Saturday, July 17, 2004
_________________________Mark Zaslove has killed me. He’s shown me where to get the BEST HOT DOGS IN THE WORLD, and I know I’m going to eat them until I explode. The no-preservative meat has a crisp-but-tender quality that’s probably attributable to some cruel, Icelandic butchering technique, there’s a sort of yellow sauce squirted on them that must have crack or something in it because I WANT MORE RIGHT NOW, but the absolutely orgasmic aspect of these weenies is the crisp bed of fried onion bits that lines the bottom of every bun! YUM!
Nothing else today has happened that’s as important as this, so I’ll sign off now.