NO WEINERS

Dave didn’t know how to cook anything. Only sometimes came to ask if you wanted wieners those times when he couldn’t wait any longer for Norma to make his lunch for him. 

“Hot dogs!”, you would yell at him. “They’re called hot dogs!” 

But Dave would always call them wieners. Would stand there cooking them in a cast iron skillet with a little bit of boiling water at the bottom. Stand there holding metal tongs, asking you over and over again if you were hungry for a couple of wieners and that it was easy for him to throw one more into the pan. Just staring at you until you told him no. How that word made you not hungry. That lunch was ruined because of it.

“All I can smell is hot dogs”, you’d tell him. “Everything smells like hotdogs and it’s making me feel sick” 

But unperturbed, Dave would then always proceed to eat his assortment of wieners, one after another. Wieners he had piled high with horseradish and sliced pickles and mustard and Cheez Whiz. Wieners he would first put in the micro until they were steaming and hot and disgustingly soft, and that he could then just push into his mouth until they dribbled ketchup down his sleeve. Until his chin was glistening with hot dog water. Until he was constantly burping, he was so full of them.