by J.R. Gudeon. @j.r.__gudeon.
NEW YORK, NY - Somebody, help me! My Chicago-style hotdog just started singing about stabbing its husband somewhere out in the Midwest…and now it’s saying I’m next!
I’ve never seen anything like it: As soon as the diced onions hit the top, the hot dog began to vibrate in a 3/4 count right there in the palm of my hand. Then, the haunting whispers began.
“Hold the judgment, tough guy. I could have handled a cheating husband, but chewing gum? LOUDLY? That is just a step too far,” it said, spitting hot dog water at my temple. “Don’t let the crisp Argentine beats backing me up make you think I won’t get messy.”
Desperate for reassurance I wasn’t losing my mind, I looked to the guy at the cart for guidance.
“It’s cute how many customers totally panic from a tiny little hot dog singing,” he said while adjusting his fedora over his left eye. “My advice is: don’t piss her off. The last guy that did ended up in the next day’s papers: ‘Man Found Dead After Choking on Hot Dog.’”
I looked back down, and by then, it had sprouted a single fishnet stocking, and a bob-cut sharp enough to slit my throat.
Won’t anybody save me from this poppy-seed clad murderess? Is there no law enforcement that specializes in rounding up vixen hot dogs and throwing them in jail together where they can dance and scheme and have full narrative control of their misdeeds?
Somebody, please, take her off my hands!
“Trying to pawn me off would have hurt a while ago, but I’ve come a long way since I last saw my husband. Since then, I’ve disposed of all the men who cross me the same way: by leaving them lifeless, tangled in our bedsheets. Want to join my collection? I call it ‘Pigs in a Blanket.’”
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