I’m as serious as a hot-dog-binge-induced heart attack, y’all. Hot dogs, those decadent poor-man’s sausages comprised of animal parts that I refuse to consider because I’d rather not have to ever have to acknowledge that I find processed pig anus to be painfully delicious, are totally where it’s at:
Mmmm, I’m already hungry for six of those bad boys. Maybe it’s the way the ketchup and mustard and pickle relish and onions mingle with the piping hot juiciness of the frank and the doughy goodness of the bun. Maybe I’m just going into withdrawal as I’ve realized that the wedding I’m going to tonight probably will be too classy to serve hot dogs. Or perhaps I’ve just lost my damn mind (as usual). Whatever the cause, right now I want hot dogs like Nomi Malone wants to dance. And not in the innuendo way.
Don’t even try to fool yourself into believing the hamburger is a more American culinary institution. There is nothing American about a beef patty that’s named after German city. Clearly, assuming the hamburger is more inherently American is quite simply anti-hot-dog propaganda. It’s falsities about frankfurters! Don’t believe the lies!
Think about it: All you have to do is put hot dog in one hand and a sparkler in the other and you’ll look like you were born to celebrate July 4th. People will be like, “Damn, girl, you’s all set to celebrate our independence from British rule the alien invasion!” Bill Pullman, America’s greatest fake President, knows exactly what I’m talking about:
I bet you he celebrated with a hot dog. Don’t you think you should too?
All hot-dog-craving craziness aside, though, Happy Independence Day, y’all! Make good choices in your celebratory boozery, and by “good choices,” I mean “have a hot dog!”