PUT IT ALL ON RED

Here we are, buddy. Just you, me, a wide assortment of fixin’s, and an ironic bib with a hot dog eating a human in a bun. You’ve had a quite a journey from factory to store, fridge, and finally grill. Now the time has come for you to fulfill your destiny. You, my friend, are going to be one delicious hot dog.

I can see you dripping with anticipation. I don’t know if it’s my eagerness for that first succulent bite, the waves of rich barbecue smoke wafting into my face, or some combination thereof, but I too find myself unable to keep the perspiration from my brow. But as we figuratively hold hands and dive into this unknown abyss of edible ecstasy together, I do so without reservation or regret.

This one last minute of you sizzling on the grill, gradually expanding and letting off the sweet sound of tiny beads of grease welling up and exploding feels like a lifetime. With each pop you dance a beautiful waltz meant for me and me alone. Wetting my lips one last tantalizing time, I reach for the tongs. I can hear them jingle wildly as my hands quiver. Their steely arms put you in one last embrace, bringing you up like the Prophet to the heavens.

My breathing grows rapid and erratic and you softly fall into the bun like an angel resting its weary head on a cloud. I grip your new wheaty home in a viselike two-handed grip, for I will not drop you, dearest. Slowly, slowly you approach my lips as they widen to accommodate your juicy girth. You enter and my jaws close around you, engulfing you in that eternal embrace known only to lover and beloved, killer and victim, hotdog and hotdog aficionado. Deeply, I swallow that first bite and, overwhelmed with my passion and unwavering devotion, I close my eyes and let a single tear fall down my cheek in tandem with the morsel of savory meat and cushiony bun sliding down my throat. Hmmmm…

Needs some ketchup.

infinite breadsticks)

they beguile me from their basket while

whitney the waitress asks me what i’d like to order

as if i would know what to do with this tome

you call a menu

(stuffedmushrooms)

caprese flatbread aka pizza

fettucine alfredo,yawn

crab-topped chicken(wtf)

i’ll have the lasagna classico and two bottles of wine

yes, that’s all for one judge

much whitney?

terra cotta walls desperately channel tuscan villa

as the hooters across the parking lot promises

hot wings        and                     cold brewskis

this wine is terrible but it will

get you drunk

this lasagna is terrible and it will

not get you drunk

so I am drinking wine and eating my fourth basket of breadsticks

tiramisu for everyone, on me

toodrunk

god this is an

awful place Whitney

i have seen men die and

this is worse

why yes i’ll accept another(

Shirtless men: Fair game.

Non-shirtless men: Fair game, unless wearing “This Is What A Feminist Looks Like” t-shirt, in which case just a curt nod will do.

Coworkers: Off-limits if a witness is present, otherwise a casual “Hey cowboy, how’s it hanging?” accompanied by a buttslap is totally admissible.

Orthodontists: It’s his job to put his fingers in your mouth, so he’s basically asking for it.

Buddhist monks: Is that a prayer flag in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

Michael Caine: Been there, done that.

Deli owners: NOPE. You do not want to alienate the person who makes your meatball subs.

Construction workers: Nothing wrong with telling a man he’d look better with just that fluorescent “Safety Officer” vest on.

Clarence Thomas: While you may take away my access to birth control through my employer, you can never take away my right to look at that sweet, sweet ass.

Human Resources officer: Now that you’ve read those 19 complaints against me, I’ve got one myself: why are you still wearing those khakis?