I love hot dogs


Hot dogI love hot dogs. Not those posh hot dogs that they serve in Borough Market that are made out of rare winkle-nosed boar indigenous only to the outer ring of the lower Newfoundland forest and cost £3.77 a gramme. Nope. Not even those hot dogs that you get in Clerkenwell after Fabric kicks out that look and taste like they might actually have real animal in them underneath that swarming mass of greasy fried onions and bird shit that seem so appealing at 6 AM after 23 bottle of £5 Stella and three and a half pills. Nope. The kind of hot dogs I love are made with the nastiest, cheapest, pinkest, fakest looking frankfurters you can find. Multipack of Herta’s weiners in some Mighty Wight? Great! How about those jumbo ones you get at the Odeon that have been rotating on the griddle in minimum wage working automaton’s zit splatter for a month? Even better! A whole can of the fuckers out of a no name brand tin from Lidl that costs 21p? The best! I can taste them now. Like warm, water-injected bastardised pig and chicken meat-filled condoms slithering down my throat. Mmmm.


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