Diary of Burnt Frank
I used to have it good at Shea Stadium. There was me, some chicken fingers and Pretzel. But really, anyone who came to the game had a hot dog with mustard or kraut. Why? Well, I go with everything—beer, soda and water.
Looking back, I may have taken my popularity for granted. That happens. Look at the Pizzone. But hindsight is 20-20 vision, even if you are Hot Dog.
Then I heard about CitiField and all of the new facilities. Oh, happy day. New grills, new condiment dispensers, new everything. I began my victory lap, shortly after last season ended.
Then I noticed the name Danny Meyers popping up in the newspapers. At first I thought that he was the kid who caught Jeter’s ball, all those years ago. But then, Pretzel, who has wireless, told me that Danny was the restaurateur responsible for Blue Smoke, Shake Shake, Esca and a number of other overrated (by the way) food joints in NYC.
I was as nonplussed as the day in 2006 when they introduced Dogzilla, that steroid freak of a hotdog that lasted one season. The size of a small child’s arm, dogzilla was to hotdogs as Dennis Miller was to football announcing. It was gone before I knew it. Haha, dogzilla.
So I assumed that the same fate would befall the burgers, ribs, tacos and effing lobster rolls. “People like Hot Dogs!” I screamed into my iPhone from vacation. “Relax, Pretzel. You worry about everything.”
Long story short, Opening Day came around and my cruel fate was quickly apparent. With the eight million other choices, the classic Hot Dog has not just taken the backseat to the other food choices, I’m in the trunk. Now the only people who eat me are idiots and losers. And folks who don’t want to stand around for a half-hour.
And you, old friend.
Hey, where are you going?
-Tony G. who swears he wrote this post just for us. Hmm.
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