THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Thursday, July 7, 1994 TAG: 9406300678
SECTION: FLAVOR PAGE: F1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: By Fred Kirsch
Staff Writer
LENGTH: Medium: 68 lines
I've only stolen one thing in my life.
A pack of hot dogs.
I know better now. But I was only 36 at the time. And I was driven to it.
We were cruising the meat aisle in the supermarket when I casually tossed a pack of dogs into our shopping cart, my mind already seeing three or four of those puppies nestled in buns next to a sidecar of chips..
``You're not getting hot dogs,'' she said, putting the dogs back in the case.
``Yes, I am,'' I said, reclaiming the dogs.
``No, you're not,'' she said with an air of finality as she put them back again. ``Don't you know that hot dogs can kill you?''
This was back when the noble dog was first being ruthlessly broiled by nutritionists, put on the grill by the AMA and smoked by wives and moms alike for being filled with nitrites or nitrates or Nyquill or whatever it was they were writing about in the papers.
``If hot dogs can kill,'' I said, as she marched me and the cart toward the chicken display, ``I don't have much time left, dear. I'm a dead dog.''
By that time, I had probably eaten a few zillion dogs. Laid end-to-end, they'd have probably stretched from Hackensack, N.J., to Cleveland.
Once at a Little League picnic, I got in a hot dog-off with Sylvester Meeks. Legends grow over time. But near as I can remember, Slyvester went for 13 dogs that day.
I made one last pitch.
``As far as I know, Sylvester Meeks is still alive and he once ate 13 dogs. Please, can I have the dogs?''
``No.''
I knew what I had to do.
She was reading the ingredients on some a yogurt label when I disappeared for a few seconds.
I had the dogs inside my coat jacket when I returned.
She was laying into the cart what seemed like a year's supply of yogurt.
``Now, this is what you should be eating. And fruit. More natural things. A hot dog is an unnatural thing.''
``Yes, dear.''
As we began to swing up the last aisle and head for the checkout line, the hot hot dogs were getting hotter. They felt like they were boiling under my coat.
She was making a last foray into the whole-bread section when I whipped the pack from under my coat and slammed it in her purse.
``Don't bother, dear,'' I said, as she was reaching for her purse. ``Let me pay for the groceries.''
We were unpacking the stuff on the kitchen table when she asked, ``What do you want for dinner?''
``Hot dogs.''
``You know we don't have hot dogs.''
``Look in your purse.''
``Oh my gosh,'' she wailed. ``You're a 36-year-old man and you've stolen a pack of hot dogs. What is wrong with you?''
``Me? They're in your purse.''
``This is even worse. Are you that depraved? What are we going to do?''
There was only thing to do.
He slit the pack open.
They had to destroy the evidence. by CNB