Posts Tagged ‘hot dog’

YES! Yes I’m fine. And why is everybody asking me that lately? Just because I write things like:

 

Let Me Be Frank

In the future, when hot dogs can talk, I foresee a very grateful hot dog saying to both his ancestors and his descendants:

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“Thank you. Thank you all. Because without you, I’m just a missing link.”

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I mean that’s sort of punny, write? And I say this with absolute relish, “My condiments to the author.”

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Palm Olive?

Not Over It!

Not Now. Not Ever.

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That Manicurist Madge would allow her client to soak her fingers in Palmolive Dishwashing Liquid, w/o first getting permission, is a professional malpractice and an affront to manicurists everywhere. When a manicurist “takes the smock,” her nail station shall become an altar of glorious grooming and not a den of desiccating detergent. 

And then Madge so callously remarks while working on the poor lady’s other hand, “You know you’re soaking in it?”

The aghast woman erupts, “Dishwashing liquid!”

Madge: “Relax, it’s Palmolive.”

Relax my ass. I want Madge’s license pulled.

This was not the hand job the client paid for. There’s nothing worse than a shoddy hand job. I should know.

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What’s next? Letting little fish eat the debris off your feet?

Readers to Me: Actually they do, do that with the fish Dave.

Dave: Really. Well then, what’s next? A sponge cake filled with cream?

Readers: They’re called Twinkies Dave.

Dave: Alright. It’s hard to maintain my outrage when I keep misfiring on my examples. How about this – what’s next a TV show about a likable guy who sells crystal meth? I don’t know. I’m off the rails here. This whole thing is breaking bad.

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The Restaurants of Dr. Moreau

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1. Veterinarians at the French Laundry have genetically modified a Turkey so it now comes Pre-Stuffed with stuffing. They somehow managed to cross a Tom Turkey with a large and shapely crouton, thereby producing the pre-stuffed bird. Diners are just gobbling it up.

Tom Turkey remarked, “Let me tell you something, croutons can eat crackers in my coop anytime.”

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2. These same veterinarians have met with less success in producing an all-in-one turducken. Seems they can’t get a turkey, a duck and a chicken to participate in a ménage à trois. After the 3 had gone out to dinner, the waiter asked  who would take the check and the gracious duck said, “Oh, just put it on my bill.”

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But then the duck got his feathers ruffled when he thought he heard the chicken make a dirty quack about him, when he heard, “You have an ugly waddle.” When what the chicken really said was meant for the turkey: “You have an ugly wattle.”

“Well cluck you,” said the duck to the chicken. 

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French Laundry Veterinarian and sous chef Dr. Moreau remarked, “There’s only so much I can do with a turkey baster and duck sperm. In order for this to happen the birds have got to flock together. The problem is they’re all a bunch of bird brains.”

Why would I reveal a perfectly executed petit larceny committed at the tender age of 12 while working the portable hot dog stand at our end of year elementary school celebration? Because I want to redeem myself for my wretchedness. I’m not confessing so much to exorcise my demons, as I am taking the advice of the band Heart, who encouraged us to “♫Even it up, even it up, even it up♫.”

It is often said that justice delayed is justice denied. And that may be the case in this instance. But what choice do I have in correcting something 43 years after the fact? I’m just trying to restore things to their original equilibrium and this self-correcting expose is as good a starting point as any. Perhaps my bite-sized, youthful indiscretion can be remedied with the same ease in which it was committed. I sure hope so. When it comes to appeasing the exacting justice of the Lord of Karma I hedge my bets. For example, I donate to a couple of food banks and I’ve always made a point to tip 20% even when the service was only 15% worthy. In this particular case I’m attempting to “unscrew” something I so blithely screwed-up in the first place. Read the rest of this entry »