I've written before about the pride I feel from being in possession of a hot dog roller.
What I haven't written about is the shame I've felt of late in not using the damn thing.
Despite all the joy it creates - it is a "joy creator" in the purest Thelenian definition of the term - I've neglected to deploy it as frequently as I should. That may be because it's kept in a corner on a bookshelf at work. The professional environment of late in the newspaper industry has had all of the charm of a puckered, non-bleached anus. With people losing their jobs by the bushel, rolling some Ball Parks on the grill as friends and colleagues pack their belongings has seemed as inappropriate as a Britney Spears nipple slip. (Which reminds us of that line from "A League of Their Own": "You think there are men in this country who haven't seen your bosom?") Funny how a death spiral in your life's profession can stub out mirth like a down-to-the-filter butt of a Lucky Strike.
But, hey. Who's kidding who? There's dancing at the funerals in New Orleans, right? Might as well throat a delicious casing full of animal lips and enjoy myself.
With that sentiment in mind, I decided some catching up was in order.
First mission: Fire up some franks on that bad boy.
Check that. Not just any franks.
They had to be Super Franks.
Which, for the record, was my favorite Rick James song.
How franky were these things?
These were super franky.
These franks you don't take home to muthah. Especially if muthah has a low tolerence for sodium.
How long were these death torpedoes?
In a manner of speaking, their feet hung off the bed.
Luckily, there was an easy fix.
Let's just call it what it was: a meat byproduct briss.
Unfortunately, Super Franks do not come with Super Buns.
Not that it mattered much to my friend Rommie.
NEXT STUPID COOKING TRICK:
Race Divas Twinkies go for a roll.