rest

Corn dogs are an interesting phenomenon. It’s as if someone was studying culinary possibilities and thought,  “you know, the hot dog is just a little TOO healthy. What if?”

The upside: It’s at my convenience store. And it’s fast. And it only costs a dollar. You can never go wrong trusting your dietary needs to a food product that costs a buck.

The downside: Other than being the worst possible thing you could eat, you never really know if a Crazy Homeless Guy was licking it five minutes before your purchase. I have adopted a general code, although negotiable, of not eating food products recently licked by strangers. A product of aging, I suppose.

In my defense, I hadn’t had a corn dog for 30 years or so until you and I stopped at the Sonic as we headed home from the Pandora marathon. I remember you ordered 18 corn dogs and then ate them one by one in front of me despite my severe hunger. I was fearful to take one, having seen you when you’re hungry.

So a few days later, I had a corn dog from the convenience store on the way to work. It can be purchased in seconds, eaten in three bites, and then allows the diner to utter “Jesus on a corn dog stick” on deadline for the duration of the shift. In short, the perfect food.

Except.

I got to work Thursday. It was one of those shifts that uses the lede “It started out like any other day. And then.” I felt queasy. Followed by queasier. Followed by wondering what would happen during the inevitable session of projectile vomiting. The problem: In the New World, we no longer have trash cans at work. Our trash cans are now for Recycling Purposes only. Although I could mount an argument that regurgitated food is the very definition of recycling, this would require me to have a conversation with a stranger.

Luckily I never quite got there, thanks to an Emergency Sprite Delivery by Mo. I’m almost certain it’s food poisoning, though. I had one monumentally glorious bout at the Tribune with an expired breakfast burrito from the Inconvenience Store (who knew eggs go bad after a month?) and this has the same list of symptoms. That being mostly wishing for a swift, merciful death.

Alas, two days later I’m still lingering. I tried a halfhearted run yesterday, but found myself veering constantly into traffic to get things over with. So today I’m doing nothing except listening to Wilco and Hendrix. Didn’t he choke to death on his own vomit? Maybe life is an Annie song, and tomorrow will be better. Maybe I will die. In the words of the prophet Tweedy, I will try to understand. Either way. Damn. Mostly I’m hungry. What could I get that would be fast and easy? Hmmm. Maybe a corn dog…

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About gary

no sock monkeys were harmed in the making of this blog.
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