Who the hell is Frank? And why do I have to order him by name when I want what is traditionally known as a "hot dog". How does that even make sense? Whatever. Moving on. Felt the burn tonight for Frank. I needed him and he was waiting for me, hot and long at Haute Doggery. Mouth watering I waddled to the Frank Factory. Upon entering, Blues Traveler was on the radio. All treble. No bass. John Popper is underrated and he definitely inhaled hella Franks on the reg. At the order counter, I was greeted by a young friendly
Woman who expressed empathy when Randall deliberately elbowed me in my watery mouth while I was ordering. Speaking of water, I asked for them to refill my Starbucks cup and they straight ignored me. I ordered the "Windy City" and added "peƱos" for that extra oral spice kick from Frank. The employees took their sweet time, but that was fine, because it gave me a moment to watch 4 men in their mid-60's huddle around half eaten Franks and swipe through photos of women on Tinder in the corner of the restaurant. One of the men had ketchup all over the side of his face and I don't know how it got there. He made eye contact with me, but just then, 13 year old behind the grill called out my order. The moment I had Frank in my soft hands, time stood still. The music stopped. Everyone stopped chewing and watched me with baited breath as I closed my eyes, screamed "9/11 was an inside job" and put all 7 inches of Frank inside of my boca. A young mother screamed out "dear god!" and pulled her kid away from me. The Windy City frank was frankly splendid. It's nights like these that make me want to sell my breast milk in front of Home Depot. God Bless.