Perhaps the Greatest Food: The Hotdog and Decision Making

I have eaten many hotdogs. Some hotdogs are better than other, but there is no doubt, they are all good.

Recently, after leaving an eye exam at Cosco, I stopped in at the food stand to get a hotdog and a coke ($1.63 after tax) and had an amazing realization: there cannot be too much relish, onion, mustard, or ketchup on any given bite. This is, of course, a realization of the deepest profundity; namely, given certain factors, each bite of the hotdog can be the perfect bite.

Unfortunately, there are those who would attempt to bolster themselves in refuting this argument with little care for the advancement of hotdog eating and hotdog understanding. However, let us clarify two things. First, those who do not appreciate such things as 'pickle relish,' 'diced onions,' 'ketchup,' and 'mustard' are fools and heretics, and must understand that a hotdog can be enjoyed without any of these 'fixin's.' Indeed, for the hotdog purist, each bite is inherently the perfect bite. Second, let us be generous in our reading of this argument and assume that each person who assembles their dog does it with the sole intention of making it more delicious, and does not try to sabotage their own enjoyment.

The hotdog is engineered in such a way that only so much of any 'fixin' can make it into your mouth in a given bite. Imagine that some how, along with the onions, mustard, and ketchup, you managed to put too much pickle relish on a particular area (though I love pickle relish it is possible to have to much relish in your mouth when eating a dog). First, the somewhat cylindrical shape of the hotdog disallows excesses of any amount of toppings, resulting, usually, in large puddles of 'fixin's' on your shirt, lap, shoes, plate, etc. This alone is enough to convince me that no man has ever had too much relish, onion, mustard, or ketchup in one bite, but let us continue. Additionally, let us imagine that by some miracle, there is a five inch tower of relish on one bite. This tower is no match for one's mouth, which in conjunction with the size of the hotdog, delimits fixin's amounts in its own way. It is as though the hotdog itself knows whats best for you, governing, along with the dimensions of your mouth, the size of bite you are afforded to take. As i mentioned before, I have had too much pickle relish in my mouth while eating a hotdog, but this only occurred when I greedily took a bite of hotdog and then spooned excess relish into my mouth. This bite was not the best bite i've had, and upon looking at the hotdog I realized the error of my ways. It was as if the hotdog was saying, "if you would have listened to me, that nasty relish bite wouldn't happened, Trey;" and it would be right. Though this kind of strong paternalism is, in some cases, abhorrent; here, it is just right. Every bite of the hotdog (given certain circumstances) is just right. And though we may think we have ruined our hotdog by dowsing it with too much of any one ingredient, the dog itself will simply pick us up by our bootstraps, brush us off, and tell us to get back on the horse. And we will. And it will be delicious.

Finally, in hindsight, it must be added that there is a way to achieve the imperfect bite. This bite comes up only when those fixing the hotdog attempt to steady their hand, or use disgretion; namely, the imperfect bite exists as a result of not putting enough fixin's on your dog. A soccer coach once told me that if you pass a ball too hard it might be difficult to control, but at least it will get there. So fuck discretion, let the hotdog decide what is good for you. Give up control. Slather fixin's everywhere. You might think you added too much, but the dog will guide your hand. Therein lies the beauty; for when hotdogs do the deciding for you, everything is delicious.

This Will Be Short: Concerning Slam Poetry

There are people in the world who perform their poetry to a live audience. They are called 'slam poets' or 'beat poets.' These 'poets' are the worst sort of people to converse with. The problem is that they simply do not know how to talk about anything other than themselves. Actually, that's not entirely true: There are plenty of things that make these people intolerable.

I do not mean to be unfair. 'Slam poets' are not bad people. They are not mean people or ugly people. They undoubtedly live fruitful lives and experience great things in meaningful ways. How, then, is it possible for these people to do what they do. I cannot figure it out. When listening to these slams i am forced to question whether or not these 'poets' are capable of experiencing anything away from their total reliance on cliche. What I mean by this is: do these poets experience the world in terms of trite stereotypes, or do they simply express it through such? I'm not sure which is worse.

In case of the former we must almost pity the 'slam poet' for his/her retarded phenomenal capacity. Here, we are almost inclined to look at the 'slam poet' as something more primitive than the average human being; for what rational being would elect a life in which experience itself is reduced to the banal? Additionally, if we can consider experience as one of the many things that defines humanity, it seems that we ought to consider the 'slam poet' as something entirely different all together. Indeed, a set of creature somewhere between man and ape.

In the case of the latter we must also pity the slam poet, not for his/her retarded phenomenal capacity, but for his/her blithe ignorance. Only a wretched fool would attempt to put fetters on experience by representing it in terms of trite stereotypes. In this way, the 'slam poet' is no better than the 'racist' or the 'homophobe.'

Though it is still unclear which of these two possibilities is worse, it is clear that in either case the 'slam poet' is to be pitied. Of course, the entirety of this argument hinges on the notion that these wretched beasts cannot account for anything related to experience without deferring to the cliche in some manner, I am open to the possibility that there is some fool out there that is neither phenomenally retarded nor blithely ignorant and yet prefers to be labeled as 'slam poet.' This person clearly would suffer from some sort of undetermined ailment, for we must all agree that no man of sound health and reason would refer to himself as a monkey.