Getcha Hot Dogs He-Ya!
You've heard it at your Cub & Sox games, but you decided to go urinate in the troughs (if you're a Cubs fan) first. You stand in line to grab a hot dog, the stench of stale beer & steamed hot dogs wafting your way. You pay (an excessively high price) for that foil lined paper wrapped hot dog, unwrap it, & walk over to the onion dicing machine. You crank the handle, essentially 'snowing' onion all over your dog, while squirting onion juice on your arm & all over the person standing next to you. You walk over to the lukewarm condiment tray & pick up those cheap, greasy tongs (that have probably fallen on the filthy concrete floor a dozen times) to pick up those last three sport peppers sitting in the tray. A packet of mustard & sweet relish, & a dash of half clumped celery salt; you have your hot dog. Thrilled at the thought of biting into this glorious dog, you turn around to head back to your seat while some guy holding six beers in two hands spills some keg beer on your steamed bun. But you eat your HOT DOG anyways. Because it's YOURS. And you LOVE it. And this is a taste of your CHILDHOOD. Eat away my friends. "Getcha Hot Dogs He-Ya!"
