Each week, Bro Jackson’s deep roster of writers and degenerates takes on a hot-button topic. This week, the most satisfying encased meat and its good friend, Mr. White Bread Bun.
I love hot dogs. There is something so delicious about eating a food that is so unhealthy that it isn’t fit for human consumption. Add in the phallic shape and how uncomfortable they make southern men feel eating them, and they’re basically the perfect food. Every event with a hot dog makes you feel warm and gooey inside:[ref]Coincidentally, the opposite of what you are looking for in an actual dog.[/ref] baseball games, amusement parks, grilling at the park, low-class weddings, although those pigs are usually clothed in blankets. Here’s a pro tip: Eschew the normal chili/cheese/relish/mustard toppings, and enjoy your dog “Josh Style,” cole slaw and Sricha–creamy and spicy, just like its namesake. Enjoy.
I love hot dogs. They are delicious by themselves and are great vehicles for a vast number of toppings. My personal preference is always for a dog that has that crisp outer casing, grilled over boiled and spicy brown over yellow.
Here in Los Angeles there are a few hot topic hot dog issues that I would like to discuss. First and foremost, the fact that the “iconic” Dodger Dog tastes likes Dodger Dog Shit. It is exactly the same as any dog you would get at any stadium in America. Yo Magic, I am looking at you, dog. Let’s get these hot diggities back to what they once were.
Second on the agenda is Pink’s. This tourist hotspot has been serving up hot dogs since 1939. The place is actually pretty dec’. They serve up extra long dogs covered in all sorts of crazy toppings. However, the dog itself is nothing to write home about and definitely not worth the 45 minute wait to get one. It’s an absolute crime that this place get’s nonstop business and Papoo’s Hot Dog Show in Burbank was forced to close down. Apparently an Umami Burger is moving in. FOR SHAME.
Lastly, I think it is important to discuss the bacon wrapped hot dog. Anyone who’s partied late night in Hollywood has encountered an adorable Latino lady selling these out of a cart. They are delicious and much appreciated, but of course I have something to complain about. It’s not that these dogs rarely look sanitary (I am currently eating a piece of pizza that fell face down in the street), it’s that wrapping stuff in bacon doesn’t really work. I love bacon as much as the next guy, but when it’s wrapped around another food, it is damn near impossible to get right. If you’re skilled you might be able to get the outside crispy, but the inside is always moist and unappetizing. So, all you chefs and scientists get to it. Give me a bacon wrapped dog that is both delicious and crispy.
Oh, and while I am here, why does every corndog have the same generic hot dog on the inside? Sometimes a place will get fancy and give you that tasty, fresh batter, but no matter what you get that generic Oscar Meyer style dog on the inside. Can someone please start making gourmet corndogs? Do I have to think of everything? COME ON.
Welp, that’s it. Keep on doggin’ on folks.
When I was a kid, I was a picky eater. Let me clarify. I ate a total of less than ten foods: (1) Totino’s frozen pizza; (2) spaghetti but ONLY with my dad’s spaghetti sauce; (3) filet mignon; (4) mustard sandwiches on white bread; (5) eggs that were scrambled super dry; (6) mac and cheese; (7) fruit of all colors and stripes; and (8) raw hot dogs with no bun. If they were cooked or put into a bun, forget it. I’m 4’11”. Coincidence? Probably not. For the record, I eat pretty normally these days.
My beloved White Sox seem to be heading toward full rebuilding mode, and they are a very uncomfortable watch these days. If it was 15 years ago, I would just swear them off and start working on my soapbox derby car a bit earlier than usual. Problem this year is that I have children. Dang. Kids need sunlight and entertainment to grow, and there is no better way to kill these two birds with a stone than attending a baseball game.
Kids also don’t give a shit how the team is playing. To them, everyone is a champion because they get to dress up and go to work. So I still go to baseball games despite my apathy for the team. The only thing I look forward to when I go to US Cellular Field is the fucking hot dogs. I swear I could eat 50. These dogs are the best in the city, and I will not hear arguments for any other dogs.
I guess I look forward to my children’s happiness as well, but I chiefly go for the encased meat.
I ordered a hot dog from Five Guys the other day. It came out in two pieces—sliced in half, length-wise between the bun.
Since when did a hot dog become a sandwich? Are we too afraid of our hot dogs resembling dicks? Are we going to start desexualizing every phallic-resembling food in our diet?
What about popsicles? Instead, let’s make them into little balls we can just pop in our mouths.
What about bananas? Should we listen to Chelsea Peretti and mush them into white goo we can then drip onto our tongues?
Maybe we’re just compensating for our hot dogs not having the size we’d all like. Slicing them in half might make them look a bit bigger. Just think if we were to slice everything down the middle to make it look bigger. Bris ceremonies would be a whole new challenge.
And it’s not like slicing a hot dog down the middle makes it taste better. Or easier to eat. Hot dogs are part of eating competitions for a reason: they slide down the throat with ease. Throat-dynamic. Let mother nature be. If we keep slicing, we’re going to give the hot dog an inferiority complex. Stop the hate. Keep my dog intact. He’s fine the way he is.
Hot Dogs: They’re delicious. At games, at barbeques, at weddings, and anywhere else you can think of. I think we can all agree on that. Aside from taste, the best asset of a hot dog is its versatility. In response to why someone would like “Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me,” a friend’s dad broke it down by saying if you had your choice, of course you’d want a steak, but sometimes a hotdog just hits the spot. Another measure of the hot dog’s utility: my dad once made hot dogs for me and my siblings. Being the crafty guy he is, he slipped a fake plastic dog onto one of our plates. The tears of laughter and embarrassment that flowed after one of us bit into the fake food are priceless. Thanks hot dog. Thanks for being there, and thanks for being a friend.
There was a George Lopez joke about how Mexican moms would always put hot dogs in scrambled eggs and yeah dude, that was serious. And that’s a great segue to discuss the NBA Finals. They get going in a few hours. I am aggressively rooting for the Miami Heat because I think the hate that LeBron James gets—while initially warranted—has spiraled into a racist dejection of this American life. In fact, Googling “white people hate LeBron” leads to a hive of think pieces about how his reprehensible “Decision” is justification for making the dude a totem for all things negative about young, black culture. But I adore how the Heat have become a symbol for strength and unity in the black community,[ref]At least, during my 2010-2013 tenure in Washington, D.C.[/ref] in light of the Trayvon Martin Instagram photo. Even though it means we have to revert to the “us vs. them” mentality that permeates racial lines in this country. Like you know how people criticize “Friends” for not having prominent minorities? I think the argument fails to respect how easy it is/was to be in a city like New York and avoid having to interact with other races. A friend of mine from Chicago calls his town “the salad bar.” Especially for people that move to big cities after getting a college diploma. It’s so easy to not deal with black people, you just have to put in a little bit of effort.
So the Heat are on some Mexico City ’68 political shit, and in general the charisma and likability levels are mismatched if we assess teams on personalities and style of play (and not, you know, on the fact that James mercilessly carved out a cool kids table like European powers at the Berlin Conference). Tim Duncan is so fortunate that this title will not be decided with the Larry O’Brien trophy asking Duncan and James what their perfect date would be like.
On social media, my friends will not let go the fact that (1) most Heat fans are soulless Republican Cubans, err, bandwagoners; and (2) the Spurs win in a matter concurrent with preferable values (heads down, go about their business, as part of a whole). That’s mostly fine, but sometimes we get an otherwordly talent with the swagger to match. I’m hoping this is Ali-Liston.