Corndogs: My Rock in Uncertain Times (Has Been Postponed By An Internet Bunny Fight)

Corndogs and me, holding hands on a beach, just tryin' to make it through these hard times: This was going to be the topic of my little writing exercise today. I was going to describe my view of life as cyclical, masterfully conjuring the corndog to illustrate my theory about how those who triumph at overcoming the bad and capitalizing on the good cycles in life likely hold the magical secret to success. I was going to talk about how I am currently in a corndog cycle — or more like back in my corndog cycle; how it hits me roughly once every few years. Approaching my ten-year high school reunion — which, unless I happen to find myself roofied up and 900 miles south of here, I won't be attending — I realized that right around now, ten years ago, I was deep in a corndog cycle that stemmed from driving two sisters to school. I planned on waxing poetic, reminiscing that everyday I'd go back to their house, watch about 30 minutes of Dumb and Dumber and have a corndog for an after-school snack. I could get introspective about how ten years have passed in a blur of processed and fried meats: How have I changed since then? What have I learned? Where will I go from here?

I was going to describe my youthful error of heating them in a toaster oven. It's too easy to burn them on the outside and leave them cold and raw inside. Gross. They must be fried. In college, I bought a deep fryer from Walmart and a family size bag of corndogs. I could have talked about how a SuperWalmart is a magical, fluorescent wonderland, a place I have visited many times with the sole purpose of wandering the aisles stacked high with stuff made in Chinese toy-bestos factories.

But do you really want to read an unhealthy person's opinions on corndogs? How insightful could it be? Can't I find a better metaphor? Is this a spec-piece I'm trying to shop to High Times? Who really wants to know anything more than they already do about corndogs? Most corndog knowledge is too much knowledge. They're kinda gross and so am I.

My point is, take unhealthy meat, add cornbread, deep fry and you're basically eating the equivalent of a bald eagle soaring over purple mountains majesty to take a big, star-spangled piss on Communist Russia. I had a corndog at the original Nathan's at Coney Island on the 3rd of July last year, one day before all those phony patriots wearing flag hats show up on the Fourth like heathens (me) flocking to church on Christmas. I also rode the Wonder Wheel. So I guess it's safe to say that I'm a real American who "supports our troops" (even though I'd move to Mexico if there was a draft) and always* votes. We Americans have to take our culture's good with the bad, but at least we know which side corndogs are on.

*never even bothered to register to vote because when I turned 18 I had missed the presidential election by one month so I figured I had plenty of time before the next election but then one thing led to another and I don't think I'm registered at all or at least not in New York... (this explanation is basically an Afro Man song, which I'm listening to now thinking of high school)

Anyway, go to Crif Dogs if you're around Driggs and N. 7th and get a corndog or any of the restaurant's other unhealthy delights (and don't forget to bus your own table or else a boyish art school undergrad will come out from behind the counter and politely shame you in the street).

Now for more important things: Insane Bunny Posse. There is an Internet debate currently raging as to who has the greatest dwarf lionhead rabbit in Greenpoint/Williamsburg/the entire Universe, and this requires all of my current attention.

Check out this poster I made to show how my new bunny, Martina Van Buren, looks just like an old-timey President.

Wait, no, that isn't it. That's a woman who looks just like her pet goat, right down to the beard and the toothless, trashy grin.

This is it. That's my baby-girl there on the right. She's a Patriot. She has a hotdog chew toy (no joke).

My opponent claims that her bun is still currently un-nameable, his essence not so easily captured as mine, even though several great options have been suggested. I thusly enter Martina Van Buren into the "Greatest/Weirdest Bunny in Northern Brooklyn" campaign, and the contest is just beginning. Vote or Die.

P.S. This is cool, and I love the Massimo Vignelli 1972 New York Subway Guide.