"And then a hot dog made him lose control" - Rob White

 

 

"And then a hot dog made him lose control" - Rob White

 

I like to think that I'm a thinker

I ponder and philosophize and wonder about the way of things

I struggle with the epic problem of mankind's direction

Where we're going and who we're going to be

There's hope there despite the darkness

But one bit of painful mystery stands between us and nirvana

 

What the fuck is a hot dog?

This be-breadded abomination

This dick-shaped tube of pig lips, rat guts and God's regret

 

Woe is man that we could create such a thing

Proving further that we have strayed from the pure light of creation

And into the infernal morass of "why the fuck not?"

 

It is neither a dog nor is it often hot

It's just a cylinder of sadness cradled between halves of ugly white loaf

Would it be any better if it were actually dog?

Surely we'd balk at consuming our quadrupedal best friend

So why in the hell do we name this salty meat after them?

What's wrong with hot goose?

The geese are nature's assholes, so why should we feel guilt at naming our culinary mistakes after them?

 

This unholy meat is so bland and non-descript that we have to slather it with other shitty substances in order to disguise the self loathing we must feel for having created such a thing.

We adorn these substances with fun and pithy names such as "chili" or "relish" to disguise the fact that every bite brings a pang of existential doubt

"Why am I eating this shit?"

"Why am I covering it in liquids bearing the hue of the crayons my five year old eats?"

"What has happened to my life and am I a slave to the fickle whims of predetermination?"

 

My biggest question, perhaps, is this:

Is my fate, indeed, already sealed?

For I know that come Labor Day, or June or before

I'll be standing on some middle-class white dude's back porch

Talking shit about local politics I do not know shit about

And wondering when the meat's done

 

I'll forget this epiphany of life's promised light

Held ever out of reach behind the adequate convenience

Of this rolled up, grease-covered decepticon posing as a sausage

I'll scoop it up and pop it on a paper plate, careful not to spill my solo cup

 

For a brief instant, I'll hear the wisdom of my greater angel whisper in my ear asking why?

Why must man destroy itself?

Why can we not cast down our chains and transcend the prison of consciousness?

 

I will tell that voice to shut the hell up and pass the mustard.