I just ate, no, devoured, no, stuffed my salivating kisser with the best lunch I've had in weeks: An extra long hot dog, slathered with spicy sauce and spicy mustard, all made with the tender care of Aziz, the vendor chef on the corner of Broadway and 69th.
I had just left the Barnes and Noble to study for the retake of the German Exam that I bombed by 10%, when the sizzling chicken and lamb called to me like fattening sirens. My whole body convulsed and surged towards the two men shoveling the glimmering meat and onions upon warm disks of pita bread. I reached the two appetite-pimps quickly and the order for the Pita and Chicken left my mouth in a mumbling trance. Then, I saw them: Four hot dogs, warming on a side burner, crying for a bun. "Stop that pita order pilgrim,” said I. "Give me one of those Hot Dogs before I start to cry."
A block later, hot dog half devoured, I stepped into one of the local corner Krusty Marts, and perused the drinks for the perfect counterpoint to the hot dog melody that was enrapturing my senses. (Cue John Denver "You Fill Up My Senses...") Feeling a tad guilty, I reached for the grape juice... (some sort of Baptist-Boy freudian thing there, no doubt) then I saw it. One of those old-timey, glass coke bottles. You know the ones that look like they were somehow transported from Floyd's barber shop on the Andy Griffith Show?
The dancing, digesting hot dog within me rumbled, "Take and drink... you fool!" So I did. And it was good. (Pausing my typing for another swig...) "Ahhhhhhhhhh."
As for now, (belch) I'm ridn' the rush. I'm surfing the sugar-starch wave. I'm seeing in Technicolor little chiren. And I'm spending it all on you, dear friend. Because I know very soon, I'll be stricken with a strange and irresistible urge to take a nap, or throw up. So let my words be few... readers, this here blog, it buds for you.
What's your guilty pleasure?