Hot dogs <3

I love hot dogs.

I’m wary of having opinions on the internet anymore, because a) everybody tells you you’re wrong when you do so, and b) links live forever, so when you inevitably realize you were wrong, you have to live knowing that evidence of how stupid you used to be exists.

But I have one opinion about which I am so sure that I’m willing to put it on this website, where it will live in perpetuity and someday embarrass my future grandchildren (if they haven’t melted in the inferno that our world has become by then).

Here it is: Hot dogs are the perfect food (and no, I am not getting into the “Is a hot dog a sandwich?” because it isn’t, and I’ve already detailed why once before and will not do it again, so don’t even start with me).

I don’t have any sound logic to back up my claim about hot dogs being perfect, so let’s start with all the ways you could disagree with this opinion. First, hot dogs aren’t, like, good for you. I don’t know if they’re bad for you, because they’re protein, and protein builds muscle. But I also don’t know what they’re made of, or how they’re made, and I have absolutely no interest in finding out because I’m pretty sure it would make me want to barf. You could also say that hot dogs — as in your standard Hebrew National, or those bright red ones that look a little creepy but taste really good — are not as desirable as sausages when it comes to long pieces of meat you can wrap in bread and douse in mustard.

But to the imaginary naysayers I have just made up, I say: Who cares? Hot dogs are the goddamn best in a way that sound reasoning doesn’t even have to justify. They’re made up of the perfect ratio of meat to bread, make a delightful snap when you bite into them, and have the privilege of playing host to ketchup and mustard, which I think is the pinnacle of condiment combinations available to humans (you can also toss some relish on there, or maybe even some sauerkraut, if you’re feelin’ frisky).

The connotations associated with hot dogs also contribute to their perfection: I don’t know that I’ve ever been sad while eating one. Even if you don’t like hot dogs, you can’t deny that they are a Fun Food. Hot dogs are summer. Hot dogs are a lack of responsibility. Hot dogs are freedom. Hot dogs are America, minus the garbage aspects of the country.

Hot dogs are party dogs: they’re prevalent at summer barbecues, late nights when you’re drunk with your friends and you need to eat something, road trips (oh, my god, gas station hot dogs *hearts as eyes emoji*), and sporting events.

Which brings me to my next opinion: Hot dogs are not sports. This pains me somewhat to say, because I love both sports and hot dogs. But according to the criteria I came up with to determine what is or isn’t sports, hot dogs don’t make the cut (a hot dog eating contest is definitely sports, but not a hot dog itself).

Hot dogs are, however, essential to sports. I was recently doing my expenses for the MLB All-Star weekend in Miami, and I came across a dinner receipt from Marlins Park. Here it is, I want you to see this:

This is the most sports dinner possible. The hot dog gave me life as I sat in that press box watching large adult sons crush baseballs out of the park. A hot dog makes any tailgate better, any baseball game more fun. Baseball games even feature anthropomorphized hot dogs that race each other for spectators’ enjoyment. If you really think about it, sports are sustained by fans, who are sustained by hot dogs, so if you take away hot dogs, the entire sports pyramid collapses into a giant heap of meaningless nothing.

Hot dogs also aren’t precious. If you ever go to a restaurant in, say, Brooklyn, and they have an artisanal hot dog on the menu, just punch the chef for me, would you? Hot dogs are a food for the dirt bags, the ruffians, the mad ones, the people who are so reckless with themselves that they are willing to put unnamed animal parts into their bodies simply because it’s the best way to stay alive.

I could keep going, but let’s hand things over to Jack Kerouac who wrote the most insightful passage about the most perfect food that the world will ever know:

“The only people for me are the mad ones who eat hot dogs, the ones mad who live to eat hot dogs, mad to talk about hot dogs, mad to be saved in the name of hot dogs, desirous of everything but hot dogs at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing about hot dogs but burn, burn, burn like fabulous Roman candles exploding like hot dogs across the stars and in the middle you see the hot dog pop and everybody goes 'Awww!"

Hot dogs, man. I just fucking love hot dogs.

CORRECTION: Ha! Ha! Hah! I’m laughing so hard I can barely type this, but I originally said that Kurt Vonnegut wrote that passage about hot dogs. He didn’t, Jack Kerouac did. Even though he didn’t, either. Remember what I said about being wrong on the internet at the beginning of this post? LOL.