A Few Good Dogs

Son, we live in a world that has hot dogs, and those hot dogs have to be eaten by men with appetites. Whose gonna do it? You? You, Mr. Mole? I have a greater responsibility than you could possibly fathom. You weep for the Pig, and you curse the Doug. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know. That a dropped Hot Dog, while tragic, probably is still edible. And my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, will eat that dog. You don't want the truth because deep down in places you don't talk about at parties, you want me eating that hot dog, you need me eating that hot dog. We use words like kraut, cheese, chili. We use these words as the backbone of a life spent eating something. You use them as a punchline. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the bun of the very hot dog that I consume, and then questions the manner in which I consume it. I would rather you just said thank you, and went on your way, Otherwise, I suggest you pick up a frank, and eat away. Either way, I don't give a damn what you think you are entitled to.