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The Mystery of the Peruvian Hotdog

Oh, how I loved that hot dog. It was such a sexy little thing — with its’ snappy bite, tangy mustard and ketchup duo, and…steel yourself for this one…a fried egg. Yes, you heard right. A fried frickin’ egg! It was the epitome of what all hot dogs should be like. I felt like I had just won the lottery (or, la loteria if you wanted to say it in Spanish). After an evening of gallivanting from pub to pub, it seemed to be the perfect chow offering. I was as excited as a school girl in pigtails, skipping along from the food counter all the way to the table, a huge smile on my face and anticipation growing in my tummy.

I sat down and took my first bite. Yum. Perfecto! Delicioso! I couldn’t stop eating it. I was ravenous. I was losing all control. And then…the unthinkable happens. Something so outrageous, so horrific, so…absolutely traumatizing. It hurts to think about it, still. After all these years.

Can you guess what happens next?!?!



Baby sis - You sneezed and the fried egg flew and ran back in the club??? 🙂

Danielle - you finished it and then started on another one!!!! At least that’s what any fine gal would do if she LOVED a hot dog as much as you. 🙂

Leslie - hmmm… the fried egg “popped” and the yolk went all over you… ???

Jason - I won’t ruin the surprise ending for everyone, but I sat in awe across the table from Stephanie for at least a minute or two. Couldn’t believe it.

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