I Ate 14 Hot Dogs at a 4th of July Barbecue and Now I’m Shitting Pellets

By Veronica Toone

Ever since I was a little boy, my parents always warned me about the dangers of eating too many hot dogs. They always told me, “Andrew,” they told, to me, “don’t ever eat too many hot dogs.” For years, those words spun round in my head, telling me I should have listened.

“How many hot dogs is too many?” I asked. I was a god damned fool.

“You’ll know.”

“No, but how many?”

Mom and Dad stiffened. “Thirteen,” my mother finally said. “Thirteen.”

At the time, I didn’t think too much of it—thought it was just another abstract parent rule that, in the long haul, didn’t really have much impact on the rest of your life, like waiting an hour before swimming, or drinking kerosene.

I know now that the smart thing to do was to listen. I won't make that mistake again...

    It was the summer of 1992, three weeks after my eighteenth birthday, and the processed meat industry was continuing its victory march through the inflamed colons of millions of Americans. I was, of course, ignorant then. I was excited as well, though, as I was ready to attend my first Fourth of July barbecue without my parents. My beautiful girlfriend at the time invited me to her place for a nice little shindig. It was lovely: her relatives greeted me with smiles, laughter, and her father even clapped me on the back. I was in Heaven.

    And then came the hot dogs.

In hindsight, my parents were only looking out for me. I know that. And honestly, I only meant to have two, maybe three. But her cousin Randy, whose name I curse to this very day, manipulated me rather subtly into eating more hot dogs.

“Eat more hot dogs,” he said.

So I had more. After a few minutes, I reached and completed the dreaded thirteenth. My limit. My wall. Randy smirked and leaned forward, completely smothering his elbow in potato salad.

    “Eat that last hot dog.” Fucking Randy.

    “I mean, I don’t think—”

    “What? Are you a little piss baby? 

I couldn’t have him call me a piss baby. Not in front of my beautiful girlfriend. So, I straightened my back and cracked my knuckles. Randy, I know you probably will never come across this, but I hate you. I will always hate you.

I ate the hot dog. My beautiful girlfriend kissed me on the cheek as Randy’s face fell in defeat. Her relatives applauded my stamina and my capacity for all them dogs. Her dad put both of his hands on my back and kinda leaned on me, like he was doing a simulated push-up on a hammock. I was on top of the world.

Then it happened. I felt a rumbling in my stomach the likes of which I’ve never known. I suddenly heard my mother’s voice in my head.

    “You’ll know.”

    I knew.

    I sprinted inside without even accepting the little trophy made of bologna and darted for the bathroom. There was no strain, no effort at all. With every breath came pellets. Lots of pellets. Loads of ‘em. Too many, I think. But not little poop pellets, oh no—these weren't poops. They were...none other than little baby hot dogs. Little baby dogs! Once I realized it wasn’t gonna stop, like ever, I knew that it had become my purpose in life. It was destiny. The pellets were my call to action.

Needless to say, there’s a lot of ups and downs to my life now. Sure, I’m in a lot of pain and I still wish I could scalp Randy with a rusty hacksaw. But, I’m helping people. I feed approximately 8 hungry children per day with my newly-patented Butt Dog™, a mostly suffering-free substitute for processed meat. I know, it sounds really gross but—trust me—they’re just little baby hot dogs. There’s no poop on ‘em, I promise. I'm a clean man and you can trust me. I swear.

My beautiful girlfriend kinda took off after she saw what happened, but that’s okay: I have a dog named Rusty now, and he is into it. Sometimes I’ll toss him some extra scraps leftover from the day’s sales to keep him happy.

He’s a good boy.

I know Butt Dogs are making a difference. I’m making a difference, and I'll do anything I can to keep hungry kids happy and full of my butt creations. That's why I've come on your show today, Sharks. I'm seeking a $500,000 investment in exchange for a 15% stake in my company -- nay, my movement. I'm giving you the opportunity to help change the world. So what do you say, Sharks: are you willing to put your faith in the hands of a man with a butt and a dream? Because this - this garbage bag, filled to the brim, which I hold in my hands before you - this is the best shit you’ll ever eat in your life. That's a doggone promise.