“And they’re OFF!”
The Chi Dog takes the early lead, dragging its neon relish decals into turn one. Seattle Dog’s backfiring tofu. Sonoran’s got a mini cactus on the roof that looks like it’s flipping the bird.
Stiles fist-pumps. “Look at Slaw Dog! Slaw Dog’sgunnin’it!”
I scream into my hot-dog blanket. “LET’S GO, SLAW!”
The excitement is too real. I load up another dog with a selection from the condiment tray. We’ve got ‘em all. Wasabi mustard, honey and spicy brown, classic yellow, and then the savory stuff—chili, diced onion, relish, slaw, and kraut.
“Did you know,” Stiles says between bites, “these things are 27 feet long, 11 feet high, got a GPS that responds tovoice commands, and a horn that plays the Oscar Mayer jingle in, like, jazz and mariachi?”
“You mean you could get one of these things tosambathrough traffic? That’s illegal. That’s dangerous.”
Stiles chuffs. “That’s America.”
“Fuck it. I’m gettin’ one installed in my truck.
On the screen, Kraut Lightning—no, sorry, theChi Dog—starts losing steam. Slaw Dog’s closing in.
“OH MY MAYO!”the announcer cries.“The Slaw Dog is making its move! OVERTAKE IN TURN TWO!”
I lean forward, clutching my hot dog like I’ve got money on this race. “C’mon, baby. Overtake that deep-dish liar.”
“And the Slaw Dog WINS! BY HALF A BUN!”
We both erupt. Stiles throws his napkin into the air like it’s graduation day. “I told you size matters!”
The screen shows fans swarming the infield, cheering and crying as the Slaw Dog does a victory lap. A giant hot dog trophy is presented. A kid in a hot dog costume is sobbing into his father’s arms.
“There was a concert after,” Stiles says, scrolling on his phone. “Bret Michaels and All-American Rejects. Hot dog party. Condiment rain. The whole shebang.”
I blink. “So you're telling me... these six mobile meat tubes raced at the Indy 500 on Carb Day... and then celebrated with a power ballad and hot dog hats?”
“Don’t forget the mustard and slaw shower. “Also,” Stiles adds, “Oscar Mayer tried to rename the Wienermobile theFrankmobile.”
I stop chewing. “Thewhat?”
“Yeah. To push their new all-beef recipe. People lost their minds. They changed it back after four months.”
“Good,” I mutter. “Justice.”
“And if you ever wanna see one in person,” Stiles says casually, “they got a tracking tool on their site. You can literally stalk a Wienermobile.”
I stare into the distance like I’m having a vision.
“We’re going next year,” I declare. “I don’t care if we gotta sleep in a Waffle House parking lot and sell blood plasma for gas money. Wearegoing. I’ll be the bun.”
Stiles salutes with his beer. “I’ll be the mustard packet. But, like... slutty.”
We clink hot-dogs. On-screen, the Slaw Dog is still being showered with ketchup and glory. Somewhere in the distance, the Oscar Mayer jingle plays softly... in ragtime.
God, I love this country.
I’m half-dressed, chewing a cold leftover hot dog straight from the foil. Stiles is sitting at the table in his robe, typing aggressively on his laptop like he’s trying to hack into NORAD.
“We’re doin’ it,” he says without looking up. “I found the application.”
“For what?”
