I love to eat hotdogs and watch Rick and Morty. Every Sunday there is an airing of a new episode of Rick and Morty and I prepare eleven hotdogs for it. Over the course of the first act we see the Rick Sanchez family dealing with the uncertainty of life in a chaotic universe as I slide all eleven of them down my Primary Hole. During the commercial break I quickly prepare more hotdogs. I don’t have the time or emotional energy to put condiments on each dog, so I instead squirt a liter of thousand island into a salad bowl and tumble the naked dogs until coated. These are my Slather Dogs. Rock and Peppy comes back on the TV and we have jettisoned straight into the second act. Mortimer Sanchez must deal with the uncertainty of life in a chaotic universe as I suck my bunless Slather Dogs one by one from the bowl. The second commercial break comes and I sprint to the kitchen to prepare more dogs. I throw a fistful of plateless weens into the microwave, slurping back a few Raw Dogs while I patiently wait. Finally I hear the ding and attempt to retrieve my golden dogs but the juicy heat scalds my Tender Mitts and all of my delicious, beautiful, virgin hotdogs fall to the floor. I allow time to cool then pick them up and sit down in the living room. These are my Dirty Dogs, reserved for the final act, whereupon Road Sandchess must deal with the uncertainty of life in a chaotic universe. I mash the grime stained Dirty Dogs into a hotdog ball, and as I force it down my Primary Hole I amuse myself with the question: “Is this what they mean by a ballpark hotdog?” But I decide against saying this aloud, as Pickle Rip has already begun the process of becoming Schwitty



Found this masterpiece on Facebook. Made by Kimberly Bertrand