F Is For Frankfurter

F Is For Frankfurter

Is For Frankfurter

I pulled up to the hot dog stand and hopped out of my Escalade, eager to dine on the delicacies offered by the roadside vendor. “Hello there, my good man!” I said, stumbling toward him. “I’m in desperate need of frankfurters. Let’s make it six to start and see where the night takes us.”

“Jesus, buddy! You oughta pay more attention when you drive. You nearly took out my cart!”

“I did?” I looked at my vehicle and sure enough, it was parked less than an inch from his stand. “Oh, sorry about that. New medication, you see—”

“New medication nothing!” He waved his hand in front of his nose and flashed a look of disgust. “You’re drunk!”

“No I’m not.”

“The hell you’re not! You’re holding a half-full rocks glass in your hand!”

I glanced down, and indeed I was holding a glass. Moreover, it contained a delicious Old Fashioned. I took a sip and continued. “Be that as it may, I require frankfurters. And plenty of them.”

Begrudgingly, the hot dog man prepped six franks and laid them out on top of the cart. “Alright, that’ll be twenty-four bucks.”

“Twenty-four—! Fine,” I said, throwing some bills at him. “Now then, where’s the mustard? And onions. I must have onions!”

Mustard and onions secured, I put down the first six frankfurters without breaking a sweat, then ordered up another sixer. Before I was done, no fewer than thirty delicious hot dogs had slid down my gullet, and my hunger was sated. I was also quite sweaty. And gaseous.

Not really sure how to wrap this one up, so I’ll just leave you with a universal truth: I love frankfurters. ~Fin~

[Part 6 of the ‘Blogging From A to Z April Challenge 2013’ series: Prev/Next]

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Categories: Food, Leisure

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