310 - Hot Dongs


You arrive home from the grocery store and begin to unload your bag onto the counter. Scott, your roommate, rushes into the room and sits on one of the stainless steel barstools placed on the opposite end of the counter, eagerly eyeing your purchases as you unveil them one by one. You know what’s coming. The fury bubbles up from your stomach like a bad burrito.

Slowly and deliberately, you place each item on the white formica: a gallon of milk, a carton of eggs, a bag of shredded cheese, a can of chili.

A bag of hot dog buns.

Scott’s eyes widen and a smile creeps across his lips slowly but firmly, like a fighter slipping into a chokehold from a long, slow grappling grind.

You reach in to retrieve the last item from the canvas shopping bag and your knuckles whiten with tension. You wrap your fingers around the cool, slightly wet parcel and lift your hand.

Scott all but licks his lips in anticipation when your hand – and the package it holds – cross the threshold into view. His mouth opens slightly as the identity of the item is revealed: a pack of All Beef Franks.


…is all Scott manages to say before you slap him across the face.

Surprise and shock erupt from the center of his face outward from his flared nostrils, travelling to his widening eyes, gaping mouth, and eyebrows that yearn desperately to touch the stars.

You don’t even give him a chance to ask.

“Scott, I came out to you as gay because I you’re my best friend and I love you,” you explain with an even-tempered tone with just a spark of wildness in your eyes. “I know it’s all in good fun, but I swear to god if you make one more god damn gay joke or dick quip at the expense of my sexual identity I will not hesitate to murder everything you have ever thought good in this world, starting with your very own penis.”


Scott,” you scream, again cutting him off. “You’re right. I would be perfectly comfortable touching your penis. I would also be perfectly comfortable cutting it off, crafting a tiny pair of mouse ears and a tail out of felt, and stuffing it with cotton. I would then be equally comfortable keeping it in a secret place save for every two months when I would, completely without warning, place it in a random cabinet, drawer, or refrigerator shelf where you would be scared to death of a perceived vermin infestation only to quickly realize the source of your fear is that which you once held most dear in this world – your own manhood.”

“Okay, man…you don’t have to be a dick about it.”

“I’ll let that one slide, Scott. We’re having hot dogs for dinner.”