When I got up yesterday, I had a little extra spring in the Schlombowki waddle. It was National Hot Dog Day. As usual, I saluted and checked my condiments. No … the ones in the pantry.
Nothin’ … and I mean NOTHIN’ is better than a hot dog. Except 3 or 4 of ’em. A few dozen more if you’re Joey Chestnut. Anyway, National Hot Dog Day pays tribute to that, honoring the highly under-appreciated and unassuming hot dog as the quintessential American food. It’s waaaaaay more American than apple pie, by the way. When the hell was the last time you saw someone chowin’ down a pie at a ball game? Never, that’s when. Look, when American’s do American stuff, like picnics or a 4th of July BBQ or takin’ in a ball game, hot dogs are on the menu, pal. Period. And if they’re not — if you’re doin’ any of those things without havin’ dogs or brats or polish or whatever kinda encased meat products (the 3 most beautiful words in the English language) that turns your crank, you’re just plain un-american. You could be KGB with an attitude like that. Boris Badenov. Putin.
Hot dogs are actually the perfect representation of America, in a small, 3 or4 bite-sized epicurean way. Think about it — America is made up of all kinds of people (and St Louis fans) from all over the world. Melting pot? Pffft. To me, that’s a hot dog, baby! If you ever saw how they make ’em, you’d know exactly what I’m sayin’. Why? Cuz dogs are made outta all the left over stuff once the fancy cuts have been carved up. So, just like your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free are the ingredients in American soup … your fatty bits, small trimmings and pig lips yearning to be delectable are mushed all together in their own perfect union — the delicious all-American hot dog.
Anyway, I was really lookin’ forward to Chicago doggin’ all day; breakfast, lunch, dinner, bedtime snack … the works. It’s a Schlombowski tradition. And, as it turns out, a nutrition tradition. Yeah, seriously. I’m pretty sure hot dogs are a super food. I don’t really know what that means, but they’re food and they taste super, so I’m goin’ with super food. It’s a good thing, like kale … only I’ll eat it.
Turns out that yesterday is also Bastille Day — the day France celebrates its liberation. So I’m thinkin’ to myself how friggin’ awesome it is that the most important day on the French calendar aligns with the most important day for America. Yeah, yeah … I know some of you think Christmas or the 4th or Fat Tuesday are way more important. That’s ok. Everybody is entitled to an opinion. However … you either love hot dogs, or you’re wrong, my friend. Anyway, if it wasn’t France — let’s say Tonga or Rwanda or Cameroon or somethin’ — it wouldn’t raise even one hair in one of my eyebrows. But France? France is some kinda food Mecca. 1) Croissants come from there … 2) everything they cook is slathered in butter … mmmmmm … and 3) the all-time slam dunks of slam dunks; French fries. Now THAT’S a country that knows food.
So we’ve got these two simultaneous celebrations — one about a food nation and another about a nation’s food. It was like some freaky Julia Childish karma kinda thing; an anointing of the hot dog (le hot dog in French) as one of the finest of all chef’s creations, deserving of Michelin stars or linen table cloths or somethin’. By the way, I still don’t understand what the hell tires have to do with food.
And then everything went to total shit.
Some twisted M-F-ing radical Islamic ass-wipe with an 18 wheeler does his sick, murdering Road Warrior thing through one of the main streets in Nice, France during their Bastille Day celebration, killing almost 100 people and injuring Lord knows how many more. This sick F-bucket went on for more than a mile, weaving in and out to try and mow down as many people as possible. Women, children, everybody. To say the least, I lost my friggin’ appetite and, quite frankly, I don’t think I’m ever gonna celebrate National Hot Dog Day again. At least not in the usual way.
What I’d really, really like to do now is make every chicken-shit psycho terrorist a-hole in the world, put on an orange suit, get down on his knees and eat what I call a jumbo DAESH dog. That would be about 6 ounces of C4 shaped like a brat, covered in poopy-flavored relish, metal shavings for onions, and a nice mustard-gas mustard, all packed into a burnt-to-a-crisp bun so it’s black as their friggin’ hearts, and their stupid friggin’ flag. Now that’s what I’d call a National Hot Dog Day, my friend. KA-FRIGGIN-BOOM!
My heart goes out to the people of France. My stomach, too. It’s much bigger. Like everyone else in America (except for the few that are here lurking in the shadows plannin’ similar fun and games for us) I’m saddened by this tragedy and the pain it brings. I wish we could unleash the full force of a Chicago weekend on Syria and Iraq and everywhere else these guys are plotting their assholian carnage, cuz that would pretty much put an end to it. Would be a helluva lot better than doing to ourselves, too.
PS. Sorry about all my French. Seemed appropriate.