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I want to consume and be consumed by the objects of my desire until they make me sick; I want to puke them back out and rearrange them like tea leaves. I am a terrible flirt and an excellent hot dog eater.
Tell me what’s interesting about you, and I will put it in my mouth, chew it up, and spit it out later on, never guaranteed to be better than I found it.
Hot dogs are the kind of American that you know there is something deeply wrong with but still find endearing.
The hot dog is born of the sausage tradition, but insists on her own nastiness.
The truth is this: the hot dog was a dish that slowly became popular due to nameless German street vendors, and was turned into an icon by some of the most privileged people on Earth—shitbird frat boys at Yale University.
Tis dogs’ delight to bark and bite, Thus does the adage run. But I delight to bite the dog When placed inside a bun.
It’s critical, and I cannot stress this enough, to only go on a hot dog road trip in a relationship with two people who are mentally stable and both like mustard.
It’s not my place, as a hot dog historian, to declare cops who fearmonger to lazy press outlets to be shit-sucking losers, but I’m going to anyway.
I don’t make it a habit to take in a corn dog—while they do fit into the parameters of what I define as a hot dog, being an animal-cased shitstorm fighting for its life in a grain-based exterior, it gets too messy to venture this far out of peninsular bun territory.
A bun is a hammock and a corn dog casing is a crypt; do you see what I mean?
The best hot dog in the United States is at Rutt’s Hut in Clifton, New Jersey. Everyone knows that.
And, if you’re interested in this sort of thing, my top five hot dogs are found at: Rutt’s Hut in Clifton, New Jersey Ruiz Hot Dogs Los Chipilones in Tucson, Arizona Kim Jong Grillin in Portland, Oregon The hot dog carts across the street from the Crypto.com Arena, or near Union Station in Los Angeles, California Texas Tavern in Roanoke, Virginia
