I mean, vegetables.

Anyway, eating hot dogs makes me feel closer to nature. Much like my Native American brothers, each time I eat a hot dog, I'm earning my right to be an omnivore by using every part of the animal.

But seriously, I had a couple hot dogs the other day and it reminded me of a couple hot dog stories. So here they come:

THE TIME A BABYSITTER FED ME A COLD HOT DOG, PART I

When I was a little kid, the neighbor kids I played with had a mom who ran an in-home day care. I'd go over there to hang out and play and occasionally get trapped into various day care activities. For instance, if I didn't run out of the house fast enough at nap time, I was forced into a bunk bed to "sleep" even though I was not a client of the day care and could have easily run across the street to the safety of my home where I didn't have to take naps since I was too old for naps.

But, I digress.

The point is, once I was over there at meal time, playing in the driveway and the mom approached me.

"It's almost lunch time," she said. "You want to eat here, or you want to go home?"

Ah, fair warning. This way I could run away before I was forced to eat. But, I decided to ask:

"What's for lunch?"

"Hot dogs," the mom said.

I LOVE HOT DOGS! I thought. So I decided to stay. I should have known better. Much like those asshole genies who promise to grant your wishes and then fuck you with little technicalities, this glorious hot dog lunch was served straight out of the refrigerator cold package. No cooking, no condiments. Just cold hot dogs.

In retrospect I should have just refused, yelled, "You tricked me!" and run across the street. Instead, since I was afraid of this day care mom, I humbled myself and ate the cold, mealy, dehumanizing, humiliating dog.

The worst part? It was delicious.

THE TIME A BABYSITTER FED ME A COLD HOT DOG, PART II

Part of the reason I didn't have to go to a terrible in home day care featuring naps and cold hot dogs was because my dad worked at the college and the college supplied an endless source of 18-22 year old women who were perfectly capable of coming over to my own house and taking care of me. Far from the frightening dictator across the street at the neighbor's house, these chicks were fun, pretty, and loved me. Some of them even had awesome boyfriends who could quote STAR WARS and throw me across the room.

Anyway, the queen of all of them was this chick named Sandy. Usually she'd come over and take care of me and my sister, but I remember one time in particular we got to go over to her house. She always did fun and creative stuff with us, but we knew entering her own home there'd be even greater stuff planned. She had a whole series of things for us to do, but the coolest thing was she had us go fishing for our lunch.

Here's how it went: we went up stairs. Right away this was awesome. Our house didn't have an up stairs, so just being on the second floor of a building was kind of amazing. Finally, like the Keatons or Seavers, we knew what it was like to run up and down stairs. There was a balcony overlooking the main room, and from there Sandy had us dangle strings over and "fish." We couldn't see what was down there, but it was Sandy with a variety of lunch items, tugging on our strings, tying food to the strings, and letting us haul them up.

I hauled up some of my booty and found -- a cold hot dog. Great. Here we go again. I shrugged my shoulders, steeled myself, and ate it. My sister looked at me in horror.

"What are you doing?!" she screamed.

"I'm eating lunch," I said.

Sandy called up from down stairs to let us know that we were supposed to gather our booty and bring it down so she could cook it in the kitchen when we were done fishing.

Oops (it was delicious).

THE TRAGIC STORY OF HOT DOG GIRL

When I was in junior high, a girl I was pretending to date told me about a slumber party she went to one time. According to her, a game of truth or dare broke out and as a result one of the girls at the party ended up inserting a hot dog into one of the more private body cavities. Despite the fact that this was the result of a dare and the only people around were supposedly her friends, from that point forward she was known only as -- Hot Dog Girl.

Mostly because that's what I called her after I heard the story.

I wonder if that really happened? Probably not.

Anyway, a few years later I met the legend in person and she was really nice. Fuck me, right?

HOW I GOT A PLATTER OF HOT DOGS FOR MY BIRTHDAY

At work, we have one little birthday treat each month for everyone in the department who had a birthday that month. Every month, an e-mail went out asking for the birthday people to make suggestions for what they wanted to snack on. After about a year at the company, I noticed that this usually ended up being either root beer floats (delicious!) or cheese cake (yum!). Once in a while, the birthday person would ask for something healthy, like a plate of vegetables (whatever).

As soon as I found out the person who did the birthday shopping went to Costco, I got it in my head that my dream birthday treat would be a platter of Costco dogs. You know, those really, really, really good hot dogs they sell at Costco for like $1.00 or something? I figured, they're cheap as hell -- just pick up like ten of them, bring them back to work, cut them in thirds or whatever, and set the platter out. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME.

So, one year, I requested them. Snack time came. No Costco dogs.

The next year, I waited and waited for the e-mail t come out asking for suggestions. Sure enough, the day I stayed home sick, the e-mail went out. Luckily, one of my co-workers had my back and requested Costco dogs on my behalf.

Still, no Costco dogs.

Years passed. I gave up hope.

Then, last year, what should I smell upon entering the office but the distinctive aroma of hot dogs a-cookin'! Sure, they weren't Costco dogs, but they were dogs, and they were there on my birthday.

And they were delicious.

1-976 "I'M A BITCH"

One blustery evening, Gorman and I went down to Zach's Shack, a Hawthorne eatery known for their delicious hot dogs. As we enjoyed our dogs, a drama began to play itself out as a man who appeared to be homeless, insane and intoxicated loitered outside the windows making threatening gestures. He eventually burst through the door and started shouting at the bar tender. The situation was rendered epic by the wind outside, which rushed through the doors, blowing newspapers all over the place as if they were tumble weeds and this was the old west.

The bar tender picked up the phone and started to dial, looking at the homeless guy with an expression that said, "Christ, it's you again."

"Go ahead man!" the homeless guy yelled. "Call the cops! I don't care! I'll even give you the number! 1-976-I'M A BITCH!"

He then repeated, "1-976 I'M A BITCH!" several times before storming back out. The bar tender put the phone down.

The homeless dude burst in a second time a little later, but a table full of giant tough guys with lots of tattoos and piercings instantly stood up and blocked his path, instantly backing him down.

The hot dogs were delicious that night.

When life won't give you food stamps, steal condoms

I have a saying:

"When life won't give you food stamps, steal condoms."

And what I mean by that is this:

"If you can't stumble into one thing ass backwards, just take whatever else is handy."

I'll illustrate by telling a parable of sorts.

There once was a young man who was fresh out of college, splitting his time between living with his parents in the town where he grew up and visiting his girlfriend in Portland about an hour's drive away. I'm not going to tell you who this young man was, but I will tell you that he was incredibly handsome and possibly the greatest writer of his generation (not counting Kaitlyn Burch and Ryan J. Gorman).

This young man was poor, and his girlfriend was poor. Not because of things they couldn't control. Mostly out of laziness. The young man was kind of looking for a job. Really, money wouldn't have been a problem if he just stayed with his parents all the time, but, he chose to use what little money he had to pay for the gas it took to get to and from Portland to visit his girlfriend.

At first, the young man and his girlfriend dealt with poverty by simply putting up with it and doing nothing. Eventually this got old. They heard mystical tales from friends about how gloriously easy it was to get food stamps. And, apparently, these days, they were food stamps in name only -- thanks to the miracles of technology, the stamps now came in the form of a less embarrassing debit card, the likes of which could buy things like Papa Murphy's take and bake pizza.

Faced with this knowledge, and having nothing else to do, the young man and his girlfriend decided to go down to the welfare office to apply for food stamps. For some reason the young man can't remember, his girlfriend could not apply -- so the young man was on his own. As soon as they entered the office, the young man regretted their decision. Confronted with a sitting room full of people who actually needed food, he felt like a fraud. But, he pressed on.

One thing the young man and his girlfriend had not taken into consideration was the fact that most of the stories about the ease of obtaining food stamps came from people who were in college. The young man quickly learned that the state looked more favorably upon poverty stricken youths who were otherwise occupying their time with attempts to better themselves. The state apparently did not look as favorably on people who were simply lazy.

Still, the young man met with a social worker. The social worker looked like a guy who would play a social worker in "The Cosby Show" or another similarly socially conscious late 80s / early 90s sitcom. He was simultaneously non-threatening and edgy. You could tell he was safe by the way he was overweight, but you could tell he was hip by the ear piercings and the funky tie. A basket of condoms sat on his desk as if to say, "Look, please take some of us before you knock someone up. Seriously."

The young man thought it might look better if he acted like he wasn't totally destitute -- he figured if he proved he had some source of income, he wouldn't look like a total loser and would therefore be more eligible for a leg up. He figured wrong. Turns out, the best way to get food stamps is to have absolutely nothing going for you. So, when the young man explained his parents some times gave him money for odd jobs and he earned a pittance as a freelance writer, the road to easy food stamps was instantly blocked with a shit load of paperwork.

At one point the young man felt so nervous and guilty that he eventually just decided to be totally honest.

"Are food stamps really for me?" he asked. "I mean, is it okay for me to come in here and try to get some? I need food and I'm poor and everything, but I'm not as bad off as people with kids or without parents who can help them. Is it messed up for me to even ask?"

"No," the social worker said. "That's a common misconception. We're here to help."

Still, it wasn't very convincing.

The social worker explained how the young man would have to not only look for a job, but take worksheets with him when he looked for a job that he would fill out and have people at the actual jobs he was looking for initial and sign. He'd turn this paper work in on a regular basis in exchange for some food stamps. On top of that, before any of this started, the young man was expected to take a seminar that would teach him how to properly look for a job.

On one hand, the young man thought this wasn't a big deal. He was looking for a job anyway, maybe a little bit of discipline wouldn't be a bad thing. This would simply help him be better at looking for a job.

On the other, if the young man was honest with himself, he knew there was no way in hell he was attending any seminar or getting any signatures.

The social worker eventually left his desk to get some more paper work. Alone with his thoughts and increasingly convinced there was no way he'd ever get food stamps, the young man began to fixate on the basket of condoms. He grabbed a handful and stuffed his pockets.

When the social worker returned, the young man asked:

"Are these condoms free for anyone to take?"

"Sure, help yourself," the social worker said.

So, the young man helped himself to a few more handfuls. A week or so later the social worker called and left a message to set up an appointment for a "how to find a job" seminar. So, the young man called and left a message in return to say thanks, but on second thought he wouldn't be attending any "how to find a job" seminars. Then he had safe sex with his girlfriend.

You see, when life won't give you food stamps, steal condoms.