Ever since I told my doctor to shove a veggie dog up his ass for suggesting I eat less red meat, I’ve felt a little bad — and it’s not just the constant gastric pain and the screwed-up gallbladder, either.
So I went to my local hot dog establishment, a place known for cooking the finest tube steak in town. I asked for a veggie dog with lots of mustard, relish, and cheese. I looked around to make sure none of my hunting buddies were around as I sat in the corner with my “dog.” I took a whiff. It smelled normal, like a hot dog. I took the first bite, which was mostly bun and condiments. Good lord, this place has the best goddamned relish. I could eat this shit straight from a jar with a spoon.
But no amount of Chicago-style relish could prepare me for my first big bite of the veggie dog itself. There was no snap of the lamb intestine, no satisfying “first bite of a hot dog” taste, and no delicious dead animal in my mouth. All that was there was a taste so awful, so strong, so repugnant — like hippie shit after bad wheatgrass. Thank god for the relish and mustard to help disguise the taste of Co-op trash and vomit in my mouth. I picked up the horrible veggie turd, chugged my beer, got in my truck and left. I headed straight into my doctor’s office, veggie dog in hand. I tossed it right in his face. “Blow it out your ass, doc; I’m getting a steak!” I yelled as I left.
Yeah, I felt a little bad, considering I scared his patient so bad she had a stroke, but he deserved it. No doctor in his right mind would make his patients eat vegetarian “meat,” if you can call it that. So there you have it, dear readers. A first-hand experience of a man who ate a veggie dog and lived to tell the tale.