The Hotdog

So I am cleaning out the big freezer at work and I have come across a pack of cocktail franks. A present left by a previous chef who was going to revolutionize the world of pub food with a battered sav hotdog. I wish I was joking but the fact of the matter is, I ain’t.

What can I do with these? Nothing surely… donate them to the next kids party I go to? Make a necklace? Throw them at crazy people? Make little animals and people out of them with toothpicks for legs and draw little faces on them and film a little movie and put it on you-tube? Make a nativity scene with little sausage Joseph and Mary and Jesus… I’m actually just coming up with all of these amazing ideas right now. Unbelievable. I wish I put a bit more thought into it at the time…

But as it was, my gaze (or Gray’s gaze, authorised trademark) was directed by my brain to a large baguette.

“I shouldn’t. I couldn’t. I mustn’t,” I say to myself.
“But you can do anything,” self replies.

I think there’s still a parents-encouraging-child issue going on in my brain, and I will confess shit got weird with me for a minute or two there, but now I’m back.

And then I check to make sure my OTT licence is still current and I go for it.

Mutha effer yes, let’s do this shit.

And there are two ways to skin a cat (I prefer to hook them up by their hind legs, slice the skin at the base of the legs and peel it back), and by that I clearly mean there is two ways to make a hotdog. One involves a sausage of non-descript origins and a bun, the other involves a car and a summer’s day. We will go with option number “A”.

The hotdog

“Sausage”, bacon, cheese, mustard, onion jam, shoe string fries and spicy tomato sauce. Toby the bossman aka. Don Antobio, devoured the beast within minutes.

‘Nuff said.

PS. That is definitely not my arm with the girly peacock feather tattoo. That’s Bushy’s arm.

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