by Jordy Greenblatt
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.