They’re slow death from a happy tummy. A disease waiting for me to catch it, the bane of what little effort I put into the gym and the harbinger of ditching my regular clothes for muumuu’s and hospital johnnies.

They are mini corndogs.

Some cruel bastard came up with these intoxicating turdlets of deliciousness. I already have no swallow resistance to normal sized corndogs – I only stop when there are too many sticks sticking out of my throat.  It’s just the latest in a long line of addictions that I’ve had to struggle with. And this gets me chuckling over how patterns of abuse can transform over a lifetime.

The “Jones Brothers” I ran with the longest had been alcoholism and nicotine dependence. I had an on-again/off-again affiliation with cocaine too though, for me, coke abuse was really about being able to drink a whole bunch more and smoke extra cigarettes.  It was like having multiple partners in the sack – fun but kind of exhausting after a while.  Ditching the booger sugar was a cinch because it always brought along lying, greedy loudmouthed friends. Got a bit tired of giving bumps to people at midnight only to have them hide theirs at 4AM like paranoid squirrels.  It came high time to quit the llello, drink alone and go to bed early.  Boy Howdy, did I ever like to drink!

I’d be a wicked souse right now if only the kids gave me some extra time. They toss me a couple of hours on Fri or Sat nights to pack in a buzz and it’s not exactly fair of me to ask for more. They don’t need to know what it’s like to have a Dad who takes as much time as he wants to get plastered. I can tell them what that’s like later on if they want to know.  And the human body finds ways to take care of its compulsions anyway. When I put the brakes on booze I wound up caught in the dreadful maw of an addiction to double-fudge brownies and cookies of any kind. My children won’t know me as a lean, hard drinking lout. Instead they’ll always think of me as the fat goof with Pecan Sandies crumbled on his shirt.

Or cornbread specks at the corners of a dopey grin and hot dog grease running down his chin.  At least the mini corndog’s wiener center is made from chicken in the Foster Farms* variety.  Does that make them better? Ah, who cares – I am so goddamned doomed because the freakin’ things are awesome!!!

*By far my favorite frozen brand though I’m always up to taste new competition.

These go fan-fucking-tastic with peanut butter and mustard and even better with this: Leroy Brown Chicago Hot Dog Relish